JENNIE
I'm in a coffee shop, stewing.
"Don't be late. We need to talk, she says. God, I'm such an idiot. Stood up twice in one week. You'd think I'd learn, but here I am, hoping for the best!" I'm all jazz hands, but when I glance up, I realize I must've spoken out loud because a wiry-haired woman is tutting and pushing past some spindly child in a green Hulk mask. "Keep moving, Sheldon. May've gentrified the area, but still far too many crazies around for my liking."
I glance left and right.
What? Me?
Look, I might be ranting, but I just got stood up for the umpteenth time. Yet again, my on-off girlfriend, Amanda, has failed to show for a catch-up she organized. When the woman eventually turns to ogle a cinnamon bun on display, the child leans back with a wicked grin and flicks his wrist, firing a small yellow disc from a shooter. It hits me in the shoulder.
Is he serious right now?"
Angrily swiping the disc from the floor, I make a point of chucking it in my bag. But this only emboldens him because the brat fires another two rounds into my torso, then puts his finger on his nose and wiggles his fingers.
That little...
I maturely do the same, and he finally runs away. Shit. I've totally lost it.
I pick up another disc off the floor and drop it on the table. I have no idea where the other one is. Snatching my phone from the table, I angrily stab at the keys.
Where are you, Amanda? I've been waiting for thirty-five...
No, wait. Delete, delete, delete.
THIRTY-FIVE minutes!!
I hit send and slump into my seat.
Thank God I have my best friend, Roseanne, and a barrage of women suck type messages keep me from hurling abuse Amanda's way. But when the flurry of messages ceases, I sigh and stare longingly at the fried chicken place across the road.
Hardly noticing the buzz of the coffee shop or the lingering smell of freshly baked goods, my gaze soon drifts over the clock on the wall and then snaps back. Oh my God, it's twenty to nine. My interview!
I hastily throw my phone into my courier bag, slip the leather strap over my shoulder, and slide out of the booth with my Venti Americano in one hand and umbrella in the other.
Only now do I notice it's packed like sardines and have to push past a crowd of soggy patrons.
"Excuse me. Sorry," I mumble to a sweaty young woman wearing her tank top inside out and squeeze past a grumpy teenager with a solitary knitted eyebrow who is being summoned by the barista.
The linoleum floor is also a bit slippery from everyone tramping in and out of the rain, so I end up going for a bit of a slide on my right heel and latch onto a man wearing a tweed jacket and a monocle. "Whoops," I say quietly, then straighten the plastic carnation in his pocket.
No sooner am I congratulating myself for not snapping my ankle than I go skating with my left foot, arms windmilling in the air, and this time there's nothing to grab onto.
No blazers, no bodies.
Just glorious air and I realize I'm about to slam face-first into the glass door like an ill-fated bug. Only it miraculously swings open, and I instead collide at speed with a human-shaped blur, coffee cup launching from my grip, and tangle in a dark mane of hair that isn't mine.
We topple over, and I land with an unceremonious thud on my backside. "Why don't you watch -"
"Oh, for God's sake," a voice grumbles.
My head snapping up, but when our eyes meet, a jolt goes straight through me, and my heart starts beating fast. Piercing brown doe eyes. Scratch that. Light brown eyes, blistering cold, and looking straight through me.
Their owner, a corporate woman in a black pin-stripe power suit, is in her mid to late twenties. Her perfume smells of money, and she has a fancy air about her.
"Honestly, you should slow down and watch where you're going. Someone could get hurt," she says with a scowl.
"Wait, just a minute. The floor was wet, and I'm not the idiot who burst through the exit -"
"Which is also an entry, by the way," she challenges, and for a moment, I can't find my words.
Her face stamping with a grimace. "Are you injured?"
"Nothing an icepack taped to my butt won't fix," I mutter, but the woman seems distracted. Her gaze drifting downward, pausing at my chest.
Hang on a second. Is she -"Your shirt is wet," she says suddenly.
Huh?I blink out of my stupor, looking down at my coffee-drenched shirt. Oh, right. Not checking me out in the slightest.
"Great. Just great," I quietly scoff. "I've got a job interview. Don't even have time to get changed."
The stranger yanks at a cream cashmere sweater she has draped over her handbag. "Here."I glance up, but she doesn't make eye contact. "Oh no, I can't."
She waves her hand dismissively. "Take it."
I'm a bit flummoxed by this kind gesture from the stranger and stare at her, not sure what to think or do. Taking a short, sharp breath, I remind myself how much I want this job. I mean, I certainly can't turn up like this, so I reach forward and take the sweater. When our fingers brush, the stranger simply stands and turns to leave.
"Um. Thanks," I say to the back of her navy Manolo Blahnik's, but I don't think they hear me because they're already stabbing the pavement at high speed.
~~~~~
A/N: Hello. I'm back 😊
