Finding Her Way

by Sierra Hill

  Finding Her Way

  A Flirt Club Short Story Collection

  Sierra Hill

  Contents

  I. Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  II. Book Two

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  III. Book Three

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Sierra Hill

  Part I

  Book One

  Resolution Road Trip

  1

  Marin

  It is ten minutes ‘til the ball drops on Times Square and I should be excited over the prospect of a new year ahead.

  Instead, it feels like I’m carrying the weight of that glittery glow ball on my shoulders and I’m stuck in a holding pattern. The daily grind of day in, day out in this rat race they call adulthood.

  “Girl, what’s going on with you? You look like you’re considering jumping off this roof, which would be a real tragedy because those are some really nice shoes,” my friend, Scarlett, says with a droll smirk, gesturing to my shoes. “I could keep them as a keepsake memory of you if you want.”

  I roll my eyes at her attempt to humor me and stare out over the cityscape from our incredible rooftop vantage point.

  “These shoes are going with me. They cost half my rent this month. And I’m not going to jump, by the way, but thanks for your genuine concern.” I flip her off to show her my sincerity, to which we both laugh.

  “So why the frown, Marin? You look absolutely stunning tonight and we’re drinking free champagne. The only thing that could make it better is if Joe Manganiello walked through those doors and asked us to have a threesome.”

  I gasp innocently, covering my gaping mouth with my hand. “You can have Joe all to yourself. I’d rather hope for Chris Pine. I’d climb his tree.”

  We laugh at my innuendo and indulge in some more champagne, chatting about our resolutions for the year ahead of us.

  “Hey, by the way, did you get the group text from the Mi Alpha Alpha Alum group?”

  Scarlett fills up her plate with a menagerie of hors d’eurves as I follow behind her, picking at all the delicious food and piling them up on my own plate.

  I pull out my phone from my clutch and turn it on to see a plethora of texts pop up on my screen. “Oh, wow. No, I had my phone turned off.”

  I sit down on the couch next to Scarlett and begin to read the thread started by my former sorority president, Stacy. It says, “Remember, ladies. Do it. Whatever it is you want to do. Wherever you have wanted to go. Whatever you want to try, to taste, to feel, to live…do it. This is our year.”

  I reread the message and scroll through the many responses that come in after it in response to Stacy’s resolution decree. It hits me square in the chest. I’m twenty-five years old and I think I’m having a quarter-life crisis. I absolutely hate my job and my boss, Mr. Farrugia.

  I took this job two years ago right out of college as a bookkeeper and office manager for Abe Farrugia, who owns several buildings in the Manhattan area. It’s my first grown-up job and I was so excited about the possibilities and looking forward to putting my degree to good use.

  Instead, all I got was a grumpy old man who was never happy with my work and nitpicked every little thing. Oh, and his nephew, Carmine, is the sleaziest pile of shit I’ve ever met. He comes in and makes a pass at me once a week, like clockwork. Even though he’s in his mid-forties and has a wife and kids. Had I not needed the money for Christmas gifts, rent and food this past month, I would’ve walked out on Christmas Eve.

  But the final straw was when Mr. Farrugia asked me to fudge the numbers on our end of the year’s Profit and Loss statement. I stared up at him from my tiny, crappy desk, my jaw dropped wide open. Then I stood, turned off my computer, grabbed my coat and purse and walked out. I may have flipped him the bird as I did. He yelled obscenities at me as I left, but I never looked back.

  That was two days ago and now as I overlook New York City on a cold New Year’s Eve, I’m left thinking about that text about life and resolutions. About all the things I want to do, try, taste, and see.

  Up until now, I’ve always played it safe. I lived a safe, comfortable life and didn’t take any chances. While all my friends in college partied on weekends, I was in my room studying. I worked part-time jobs to make ends meet, making sure I had a cushion once I graduated.

  An idea germinates in my head, popping and exploding with excitement like the confetti party poppers that will burst open at the stroke of midnight.

  I snap my fingers. “That’s it, Scarlett. I have my resolution.”

  She quirks an eyebrow with interest. “Oh yeah? Do tell.”

  “I resolve to be bold and daring this year. I don’t know what that entails, exactly, but whatever it is, I’m going to do something way outside my comfort zone. Throw away the conventional, safe life that I’ve built and break the mold. This time next year, I will not be the same old Marin Cooke. You won’t even recognize me.”

  I give her a determined smile and raise my champagne glass in a toast.

  With my New Year’s resolution now voiced and firmly established, I take a sip of the bubbly and give myself an inner pep talk.

  You’ve got this. Or at least, fake it ‘til you make it.

  2

  Marin

  A month later, I’m looking over my bank statement listening to all my savings evaporate into thin air (which is really noisy, if you must know) and the confidence I felt on New Year’s Eve has waned, replaced by nerves and foolish pride.

