by Marian Vere
Cover
title page
Once Upon a Second Chance
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Marian Vere
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Omnific Publishing
Dallas
Copyright Information
Once Upon a Second Chance, Copyright © 2012 by Marian Vere
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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Omnific Publishing
10000 North Central Expressway, Dallas, TX 75231
www.omnificpublishing.com
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First Omnific eBook edition, November 2012
First Omnific trade paperback edition, November 2012
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
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Vere, Marian.
Once Upon a Second Chance / Marian Vere – 1st ed
ISBN: 978-1-62342-916-4
1. Romance—Fiction. 2. Fairy Godmother—Fiction. 3. Contemporary Fairy Tale—Fiction. 4. Jane Austen—Fiction. I. Title
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Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
Dedication
To Scott
1
I STARE BLANK-FACED AT THE E-MAIL on the screen in front of me,praying I am misreading the first two words in the second paragraph.
Group memos like this one find their way into my inbox almost every day and are typically filled with nothing more than boring office news. An announcement about Sally-so-and-so’s upcoming retirement, or a notice about Joe-shmoe’s birthday next week. Nothing unusual or earth shattering. This particular memo started out that way, nothing worth panicking over. That is, until I arrived at the second paragraph and came to the two little words that currently have me in a chokehold.
Two. Little. Words.
Nicholas Kerkley.
Okay—dream or hallucination? If I’m expected to live until the end of this e-mail, it has to be one of the two.
A dream is easy enough to check, right? If this is a dream then something nonsensical or fantastic will be going on, like one of my co-workers will be Paula Deen from Food Network which, in my dream universe, will somehow make perfect sense. Or, I’ll open the door to our office and it will lead into my grandma’s kitchen. Then there’s the ever popular—if not a bit cliché—one where I’ll be naked.
I look around the office: no Paula Deen. The office door is open: no grandmother’s kitchen. Last but not least, I glance down at myself, hoping—yes, hoping—to find that I’m only wearing underwear, but find myself fully clothed.
All right, not a dream.
So much for that, but dream or no dream, this still can’t be real. It can’t be. It must be some weird hallucination. I’ll close my eyes, take some deep breaths, count to five, and everything will be fine.
One…(Breathe in…two…three…four…And out…two…three…four…)
Maybe it’s the caffeine; I did have way too much coffee this morning.
Two…(In…two…three…four…Out…two…three…four…)
I should know better than to order a large when it’s not decaf!
I continue my breathing exercise, but it’s not helping.
All right, that’s it, no more coffee, starting tomorrow.
Inhale. Exhale.
Please let it be the coffee…
Inhale. Exhale. Dear God, please, please, please…
One more breath…Damn it!
My screen still holds today’s company memo for the Herstein Group, and Nicholas Kerkley is still the only name listed under “New Client.”
I lean back in my chair and cover my face with both hands. This can’t be happening. Why would he choose this firm? Does he know I work here? Does he even remember me? After all, it has been over eight years. Dear God…is he married? Does he have kids? This picture pops into my head: he has his arm around some twenty-something, blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty queen as they walk along the beach with half a dozen adorable children. All of them with her perfect hair and his gorgeous eyes…
“Jules?”
“Hmm?” My head snaps up, and I see Bree at her desk, staring at me as though I have a third eye. Only now do I realize I’ve actually been hunched over in my chair, face buried in my hands, practically hyperventilating.
“You okay?”
“Oh yeah, fine, just a headache. Face too close to the screen,” I say with a smile I hope she buys.
Brianna St. Charles and I work for The Herstein Group, one of only four personal finance consulting groups at SMS Financial. Our boss (Margaret Herstein herself), Bree, and I make up the entire team. Bree and I met when I was hired over six years ago, and she’s been one of my best friends ever since.
The only issue I have with her is the fact that it’s incredibly hard on the ego to be anywhere near her in public or within sight of a mirror. She has huge, beautiful curls of strawberry-blond hair, silver-blue eyes, and a body a supermodel would kill for. She’s a perfect, statuesque beauty, while I’m the even-more-mousy-and-plain-by-comparison friend.
You’d expect someone who looks like Bree to have the common decency to be flighty, or air-headed, or have some personality defect to balance it out. Something to keep the rest of us from just giving up altogether. But no, she’s the sweetest, smartest, most down-to-earth person you could ever wish to meet. She’s impossible not to love.
As Bree goes back to typing, I stand and make my way to the restroom with as calm a façade I can muster. The door shuts behind me, and I step into the large handicapped stall. Not only does it have extra space, but because it’s the kind with its own private wash area. I walk over to the mirror and brace my hands on either side of the cold porcelain sink.
All right, deep breath. You can do this. It doesn’t have to be that bad. After all, odds are I will never even have to see him. I’m just the admin; I hardly ever meet face-to-face with our clients, and there’s no reason he should be any different.
