You Dropped a Blonde on Me Read Free Page B

welfare by telling them how she’d been bamboozled, then pride could go eff itself.
    Mr. Herrera nodded his reluctant consent. “Do I have a choice?”
    “Not if you hope to leave here unscarred.” Maxine clutched his arm again, pushing her back into the glass exit door for leverage.
    He scanned the top of the dining area over the top of her head. “Then of course. Do divulge.” He sighed.
    So she did. “Okay, so in a nutshell, this is the skinny, and I’m telling you this because I want you to really understand why I harass you every day. It’s a lot. Sure you’re up to it?”
    His feet shuffled.
    Shit, she’d given him an out.
    “Forget I asked. Just listen. I am going through a divorce. It’s been hell. No, it’s worse than hell—it’s hell times eight gotrillion. I was married to a very wealthy man who’s redefined the phrase ‘ironclad prenuptial.’ I had no idea anything was wrong with my marriage until I found out, quite by accident and by some jackass’s mistake in the society pages, that I was soon going to be anything but Mrs. Finley Cambridge. Okay, that’s not one hundred percent true. There were indiscretions . . . But I thought we were back on track. Wait, maybe I did have a suspicion or two—make that ten, but that wasn’t really clear until I had some distance and hindsight. Oh, if I could only tell you the kind of hindsight I’ve been blessed with.” Maxine paused, sucking in some chicken-fried air and clenching her jaw so she wouldn’t burst out into big, fat, girlie tears.
    “Anyway, I have no money. None. Nothing. I know you’re probably thinking, nothing? Yeah, sure. A major player like Finley Cambridge left his wife of twenty years with nothing. C’mon. You must have something . Like a severance package for time served. Hush money, maybe? That’s exactly what you’re thinking, right?”
    Mr. Herrera winced his agreement with a slow nod.
    Maxine clucked her tongue. “Yeah, that’s what everyone thinks. But I swear to you, Mr. Herrera, I have squat. When I found out about my husband’s wandering wanker, I left. I just didn’t know I’d left-left. Everything . I also didn’t know when I left that I’d never see my house, my car, my personal Pilates instructor again, forever. Those ridiculous luxuries aside, I thought we’d get a normal divorce. The one where you and your kid have a place to live and food on the table, because your pending ex is rich and owns half of New York, New Jersey, and parts of Connecticut. So he has cash to spare, and even if it meant downsizing our lifestyle, and me going back to school to get a decent job because I’m no slacker, I still believed he’d do the right thing. I was, according to my dial-a-lawyer, delusional. If you were me, wouldn’t you have made the same crazy assumption?”
    Mr. Herrera’s brow furrowed. “Assumptions can be troublesome.”
    “If you only knew the half of it. So since this nightmare began eight months, four days, and thirty-six hours ago, I’ve been trying to get on my feet. I’ve applied for forty-two and a half jobs. I say half because I’ll do almost anything to earn a living, but there’ll be no mechanically separating chickens for this girl. I left that interview halfway through it in defense of chickens everywhere. I’ve been turned down for every single position I’ve applied for in the town of Riverbend—which, if you were wondering, doesn’t have a whole lot in the way of industry. So here I am. Penniless. Jobless. Pride-less. And that’s why I come in here every day, Mr. Herrera, because I need a job. I need just one person to give me a chance. Kids come and go in these places when a taste for a change and a position at Hot Topic comes along. I can promise you that’s not me. I’m reliable, honest, and hardworking. I’ll work whatever hours you have—I’ll work the graveyard shift. There were two positions available last week. Gabriella got one. That means one’s still up for