Page 97 of When Glitter Meets Gold

I gather the material while pulling out a tall stool in thecenter of the empty row, perch at the checkerboard countertop of the bar, and order a lemonade.

Had I been naïve? Perhaps Drew had mentioned it and I wasn’t listening. There was always so much going on in the office, sometimes it was hard to keep up with every single piece of gossip.

Only this wasn’t gossip.

This feels different. Chest pain different. Something close to betrayal.

I bite my lip, because I’m not so inexperienced with workplace politics to understand the position was open to anyone in the office. I know for a fact that others have applied too.

The sting comes because of the secrecy. The careful planning not to let his intention slip. Surely he’d want to keep me onside since…

Oh God.

A dreadful thought occurs to me… Drew would be my new boss.

I let the weight of my head fall into one hand while the other sprawls dramatically across the bar.

Then a stool drags across the carpet and my nostrils are flooded with a musky fragrance coupled with the vague scent of tobacco. I hear the shuffle of feet, followed by a gravelly female voice,

“Don’t treat me like I’m in a stroller, I can get up here just fine.”

“Of course,” the nervous voice of one of the pool players comes from behind me. I don’t need to look around to guess what happened.

So much for being alone.

At least this guest isn’t someone I know.

Yet when I peek to my left, something about the woman perched next to me, is familiar. I note the midnight black hair, piled into a loose bun on top of her head. A silver ring decorates every finger, and deep blue nails match her navy velvet dress that drapes over her willowy frame.

She pins the bartender with a displeased glare. “Are you on the clock, or should I climb over there and make my own drink?” Without moving my head, I peek at the bartender to witness him almost trip over himself to reach the woman. “Same as before,” she says, pointing to a row of bottles behind the bar. He’s about to select one when the woman has another outburst, “I told you earlier, none of that blended crap, give me the single malt.” The bartender nods while rushing to choose another bottle.

“It ain’t his fault,” she says, angling her body toward me. “He’s been told to give away the cheap stuff unless otherwise requested. Rich folk are all the same. Cheapskates at heart.”

I cough into my lemonade, equally humored and shocked that anyone could have the nerve to attach the wordcheapskateto the Hemmingvale ball.

The bartender places the requested drink in front of the woman before looking at me, his enquiring eyes perhaps wondering if I’m ready for something stronger than my lemonade.

“I’ll have whatever that is.” I point to the woman’s drink.

She breathes a wheezy laugh then turns to the bartender. “Pour it over her kids party drink.”

He raises an eyebrow but complies.

“You don’t think I can drink it straight up?” I sneer.

“Who’s picking you off the floor after? Not me.” She takes a sip of her own amber liquid, savoring it like it’s hot chocolate at a Christmas market. “It’s nasty stuff, and you seem like a sweet girl.”

I glare at the woman, holding her stare for a few moments. “I’m not that sweet,” I say calmly yet low enough to ensure the words are laced with just enough seriousness to let her know I’m not a little girl who needs a chaperone.

Her small eyes narrow as she surveys me from head to toe.

“Good.” The faintest hint of a grin surfaces. “Besides, you don’t want a repeat of what happened to your friend at Midas.”

My eyes widen as the loose ends connect. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”

“Magdalena Nicolo. Press,” she says a little friendlier.

“Sara Kirby. I’m in Marketing.”

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