Our clients are extremely wealthy individuals who come to us when they need help spending their money. We assist them in purchasing real estate, research business franchises, advise them as to which personal jet will have the highest resale value in five to ten years—stuff like that. They pay us to be the unbiased experts in whatever they’re interested in. Over the past few years, our group has become the most successful one at SMS Financial.
That, however, has little to do with me and far more to do with Margaret and Bree. Margaret is the lead consultant (the boss), Bree is the junior consultant (her assistant), and I am the secretary (the nobody). Okay, I’m the administrative assistant if you want to be PC about it, but I have never been able to call myself that. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet” is one of my all-time favorite Shakespeare quotes, but it works the other way too. Not that my job is awful—I love Margaret and Bree, and the work is fine, it just doesn’t give you many good stories to tell at the bar. Margaret and Bree have stories, because everyone wants to hear about the heiress looking for her fifth penthouse condo just so she can piss off Daddy, or the multi-millionaire who wants a private house upstate so that he and his assistant can have some privacy for their frequent—ahem—business meetings. People are fascinated with how the other half lives. How the other half takes their coffee, not so much; that’s the sort o
f stuff I know. I answer phones, sort mail, arrange meetings, and take notes. I have met a few of our current and past clients through conference calls or meetings where I took minutes, or the occasional intercepted phone call when Bree was away from her desk. However, none of our clients have ever needed to meet me, so there is no reason Nick—I mean Mr. Kerkley—will be any different.
I glance into the mirror and run my fingers through my unruly hair. It’s not-curly-not-straight texture often causes me problems, and my struggle with it this morning is particularly bad. Though at the time, I hadn’t realized my fight with the flat iron was actually a sign telling me that today would suck and to go back to bed.
Too bad I didn’t get the message.
With a deep breath, I slowly make my way back to my desk. I arrive just in time to overhear Bree saying on the phone, “There she is, she just got back. I’ll tell her. Okay, see you in a bit.”
Must be Margaret. Good. She’ll have a distraction for me; she always does. Margaret has been my boss since I was hired, and she has made my work life one big rollercoaster ride ever since. Not in a bad way, as she’s one of the kindest, most caring people you could ever work for. She’s just one of those people that is always running at full speed and never seems to slow down: the textbook definition of a Type A personality. Though I will say she has a great business head. There’s a reason we’re the number one group in our firm.
She keeps us busy, always blowing through the office, in—what Bree and I have affectionately named—a dizzy-tizzy, as she’s passing out work and talking through schedules at a million miles an hour. By the time she blows out again, Bree and I usually have more than a day’s work to do, and while we generally dread it, right now that’s exactly what I need.
“Hey, Jules, that was Margaret,” Bree tells me, coming over to sit on the edge of my desk, as is her habit if she has news or gossip to share. “Did you see the e-mail about our new client?”
I wince. No distraction then. “Yep, just a few minutes ago.” Please let that be the end of it.
“Margaret just sent me his file. I was expecting the usual sixty-something divorcé or bald investor, but look at this.” She hands me a small pile of papers. “Turns out he’s only thirty-one, built this huge technical consulting corporation from the ground up, and he’s worth over seventeen billion dollars! Can you believe it! We finally get to work with a hot guy!”
She is obviously thrilled. Good for her. Wait a minute…
“How do you know he’s hot?”
“Oh, I went to one of his company’s websites and saw a picture. Here, let me show you, he really is gorgeous—”
“No, that’s all right,” I say quickly, grabbing the mouse before she gets to it. My sanity can’t handle pictures right now.
“Oh, okay then,” she says, cocking an eyebrow. “You’ll see soon enough anyway.”
My heart freezes in my chest. “What?”
“That’s what Margaret was calling about. He’ll be here in an hour for our first meeting.”
Please no, please no.
My throat closes like an allergy attack, and I ball my hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “B-But you never need me at those meetings.”
“I know, but Margaret says this is a big one. An all-hands-on-deck sort of thing. Apparently there’s a property up in Maine—”
“I can’t make it,” I interrupt, fishing frantically in my brain for an impromptu lie. “I have to leave early. Doctor’s appointment.” Weak I know, but it’s the best I can come up with mid-panic.
“You do?”
“I told you yesterday, remember?” Wow, this is disturbing. Normally I don’t lie this well. Amazing what the right motivation can do.
“Oh.” She furrows her eyebrows, thinking back. “It must have slipped my mind. Oh well, no biggie. I can fill you in tomorrow. You’re not sick are you?”
I see the worry on Bree’s face, and my stomach sinks. Ugh, why does she have to be concerned over my lie? Don’t I feel bad enough already? “No, no, just the yearly…you know.” I give her the gynecology exam grimace, and she understands immediately.
“Oh…yuck.”