  I can’t go back to Mr. Farrugia and the idea of finding another bookkeeping job is wholly unappealing. It is completely anti-risk taking. If it’s one thing I still have the conviction on, it’s that I will make my resolution come hell or high water.

  I haven’t accepted defeat just yet, even with the very creative options my friends have thrown out for me thus far.

  “Become a stripper!” Stacy encouraged.

  “How about a window washer. That’s risky here in Manhattan.” Dolly joked.

  “Come up to Maine and become a lobsterman with me.” That from my brother, Stuart. Not a chance.

  As I scroll through my daily feed of potential jobs online, my phone lights up next to me with a text from my friend Dolly.

  Dolly: Call me ASAP. Got something for you.

  I sigh and take a fortifying sip of my coffee. Dolly has been an amazing friend to me through all of this and is always looking out for my best interests. But we have very different views of the world and I’ve had to shoot down at least ten of her suggestions already.

  With nothing left to lose, I hug my robe tight to my chest and dial her up.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I say when she answers on the second ring.

  “My cousin, Nathaniel. His mom and my mom are cousins, I think. I don’t really know how we’re related exactly, but that’s beside the point. I heard my mom talking that she saw him over the holidays and he’s this bigtime scientific re
searcher. Snooze-fest. But anyway, he’s looking for someone to be his research coordinator, or something, to catalog his notes and findings and shit like that.”

  I purse my lips. “Um, okay. That’s great, and I really appreciate you bringing this up, but it doesn’t exactly sound like that’s in my wheelhouse. Plus, you know I’m looking for something a bit more exciting.”

  She laughs into the phone. “See, that’s the kicker. He needs someone to go with him on some research road trip. To do some sort of field study. I don’t have all the details, but it’s certainly not your typical office environment.”

  Oh. Oh my. That is kind of different.

  “Wow. A road trip job, huh?”

  “Right? You’d be perfect for it. You’re organized and detailed. And it would be a bold thing for you to try.”

  A lump forms in the back of my throat as I consider the potential and timing of this opportunity. My palms begin to sweat, and my heart begins beating wildly from my nerves.

  My silence must clue her into my apprehension when Dolly pipes in again.

  “I’ve already called Nathaniel and scheduled an interview for you today at noon. You’re meeting him for lunch at Consuela’s on Fifth.”

  “What? Oh my God, I can’t meet him today. I….I…”

  She tsks. “You can, and you will, no if’s, and’s, or but’s. This is exactly the thing that will get you out of your little hamster wheel and give you the opportunity of a lifetime. You can thank me later.”

  I notice my hand now shakes, as coffee spills over the edge of my cup. Placing it on the table, I reach for a napkin to wipe up the mess. That’s when reality hits me full force.

  “Today?” My voice trembles and cracks.

  “Yes! Now hurry up. Go get showered, dressed and ready to meet him for your interview.”

  I think I mutter something that sounds like a response.

  “Oh, and there’s one last thing.”

  Great, there’s a catch. Her cousin is probably a creepy old man like Carmine Farrugia. I shiver at the thought.

  “Yes? What’s that?”

  She clears her throat. “I seem to recall the last time I saw Nathaniel, he isn’t your typical Brainiac, boring scientist.”

  Her statement confuses me. “Um, okay. Would you like to expound on that? Does he lack social skills or something?”

  Dolly chuckles darkly. “Oh, no, Nathaniel has social skills alright. Perhaps too many, if you know what I mean.”

  I give her an exasperated grunt. “No, I don’t know what you mean, Dolly. Spit. It. Out.”

  Apparently, I haven’t had enough coffee this morning to deal with Dolly’s evasiveness. She does this all the time. She’s very dramatic and coy.

  “The dude is gorgeous. And is somewhat notorious for being a playboy. So, don’t let him charm your panties off you.”

  And with that, she laughs into the phone and then hangs up, leaving me trying to envision what a playboy research scientist looks like.

  Guess I’ll find out at lunch.

  3

  Nathaniel

  I abhor tardiness. I’m always on time and have never been late to anything in my life. In fact, my mother used to tease me about it, saying the only time I was ever late was the day I was born. Ever since then, I’m prompt, if not at least five minutes early to everything.

  That position has served me well all throughout college, grad school and now my career. When you’re a top researcher in your field, there are certain deadlines that have to be met in order to win research grants and submit data for clinical review. It drives me forward and keeps me sane.

  Today, however, has been a complete cluster fuck. The snow started to fall earlier this morning as I watched the city streets below become covered with white as I was on a conference call with my fellow researcher, Jose Peralta. By the time I was ready to head out, hailing a cab was impossible, so I hoofed it down to Fifth, which took me an addition fifteen minutes that I hadn’t planned on. Now as I walk into the Brazilian café Dolly scheduled for my interview today, I shake off my winter coat and remove my hat, frustrated and thrown off my game.

