by J. J. Bella
Sleeping With The Single Dad
J.J. Bella
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by J.J. Bella
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
I looked over the email with disbelieving eyes, going over the same three sentences that comprised the body of the message again and again.
Ms. Kimble,
Thank you for your interest in a position with Secret Paper. After carefully going over your information, references, and portfolio, we’ve decided not to go forward with you as a candidate for a position at our agency, though we will keep your resume on file should we find a need for your skills at a later date. Best of luck to you in all future endeavors.
Annie Walker
It was polite and boilerplate. In the week since the interview at Secret Paper, one of the hottest design firms in Brooklyn, it was as if I’d been walking on air. I did everything right- I asked pointed questions about the company, I showed off my portfolio in a way that (just like the wikihow said) was the right mix of both humble and proud; hell, I even complimented the interviewer’s godawful earrings. I was convinced that I did everything that would guarantee that I got that stupid, barely-entry-level position.
But no. One week and one template “thanks but no thanks” email later, I was in the exact same place that I was before: unemployed, and without a single prospect.
Actually, one small difference: there were about a couple hundred dollars less in my already meager bank account than there had been before I interviewed. Sigh. I had been putting it off for long enough, but now there was no way of getting around it: I had to check how much money I had left in my account.
My stomach started sinking as soon as I closed the email window and started typing the website into the browser. Once there, I put in my user name and password, my stomach sinking lower and lower with each key as I typed it in. Once done, I clicked “submit” and closed my eyes, fearing the worst.
It was worse than that.
Current checking account balance…$42.23
Current savings account balance…. $0.00
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to pick up my laptop, toss it against the wall, then spend the rest of the night scolding myself for ever thinking I could make it in this stupid city. I should’ve known better; how many girls from the Midwest come to New York fresh out of college with a few thousand bucks saved up and a totally naïve expectation that they’ve got something to offer this place that the ten million people who already live here don’t?
Dragging my hands over my face, I did my best to put a stop to the pity party in progress. But right when I finally managed to calm myself with a few deep breaths, I heard a sharp rapping on my bedroom door.
“Katie? Open up, please.”
It was Kristina, my roommate. My bitchy, trust-fund, never-has-to-worry-about-anything-other-than-where-she’s-going-to-brunch-next, serial-finance-bro-dater, roommate. She could only be here about one thing: the rent. The rent that I definitely couldn’t pay. Swallowing, I stood up from my flimsy Ikea chair and walked over to the door, opening it and revealing Kristina in all of her petite, blonde-hair, blue-eyed, big-boobed glory, a look of annoyed impatience playing on her too perfect, sweet-sixteen-gift-plastic-surgery face.
“Hey. So, like, are you going to have rent, like, on time this month? Or what?”
“Hey!” I said, my voice coming out far too chipper, “uh, yeah, about that…” I leaned my body against the molding of the door frame, trying to make myself look casual, but more likely looking like I was trying to crawl up it.
“OK, whatever,” she said, sticking her palm up in a “stop” gesture, “you don’t need to come up with an excuse, so I’ll just remind you that rent is due in ten days. If you have it, great, you get to live here another month. If not, you better have this room cleared out and ready to be rented to someone who can, like, actually pay on time. Bye.”
And with that, she turned on her tiny heels and went off down the long hallway to her room, where I could see this week’s finance bro lounging on her bed for a second before she slammed the door shut.
I felt miserable. I wanted to give up right then and there. I wanted to throw all of my crap into a dumpster, leave the apartment that I had been stupid to think I could afford and resign myself to a life as a Brooklyn bag lady.
But as soon as the reality that what I’d actually be doing - going back to Des Moines, living at my folks’ place, and hearing an endless procession of “I told you so’s” from my friends who thought going to New York was a bad, bad idea- set in, I resolved to make one last stab at finding something.
Plopping back down in front of my Macbook and blowing a stray strand of my dark brown hair out of my eyes, I went through the usual sites, hoping something would pop up.
At first, it was the usual dregs -unpaid internships, work for “exposure,” that kind of thing- but scrolling down further I saw something that I didn’t expect to see at all.
Lane Technologies - Junior Design Coordinator
Lane Technologies had only been around for a few years, but they were already a legend in the design world. Just like every other department they had, their design team was made up of the best of the best, and the stuff they put out was just incredible- the ad for last year’s model of their wireless headphones was already on the cover of this year’s textbook for the design course my senior year prof teaches.
I didn’t know if my work was good enough to even get a glance from them, but why not take a shot? After all, I was in New York to dream big. I typed up the email, put in my information and a link to my portfolio, and fired it off. Here’s to hoping, I guess.
2
“Of course, Mr. Deveroux. A pleasure doing business with you. Au revoir,” I said.
