Page 22 of Making the Cut

I try not to gape in shock at the phenomenal offer.

“Sir.” I shake my head and reach for a handshake. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me. Prove yourself worthy of the job. That’s all I ask.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply seriously.

“Also.” He smirks at me. “I’ll be sure to have some work shirts for you tomorrow when you show up.”

I chuckle and nod my head. “Sounds good, sir.”

In the span of two days, I went from terrified I’d never have a future to hopeful that this could be the start of everything I’ve ever wanted.

And there’s only one person I want to tell.

Chapter Nine

“One text message and butterflies transform into pterodactyls. I feel like this means something.” – Viviana

VIVIANA

I smoothed my hand down the blouse I was wearing and wiped my hands on my designer jeans. I’d been told that Hansen Marketing was one of those cool offices like Google was, it was all a fun but serious work environment.

I was nervously excited to be here.

Today, I was meeting with a team that would hopefully be my future one. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

I wasn’t hired. Not yet.

I was at the twenty-five percent mark, according to Sheila, whom I’ve only coordinated with via email and who was the marketing director of this department. They handled marketing for event centers around Colorado. Each department had a different type of category.

I’ve never worked in an office like this. Where I come from, we all took different types of marketing jobs and many times, we worked with other employees in the office to handle the jobs. I think it was similar here in that respect, but I didn’t know yet.

Although, from what I’ve heard and been told, this was a team effort sort of place. Cyrus Hansen didn’t pin his employees against each other like Armani did.

I was excited about that part.

My phone pings as I enter the elevator and I pull it out of my purse to see who the text is from.

Archer: I’ve got great news

Me: What is it?

It’s been a long time since Archer and I had texted casually. I don’t hate that he has news he wants to share with just me. Typically when things were happening in our lives, we’d find out through our mutual friends or I’d hear about it from Enzo.

Something was shifting between us, and I don’t know exactly how to handle it. I want to jump in with both feet, but the prospect of getting burned was too much to take.

I was terrified.

Archer: Can I tell you over dinner? Tonight?

Butterflies — no, pterodactyls—were swarming in my stomach. He wanted to have dinner. To celebrate great news. With just me.

All my nerves shift from meeting future potential coworkers and bosses to nerves of having dinner with Archer.

It’s just casual. Just a friendly dinner.

Not a date. Not a date. Not a date.

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