  Removing my dark-rimmed glasses to wipe off the foggy film that accumulated on my walk, I impatiently sidle past a few patrons and search the room, hoping my potential interview isn’t here yet. Through my blurry field of vision, I see a woman in the back corner of the restaurant watching me with naked interest.

  Or at least I think it’s interest, as all I can really make out from where I stand without my glasses is that she has on a bright red blouse buttoned up to her chin and a shock of maze-colored hair cascades across her shoulders. The contrast is bold and blinding.

  Slipping my glasses back on, I take a few steps forward and stop dead in my tracks. The blonde stands from the booth, extending a hand with a tilt of her hand and a tentative smile on her beautiful face.

  “Are you Mr. Leeds?”

  This isn’t going to work.

  “Excuse me?” she says with an incredulous tone. “What isn’t going to work?”

  Oh shit, I guess I said that out loud. Well, fuck me.

  I gesture with my hand toward her. “You. You’re too young. You don’t have the experience I’m looking for.”

  I’m about to turn around to leave, hoping to extricate myself from the tempting woman in front of me. Now that I have a good view of her, I’m convinced she will only be a distraction if I hire her.

  She’s beautiful. Blonde. Young. And sexy as fuck.

  And I’d be inside her panties and fucking her within a day’s time. Which means, it would be a fucking disaster and she’d hinder my research progress, which I won’t tolerate.

  I know myself. I may put a vast majority of time and effort into my research career, but I also have a very sizeable and insatiable sexual appetite. And lucky for me, I’ve never had any problem attracting the opposite sex.

  But I do not sleep with women I work with or who work for me, rather. People might say I’m a playboy and womanizer. That’s true. But there’s one other thing that holds true. In this city, there is no shortage of beautiful women. There is, however, a shortage of good assistants and that’s what I need more than a quick lay.

  The woman - Marin, I believe is her name – thrusts a piece of paper in front of me. A bit indignantly, I might add.

  “First of all, Mr. Leeds, how dare you make an assumption about my age in relation to my abilities. I will have you know that I am a college graduate with two years of office and organizational management experience. I worked for one of the toughest bosses in this city until recently. I am ethical, organized and extremely competent. In fact, I think I’m overqualified for this role, but I’m doing it for...”

  She suddenly stops speaking, clearly wobbling on her soapbox, her cheeks burning with the rosy color of embarrassment (or irritation) and her lips are pursed tight. To say I’m mildly curious is like saying the Yankees are just an average team.

  “Go on…I’m listening. The floor is yours.” I gesture with my hand, a placating smirk forming across my face. Shrugging off my wet jacket, I place it on the back of the chair and pull it out from table, sitting down across from the still fuming woman.

  I’m going for nonchalant and mildly interested, but truth be told, this little firecracker has grabbed my full attention. And I’m all for learning more about what makes this girl light up.

  “Fine,” she grimaces, dropping the copy of her resume on the table and sitting back down in a huff.

  In hopes of smoothing things over and giving her a moment to regroup, I take a moment to read through her resume. While not a long list of credentials, it does prove what she’s saying is correct. She lasted two years under the thumb of Abe Farrugia. That is impressive.

  When I glance back up at Marin, she’s rubbing her bottom lip with her thumbnail in a nervous manner. But all I can think about is rubbing that lip against something else.

  Fuck, that’s not helping.

  I give her a meaningfu
l nod of the head. “Shall we begin again? I’m Nathaniel Leeds. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Cooke.”

  She takes my outstretched hand and the warmth of hers in my palm sends a current of electricity up my arm and straight to my cock. What the fuck is that all about? I drop her hand immediately, as if I’ve just been bitten by a seething Cobra and return my attention to her resume. But the sultry sound of her voice draws me back to her face.

  “I apologize for my outburst, Mr. Leeds…”

  “Please, call me Nathaniel.”

  She considers this informality and nods. “Fine, Nathaniel. It’s been a rough past few weeks and I just walked away from a very difficult working environment, where I had thrived despite working for a…” She pauses, as if searching for the right words. ”very difficult boss. So, perhaps I’m a bit more sensitive then I normally am. Your statement just…well, it triggered a response. I’m not usually that bold.”

  I stare at her, the soft features of her heart-shaped face contradicting her brave admission and candor. I like that. I also happen to like the way her velvety plush lips form around the vowels when she speaks.

  Stay on task, Leeds.

  Nodding, the corners of my mouth edge up into some semblance of a smile. “I’m the one who should apologize. I was a little thrown with the weather and my temper got the best of me. It’s me who is not normally so ill-tempered or late. Now, let’s move on and talk through your experience and this role.”