Under Contract (The GEG Series)
Read Under Contract (The GEG Series) Online
Authors: Jacquelyn Ayres
Tags: #Green Eyed Girls Series Book 1
Under Contract
Copyright © 2014 Jacquelyn Ayres
Cover Design:
Wicked by Design
Editor:
Jess Huckins
Formatting:
Champagne Formats
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0991249046
For my “Julie Posse” (my version of the GEGS, in no particular order): Jennifer McCloskey, Holly Dirato, Nicole Gibson, Amanda LaVita, Bernadette Titterington, and Lorin Falana.
I love you.
You have inspired so many of my gut-busting laughs, epic, and heart-warming memories.
I cherish you.
No matter where life takes us or how many kids we produce that gobble up all of our time, I know you are just a phone call away (with screaming-child background music…ahh).
I Thank you.
Not for just believing in me, but, for reeling me back in whenever I feel lost.
Okay—bye!
(Go read the book now!)
Retrieving a compact out of my small clutch purse, I finally bring my eyes up for one last look in the mirror. I told myself—convinced myself, really—that I was just popping into the bathroom to check my appearance a final time. As I stare into my green eyes (my first qualification for this job), I realize I’m in here to have a conference call with my sanity. Clearly it went bankrupt and closed up shop, like most of the country, because there’s no answer. My sanity is gone ... replaced by desperation and a mother’s instinctive need to provide for her children.
I lay my palms on the cool marble countertop and take in a few cleansing yoga breaths like my friend Ava always recommends. Apparently, I freak out too much—so she says.
“Okay, Charley ... put your big-girl pants on. You can do this.” Sometimes you need to just act bravely so you convince yourself you are. Of course, I have to push away the thought of my big-girl pants being pulled off later. I sweep a few wisps of hair off my temple. Thank God Ava was able to do my hair.
Must look sophisticated, yet approachable.
One of many qualifications needed for this job. Ava had parted my long brown hair to the left, then crowned the sides with tight French braids ‘til every strand was pulled to the back. There, she created a mass production of neat pin curls at the top of my neck. It looks great for the office or a night out on the town. “Sophisticated, yet approachable.”
Good job, Ava!
I step back for one more glance to make sure everything is in place. I’m wearing a black silk draped dress by alice + olivia. I never would’ve randomly spent this much on a designer dress, but luckily my Aunt Clara has more money than sense. She loves her some Saks Fifth Avenue! However, Aunt Clara shops blindly for people. I don’t know about my cousins, but my sisters and I always end up with a store credit of anywhere from three hundred to fifteen hundred dollars, depending on the occasion for the gift.
The last big “occasion” was my husband leaving me six months ago with three kids and no pot to piss in. Said he was “tired of society and government.” He didn’t want this—any of it. He was going to live off the land. I’ve since learned that in Europe, they call this “going on a walkabout.” To this day, I have no idea about where he’s been walking.
Asshole!
Aunt Clara, out of the goodness of her heart, sent me an Armani silk jumpsuit for my hardship; only cost her $1,700. Problem solved! I finally had something special to wear to all my “special” appointments—you know, WIC, fuel assistance, food stamps, and other programs that assist the needy. What would I possibly do with $1,700 in my pocket? Pay the mortgage? More money than sense, that one!
Punctuality is a must!
Shit! I look at my phone—phew! Two minutes to spare. One more deep breath before I walk out of the bathroom and head to the bar in the Ames Hotel. Funny—until a few days ago, I never even knew this hotel existed. Then again, I don’t usually have a reason to stay overnight in Boston’s financial district. “Please don’t be old and bald ... or creepy ... or ... eck ...” I chant to myself. “Please have kind eyes and a kind heart.” I lower the bar. Small steps.
As instructed, I head over to the table in the far left corner and take a seat. So much for “punctuality”—where the hell is he?
“Scotch on the rocks and a glass of your best Merlot,” I say, looking up from my phone. The bartender nods and goes about my order. I slide my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket and glance impatiently at my watch. She’d better be punctual! Biggest pet peeve—one minute late and I’m out of here! I grab my scotch before the bartender can place it down, swirl it around, and take a good swig.
“Waiting on a girl?” he asks.
“Aren’t we all?” I smirk.
“Pretty much.” He laughs. “Well this one must be special ... you seem nervous.”
“It’s complicated.”
“When isn’t it, dude?” He shakes his head, wiping the bar down.
“True.” I smile, partly because he has no idea about my type of complicated.
“Damn,” he says as he glances over my shoulder. I look up at him. His mouth hangs open, his eyes wide and wild-looking, seeping with desire that only another guy would catch. I follow his eyes and my breath hitches.
Holy shit ... please be Charlotte
, I think as I watch her make her way through the lounge. I feel the corners of my lips curve up with satisfaction when she seats herself exactly where I was hoping she would.
“That, my friend, would be my complication.” I turn back to him.
“I will gladly release you, sir, from such a burden. It’s all part of the great customer service I like to give around here.”
He takes on a serious tone
.
“Thank you, eh, Jim ... I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But, alas, this is a burden I must carry alone. Try not to feel sorry for me.” I lift my glass to him and nod before heading over to her.
“I can’t—I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself,” he mutters.