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I grab the paper and write out the rest of my last name before handing it back to him.
“There.”
He looks at it, then his smile falters a little. “Brontë Spencer?”
“Yes, that’s me. I guess you probably don’t have a lot of Brontës in your phone so the last name is a little redundant now that I think about it.”
“Yeah,” he says almost nervously as he runs his hand over his jaw. “That’s for certain.”
“I’ll be right back. The ladies are frothing at the mouth over there for these,” I say as I look over at my friends who are giving me ridiculous hand signals and eye gestures, thinking they’re being subtle.
I walk the drinks over to the table and place them down.
“Holy shit, you guys. I just met the finest man I have ever seen in my life. I think I almost blacked out and peed myself talking to him,” I whisper as if he could hear me over the loud ruckus the frat boys are causing in the center of the bar.
“And of course he’s older.” Taylor bounces her eyebrows. “Daddy issues coming in stroooong.” They both laugh. They’ve always teased me about my affinity for older men.
Is it daddy issues? I’m ninety-nine percent sure it is. We can thank Jonas for that.
“I gave him my number!” I shriek just as both of their faces fall. “What?”
“Uh, I think he just left?”
“What?” I spin around and sure enough, he’s nowhere to be found. I walk back up to the bar and look around. “Where did that guy go?” I ask the bartender who shrugs and turns to help someone else.
And then that’s when I see it, the crumpled-up piece of paper left on the bar top with my name and number.
* * *
I groan and stretch my arms overhead, trudging to the kitchen to make a much-needed espresso before getting ready for my interview at Archer Financial… a decision I’m now regretting giving in to.
Instead of taking time to learn about the company, I’ve spent far too long thinking about the rejection from a total stranger this weekend.
I make myself a latte and open my iPad to do a little research, but my mind keeps drifting to that sexy smirk from Mr. Daddy Issues at the bar.
“Ugh.” I shut my iPad and march to the bathroom for a shower, hoping if I get my day going it will take my mind off Taylor’s all-too-true comment that I haven’t been laid in over two years and if I’m not careful, my virginity will grow back at any second.
I finish applying my makeup and pull my long hair up into a professional high ponytail. I slide my feet into a sensible pair of black pumps and do a quick spin in front of my floor-length mirror to double-check my pencil skirt isn’t tucked into my panties or there isn’t a hole in my white blouse.
After this weekend’s rejection, I really don’t need a double dose of embarrassment for my self-esteem. I look polished and professional.
“I’d hire me.” I smile at my reflection before grabbing my portfolio and heading to Archer Financial.
I stop outside the reflective building and stare up at the towering skyscraper. My dad was right; it’s literally across the street from his building. I feel my chest tighten as I watch several people walking into the building, their heads turned down as they stare at their phones, completely oblivious to the world around them.
Is this really the life I want?
I square my shoulders and march into the building, reminding myself that this is a good opportunity and like my dad and my friends mentioned, a way to feel out if a life in finance is really what I want.
“Hi, I have an interview with Mr. Beckham Archer at nine thirty.”
I smile at the man sitting behind the front desk, but he doesn’t reciprocate.
“Name.” He doesn’t even look up from his computer screen.
“Brontë Spencer.”
“It’s the fortieth floor. Take the elevator bank behind me to your left. Here’s your visitor’s badge. Make sure it’s visible on your person.”