The moment I ended the call, I placed my phone onto my desk and began rubbing the bridge of my nose in frustration. We’d been negotiating with a supplier in Paris for weeks now, and it seemed like we were at something of an impasse. That is, until I happened to notice a typo in an email that one of the newer execs had sent to Paris. One week and a dozen explanatory conversations later (not to mention, one less executive), and we finally got the misunderstanding straightened out.
Sitting back in my office chair, I leaned into the seat and propped my feet up on the wide expanse of my desk. I normally wouldn’t indulge in such a lack of decorum, but it was only nine forty-five, and I was already very irritated with the messes I was being forced to clean up. I closed my eyes, trying to catch a moment of calm before the next problem made itself known.
The shrill beeping of the intercom cut through the silence before I could get too comfortable.
“Mr. Lane?” called Amelia, my secretary, her voice thin and tinny through the intercom. “Your ten o’clock is here.”
I sat up in my chair and pressed the “call” button.
“I’ll be right out.”
Ten o’clock. That would be Mr. Liu, one of
the factory owners in China who I was currently in the process of negotiating with. I stood up, buttoned the jacket of my suit, and went out to greet him, planting a smile on my face before I opened the door to my office.
“Mr. Liu,” I said, affecting warmth to my voice, “a pleasure to see you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Lane,” he said, taking my extended hand and giving it a firm shake.
“Anything I can get for you both?” asked Amelia, interjecting, as usual.
“No, Amelia, we’re fine.”
Amelia was a new addition to the office, hired to replace Mrs. Dougherty, the efficient, stern septuagenarian who formerly worked as my secretary. Amelia was unlike Mrs. Doughtery in just about every imaginable way, especially in terms of appearance and work ethic. Young and pretty, Amelia wasn’t normally the type that I’d hire as an assistant, but she came highly recommended.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her eyes move up and down my body…again. It didn’t bother me; far from it. But having a secretary who was so clearly attracted to me and not afraid to show it called into serious doubt her professionalism. Not to mention I didn’t need the headache of yet another underling drunkenly professing her love for me at the next company outing. As I opened the door for Mr. Liu and led him into my office, I went through the process of mentally rearranging Amelia, figuring out where in the company I could move her.
“Now, this is quite the view!” said Mr. Liu, walking over to the wide windows of my office that looked out over the Financial District, the morning sun setting the glass of the towering skyscrapers alight with a brilliant, orange glare.
I paid quite a bit of rent for an office with a view like this, but the effect it had on clients was more than worth the exorbitant price.
“Please, Mr. Liu,” I said, gesturing to a couch at the other side of my office. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Oh, just a tea for me if you have it, thank you.”
I took a seat on the chair facing the couch, and we got down to business. The conversation got a bit heated at times, but when all was said and done, we managed to reach an agreement that was mutually equitable.
“Mr. Lane,” said Amelia through the intercom. I felt my eyes narrow; Amelia knew that she wasn’t to interrupt me during a meeting unless it was an issue of the utmost importance.
“Yes, Amelia?” I called out, my voice edged with impatience.
“Ah, oh, sorry Mr. Lane,” she responded, picking up on my frustration. “Sorry to interrupt, but Olive’s on the line.”
“Thank you, Amelia,” I said, my voice softening.
“Wife?” asked Mr. Liu.
“No,” I said, rising from my seat and walking towards the phone. “Daughter. My apologies.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said, his face taking on a warm, fatherly expression, as if reminded of his own family.
I snatched the phone from my desk.
“Hi, sweetie. What’s up? You know better than to call Dad in the middle of work.”
“I know,” she said, her tone delicate. “But you were supposed to give the talk today, for career day. And you’re not here.”
My stomach dropped. She was right. I promised her that I’d stop by her school today and give a ten-minute talk to the kids about running a company, and I’d completely forgot.
“Listen; I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know I promised, but things got crazy at the office.”
“That’s fine; understand.”
“How about this- I’ll take off work early tonight and we’ll go get some pizza, maybe swing by Ladurée for macarons. That sound good?”
“Sure,” she said, her voice flat. “See you tonight.”
“Bye, baby.”
“Bye.”
I set down the phone and shook my head. I felt awful enough, but hearing how she reacted, as though not surprised at all, was what got to me the most. I was beginning to lose track of how many times I’d disappointed her like this.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” said Mr. Liu, speaking slowly and carefully, “but might I make a suggestion?”
It was the last thing I wanted to hear, but there was no way I could tell a client that.
“Sure,” I said, regaining my composure.
“Like you, Mr. Lane, I’m a family man. And, like I suspect you are, I’m also a man who likes to make sure everything is just so with my affairs. But as I’m sure you well know, these two things are…difficult to keep in order.”