“I was actually going to head out now,” I say, gathering up my stuff and trying very hard not to analyze the fact that I’m being the very definition of a coward. I like to think of myself as a brave, confident person, but deep down inside I know that I haven’t been brave or very confident in a long time. I try not to knowingly surrender to weakness, but at the moment, I have no other choice. This particular meeting would be far too much for me to handle.
“Oh, okay. Well, good luck I guess,” she says, smiling sympathetically.
“Yeah, thanks.” I throw my bag over my shoulder and all but run for the elevators.
My heart finally makes its way out of my throat as I lumber out the back doors and into the side alley. Normally, I would leave through the main lobby and out the front doors like a sane person. Today, however, I slip out the back because I, wuss that I am, decided at the last second to take the stairs—all fourteen flights of them—down to the main floor, as opposed to the elevator. Then in a further display of spinelessness, I avoided the lobby, took the side hall, and left through the unalarmed emergency door out back. All this, just in case he happens to be in the elevator, lobby, or anywhere in between.
God, I’m pathetic.
If I’m going to keep this up, I’ll definitely have to come up with excuses that are more diverse than just a plethora of doctor’s appointments, or eventually Bree and Margaret will think I’m dying.
I push up the sleeves of my blouse as I round the corner onto Chambers Street. It’s the last day of August, but judging by the temperature, you would have no idea that fall is supposedly upon us.
I stop at a newsstand, hoping to find something to occupy my mind for the next few hours. My thoughts are currently nipping at the edges of memories that I’ve worked very hard to bury. I need a distraction. Something to read or, at the very least, flip through mindlessly. Anything—global news, celebrity gossip, how to lose ten pounds by the weekend. As I desperately scan the racks, Bree’s words continue to fly around my head.
“…he really is gorgeous…”
Sigh. Yes, he is. I already knew that.
“…he’s worth over seventeen billion…”
Knew that too. Seventeen point seven billion to be exact.
I’ve been following Mr. Kerkley’s career almost since it began. I say “following his career” because it sounds much more normal than “I know everything and anything you could possibly want to know about his career, company, and business interests,” which sounds like I am a telephoto lens and a pair of night vision goggles away from being a stalker. However, pathetic as it may be, I am something of an expert when it comes to Nick Kerkley’s career.
He started his company with nothing—absolutely nothing—and built it himself from the ground up. The business and technological worlds took notice of his work almost instantly, and he has been a powerhouse ever since. His rise to the corporate elite has been documented thoroughly over the years. He’s appeared in newspapers, magazines, special interest journals, and even the occasional television interview, which I could never bring myself to watch. For over seven years I’ve been collecting every bit of information I can find that deals with him in any way, and storing everything in a box under my bed.
Yeah…’cause that’s normal.
Somewhere between paying for and finishing a chocolate bar, I decide to go and see my sister, Lisa. I need another person right now. I can’t distract myself and normally I would call Bree, but in this situation, Lisa is my next best option.
For the past four years, Lisa has been the VP of Marketing for Century PR, one of the largest PR firms on the east coast. Her office is in SoHo and, as I’m in no mood to walk that far, I make my way down to the subway. I’m able to get a seat by the window as it’s early in the afternoon and the rush-hour crowds are still hard at work. As the train j
erks to life, I rest my head against the window and watch the hazy tunnel lights fly past.
Eight years. That’s how long it’s been. Eight years…
“Grilled cheese, fries, and a chocolate malt.”
“White or wheat?”
“White.”
“All right, it will just be a few.”
“Thanks.”
I was at Gerald’s, the best diner in the city, and I ate there at least twice a week. That afternoon, I had just finished the last final exam of my senior year. It was Dr. Ortega’s Advanced Financial Modeling, and I knew I’d aced it. I decided there was no better way to celebrate the proverbial weight of the world being lifted off my shoulders than a plateful of comfort food.
What a feeling! I was officially done with school and I had an amazing internship lined up for the fall. Everything I had been working so hard for was finally within reach, and I was on top of the world. It was as if I would never have to worry about anything ever again. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
I was so lost in my happy stupor that I jumped when the waitress placed a plate in front of me. A plate of…chicken salad melt and chips?
I looked up. “This isn’t—” But she was gone.
Damn.
As I looked around to try to call the waitress back, I noticed an unbelievably hot guy sitting at the counter, watching me. When he caught my eye, he looked down at the plate sitting in front of him.
Ah, my food. This must be his.
He picked up his plate and walked toward my table. Dear God, he was gorgeous! Dark brown hair, and the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen.
“I take it this is yours?” he asked with a breathtaking smile, setting my grilled cheese down on the table.
Don’t say something stupid, don’t say something stupid. “Uh, yeah, thanks.”
“No problem.” He turned back toward the counter, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.
Uh, yeah, thanks?”The hottest guy I would probably ever meet face-to-face, and that’s all I could come up with? Why couldn’t I say something witty or charming? Or at least something remotely intelligent like, “Yes it is, thank you, and this must be yours.” You know, something a normal person would say!
