cents. She was going to die.
Tapping her fingernail on her lip, she assessed her options. She could hitchhike back to Chicago, with the likelihood of being murdered along the way about ninety-seven percent. She could call her mother, but she was in Europe at some spa Amanda couldn't remember the name of, having miraculous treatments designed to restore elasticity to her aging skin. There was her cousin Stuart in
New York
, but he was as dependent on her father's money as she was. If he helped her, it was likely he'd get cut off too.
She could call a friend and ask to borrow money, which would be humiliating in the extreme and a last resort.
Or she could get a job in Cuttersville and earn the money to get back to Chicago.
Not that she had any skills, so to speak, but she was intelligent. She could learn on the job. And Boston Macnamara was almost like a friend and understood how difficult her father could be since he worked for him.
Boston could get her hired at Samson Plastics, the factory that fueled Cuttersville's economy and just happened to be owned by her father. It would burn ol' Daddy Delmar's butt if she got hired on at Samson.
Mentally shifting through her wardrobe to see if she'd brought any cute little suits with short skirts, Amanda pictured having her own little office, a phone with a cordless headset, and a personal secretary to fetch her coffee. Sounded like the perfect job for her.
"What do you mean you can't hire me?" Amanda lay on the ugly chintz couch in Shelby and Boston's living room and rubbed her forehead. Her head hurt. Her feet hurt. And she was hungry. Baby was lying in a ball on her stomach, looking as forlorn as she felt.
Boston put his hands into the pockets of his immaculate black pants. He looked nearly as out of place in Cuttersville as she did. But somehow, he had fallen in love with a local girl and was staying permanently. In this fussy Victorian house that was the showpiece on the Haunted Cuttersville Tour.
Amanda wished one of those alleged ghosts would reach out and slap him right now.
"I'm not in HR, Amanda. I don't do the hiring."
"So? You're the freaking VP. Can't you tell HR to hire me?" She instantly detested the desperate tint to her voice. She knew she wasn't pathetic enough to beg, she just knew it, but she'd never been in this position before. She felt… unsure of herself, and she didn't like it.
Shelby, Boston's new wife, came into the room with a glass of lemonade. "She's our friend, Boston. Surely there's something you can do for her." She held the glass out to Amanda. "You look peaked. Have a drink."
Great. She was penniless and she looked peaked. "Listen to your wife, Boston, she's a wise woman." Amanda didn't bother to sit up but sipped the lemonade sideways and then set the glass on the floor. Baby gave a yip, so Amanda put her down on the floor and watched her rest her button size front paws on the top of the glass and stick her nose down into the lemonade. She gave a tentative lick then jerked back in surprise at the tartness. It was cute enough to almost make Amanda feel better. Almost.
"I would hire you, Amanda, but I really can't. It's like this. Say I work at McDonald's."
Amanda wasn't sure whose snort was louder, hers or Shelby's. They exchanged amused glances.
Shelby was not exactly the match Amanda would have chosen for Boston. His brand-new wife had never left Cuttersville, had enough hair on her head for six people, and thought dressing up was wearing something knit. But Shelby was an honest, down-to-earth woman, and one of the most truly decent people Amanda had ever met—not that that was saying much. Good people were harder to come by than a funny sitcom.
But the relationship between Boston and Shelby seemed to work. Well. They seemed to balance each other out and had a love so strong it was palpable in the room whenever they were together. Generally speaking, it made Amanda
Tapping her fingernail on her lip, she assessed her options. She could hitchhike back to Chicago, with the likelihood of being murdered along the way about ninety-seven percent. She could call her mother, but she was in Europe at some spa Amanda couldn't remember the name of, having miraculous treatments designed to restore elasticity to her aging skin. There was her cousin Stuart in
New York
, but he was as dependent on her father's money as she was. If he helped her, it was likely he'd get cut off too.
She could call a friend and ask to borrow money, which would be humiliating in the extreme and a last resort.
Or she could get a job in Cuttersville and earn the money to get back to Chicago.
Not that she had any skills, so to speak, but she was intelligent. She could learn on the job. And Boston Macnamara was almost like a friend and understood how difficult her father could be since he worked for him.
Boston could get her hired at Samson Plastics, the factory that fueled Cuttersville's economy and just happened to be owned by her father. It would burn ol' Daddy Delmar's butt if she got hired on at Samson.
Mentally shifting through her wardrobe to see if she'd brought any cute little suits with short skirts, Amanda pictured having her own little office, a phone with a cordless headset, and a personal secretary to fetch her coffee. Sounded like the perfect job for her.
"What do you mean you can't hire me?" Amanda lay on the ugly chintz couch in Shelby and Boston's living room and rubbed her forehead. Her head hurt. Her feet hurt. And she was hungry. Baby was lying in a ball on her stomach, looking as forlorn as she felt.
Boston put his hands into the pockets of his immaculate black pants. He looked nearly as out of place in Cuttersville as she did. But somehow, he had fallen in love with a local girl and was staying permanently. In this fussy Victorian house that was the showpiece on the Haunted Cuttersville Tour.
Amanda wished one of those alleged ghosts would reach out and slap him right now.
"I'm not in HR, Amanda. I don't do the hiring."
"So? You're the freaking VP. Can't you tell HR to hire me?" She instantly detested the desperate tint to her voice. She knew she wasn't pathetic enough to beg, she just knew it, but she'd never been in this position before. She felt… unsure of herself, and she didn't like it.
Shelby, Boston's new wife, came into the room with a glass of lemonade. "She's our friend, Boston. Surely there's something you can do for her." She held the glass out to Amanda. "You look peaked. Have a drink."
Great. She was penniless and she looked peaked. "Listen to your wife, Boston, she's a wise woman." Amanda didn't bother to sit up but sipped the lemonade sideways and then set the glass on the floor. Baby gave a yip, so Amanda put her down on the floor and watched her rest her button size front paws on the top of the glass and stick her nose down into the lemonade. She gave a tentative lick then jerked back in surprise at the tartness. It was cute enough to almost make Amanda feel better. Almost.
"I would hire you, Amanda, but I really can't. It's like this. Say I work at McDonald's."
Amanda wasn't sure whose snort was louder, hers or Shelby's. They exchanged amused glances.
Shelby was not exactly the match Amanda would have chosen for Boston. His brand-new wife had never left Cuttersville, had enough hair on her head for six people, and thought dressing up was wearing something knit. But Shelby was an honest, down-to-earth woman, and one of the most truly decent people Amanda had ever met—not that that was saying much. Good people were harder to come by than a funny sitcom.
But the relationship between Boston and Shelby seemed to work. Well. They seemed to balance each other out and had a love so strong it was palpable in the room whenever they were together. Generally speaking, it made Amanda
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