He was right about that. I nodded, indicating him for to go on.
“Then I did something that changed my life. Or, I should say, hired someone who changed my life.”
I admit, my interest was piqued.
“A personal assistant,” he said, the words almost lined with awe. “Just hire some fresh-faced kid out of college to handle your affairs. Nearly everyone in business has one, it’s just that men like you and I are the types who want to do everything themselves, you know?”
“Hm. I would worry they’d just get in the way,” I said, not entirely convinced.
“That’s just the thing,” he said, raising a finger as if to make an important point. “Hire some eager college kid, and, well, build them from the ground up. No bad habits to unlearn, no quirks from dealing with a prior boss. After a year or so, they’ll be like an extra arm.”
I opened the door, preparing to show Mr. Liu out.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but it’s something to think about.”
“Do more than think, Mr. Lane; this was a decision that increased my quality of life a hundred-fold,” he said, stepping out of the office and into the bustling hallway.
“OK, I’ll think it over,” I said, extending my hand to Mr. Liu. “Always a pleasure.”
“Likewise, Mr. Lane,” Mr. Liu said shaking my hand and giving me a smile and nod before starting off.
I was conflicted. On the one hand, the thought of giving up any control over my day-to-day affairs made me sick to my stomach to consider. On the other, the disappointment in Olive’s voice was still ringing in my ears.
But just before I was about to head back into my office, I caught sight of a young girl with chocolate-brown hair being led into Ms. Gardner’s office. Mrs. Gardner was our head of design, and I had heard they were looking to bring some new faces.
Mr. Liu’s suggestion was as fresh as it could be in my mind. Maybe one of these interviewees would be what I needed for my own newly-opened position. It couldn’t hurt to look, I thought, heading down the hallway towards the office, ready to drop in.
3
I was about as nervous as I could imagine being when the door to Mrs. Gardner’s office closed shut behind us. Already in a state of shock from hearing back from the company so quickly, my anxiety only compounded upon itself when I approached the massive, gleaming Financial District tower where Lane Technologies was headquartered. And it only got worse when I stepped off of the elevator and onto the main floor of the company, which buzzed like a beehive full of young professionals in immaculately tailored clothes, and all with the same expression of busy purpose on their uniformly attractive faces.
And once I met Mrs. Gardner, the head of the design department and who I’d be interviewing with, I knew I was in over my head. In a crisp, dark green business suit and her hair coiffed in a style that likely cost half my rent to pull off, she was the picture of middle-aged professionalism. I was wearing the off-the-rack interview clothes that my Dad had bought for me after graduation, and felt every bit the Midwestern hayseed.
“Come in, Ms. Kimble,” said Mrs. Gardener in an upper-class Manhattan accent, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Thanks,” I said, holding my portfolio bag close. “I’m, um, looking forward to interviewing.”
Two seconds in and I was already tripping over my words. Great.
The office was beautiful and spacious, with a spectacular view of Lower Manhattan and tastefully-appointed with modern, yet elegant furnit
ure. On the walls were a handful of framed pictures of 20th-century German modernist advertising. Mrs. Gardner took a seat at her jet-black desk and gave me a quick, appraising look.
“From Des Moines, huh?” she said, looking over the copy of my resume that I had handed over to her.
“Um, yeah,” I said, my voice already shaking. “Here in the ‘big city’.”
I winced at how cliché I was being, then grew nervous at the idea that she might see how nervous I was.
“Well, I took a look at your portfolio on your website,” said Mrs. Gardener. “And your work is good. A little inexperienced, very ‘just-graduated,’ but shows potential.”
I felt myself relax a little bit.
“But, I must say, we have some candidates applying for the job who are, well, exceedingly qualified. Graduates from Pratt, NYU, you know. And they’d all kill for a spot at a company like this.”
Yeah, rich kids with connections. I know.
“So, out of all of them, why should I hire you?”
“Well,” I said, my body tightening up again, “I’ve been following Lane Technologies since I was a sophomore. The work you all have done here, it’s, well, amazing. Everyone at my school lived the print ads you’ve put out.
Stop complimenting them, I thought to myself, they know all of this already.
“And, um, I just think that I’d like to be a part of, um, what’s going on here. I think I could really, um, add some good stuff to the department.
“Good stuff?” “Good stuff!?”
As soon as the last word left my mouth I wanted to shrink to the size of an ant and drop into the space behind the cushions of the expensive chair I was sitting in. And looking over Mrs. Gardner’s face, I could tell she was none-too-impressed by anything that had just come out of my mouth.
“Hmm, I see,” she said, sitting up in her chair and looking as though she was going to send me off right then. “I thi-“
