One By One by Freida McFadden(69)

In spite of her alleged punctured lung, she stomps out of the diner with her giant pink purse, nearly getting floored by a taxi cab as she rushes across the street. As far as I can see, she hasn’t bothered to pay her check. The waitress sighs and picks up her half-empty plate from the table, as well as the piece of sausage that nearly killed her.

“Hey,” the man says to the waitress. “What did that woman owe you?”

The waitress glances down at the plate in her hand. “About seven dollars with tax.”

The man hands her a twenty. “Keep the change.“

The waitress smiles for the first time since I walked in here twenty minutes earlier. She pockets the money, then glances up at me. Her eyes drop to my shirt. “Bathroom is in the back, honey.“

Bathroom?

As the waitress disappears into the kitchen, I look down at my clothing. This morning I had put on a clean, freshly ironed pink button-down top and gray pencil skirt because I’ve got my first job interview since I was laid off two weeks ago. It’s nothing great, just bartending, but I need it—bad.

But when that woman threw her coffee at me, she got me square in the chest. There’s a dark brown stain soaking into the fabric of my shirt. I can’t go to an interview like this. I look like a slob. My only real option is to go home and change. Except my interview is in…

Fifteen minutes. Damn.

I’m new at this saving people’s lives business. Does it always end up so crappily? Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything going wrong unexpectedly seems to be a pattern in my life.

The man is looking at me with his eyebrows bunched together. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” I look down at my ruined interview outfit. “Totally fine. Absolutely, completely fine.”

He just looks at me. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes me want to pour my heart out to him.

Or rip my clothes off. A little of that too. He is pretty hot. And it’s been a while for me. A long while. I think there was a different president in office at the time. Kevin Spacey was still a respected actor. Brad and Angelina were a happy couple. You get the idea.

“I have a job interview,” I admit. I tug at my coffee-soaked shirt. “Had a job interview. I don’t think it’s going to go well. In fact, I think I should just call it off.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re looking for a job?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Desperately, actually. My landlord informed me yesterday that if I don’t have the rent by Friday, there’s going to be an eviction notice on my door by Saturday. And then I’ll have to live in a cardboard box on the street, because that’s my last option.

“What kind of job was it?”

“Well, this one was bartending.” At a seedy bar that would have paid minimum-wage. “But… I mean, that’s what’s available. At this point…”

I stop talking before I let on how desperate I am. This man is a stranger, after all. He doesn’t want to hear my depressing life story.

He flashes an infectious grin that reveals a row of straight, white teeth. My parents couldn’t afford braces, so I’ve got two crooked incisors that I’m self-conscious about. My dream, if I ever have enough money, is to get them fixed. But that’s not going to happen, short of winning the lottery. And I can’t even afford a ticket.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asks.

I cock my head to the side. Do I believe in fate? What kind of question is that? It seems like the kind of question that somebody who’s had a very good life might ask. Because the cards I’ve been dealt so far have all been losing ones. Starting with my parents. And then Freddy. If fate exists, then all I can say is it doesn’t like me very much.

“I’m here in the city for an interview myself,” the man goes on, without waiting to hear my answer. “I was actually going to interview somebody for a job. Right here at this diner. Except she didn’t show up. So…”

I stare at him. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “What kind of job?”

“Well, it’s…” He hesitates, then nods his head at his table in the back. “Listen, why don’t you go get yourself cleaned up and then we’ll talk about it? I’ll buy you a fresh cup of coffee—you look like you could use it.” He grins at me. “I’m Adam, by the way. Adam Barnett.”

“Sylvia Robinson.”

“Nice to meet you, Sylvia.”

He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it. He has a nice handshake. Warm and firm, but not like he’s trying to crush the bones of my hand. Why do some men shake your hand like that? What are they trying to prove?

Of course, then I notice my own hand is sticky with coffee and cream. This just isn’t my day. But Adam doesn’t wipe his hand on his pants when we’re done shaking—he doesn’t seem at all concerned about my sticky palm.

“So what do you say?” he asks.

“I, uh…”

I don’t know why I’m hesitating. A job is a job. And this man seems nice enough. He defended me when that old woman wanted to call the police. And he paid off her tab so the waitress didn’t get stiffed. I need a job badly, and this is my only shot right now. Plus, I could use a nice hot cup of coffee after the morning I’m having.