Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
And then I pause.
The bookings tab is empty.
“That’s odd,” I murmur, and Abby tilts her head in question.
I refresh the page, assuming it’s a glitch.
Still empty.
A small crease forms between my brows. “What the fuck?”
“What is it?” Abby asks, her whole demeanor shifting.
“All my Thursday bookings are gone,” I say slowly, scrolling further. “Friday… Saturday.” I scroll further into the handful I had next week. “Actually… everything’s gone.”
The unease floods through me. I tap into my profile settings, my pulse beginning to thud faintly in my ears as the page loads. Everything seems to be in order, it’s just… all my bookings are gone. Every job carried a flat fee plus an hourly rate. It was good, solid money I could count on.
That I now depend on as my sole source of income. I move to tomorrow’s calendar and click the “plus” button to add a new booking on my schedule. It’s completely grayed out, as is the day after and the day after that with no luck. My stomach drops so fast it’s like I’ve missed a step on a staircase. Multiple steps. Whole flights, in fact.
“Harper?” Abby says, standing now, reading my face before I speak.
I go tense.
“I think I’ve been fired,” I say, the words tasting foreign in my mouth. “It’s not letting me book anything new.”
“No way,” Abby says, moving to look over my shoulder at my phone.
For a few long seconds, I can’t move.
Rent, utilities, food for me and Dylan, Beau’s vet bill that I’m still paying off in installments. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not after the other job. Not now.
“I can’t lose this too,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m speaking to Abby or to myself.
“Did they send you a termination notice?” she asks.
“No, but… the bookings are all gone.” Panic sets in deep and gut churning. My voice raises to near hysteria. “And I can’t schedule anything new.”
“That could just be a glitch,” she says rather sensibly, but I’m in no shape to hear that. Things are too dire.
I start mentally rearranging a budget that no longer works—calculating how long my savings will stretch, wondering what I might be able to sell, how many extra shifts I could possibly pick up somewhere else, whether I could negotiate rent for a month without sounding desperate.
The panic builds quickly, the spiral starting, uncontrollable and unrelenting.
Then my phone rings: Unknown number.
Normally I would ignore it. I never answer unknown numbers, but I’m discombobulated and tap the green button before I think on it.
“Hello?”
There’s a faint pause, then a voice so distinctly British and impeccably composed that it briefly disorients me.
“Is this Ms. Harper Hawthorne?”
“Yes,” I reply cautiously.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Hawthorne. My name is Percy. I serve as Mr. Julian Langley’s butler and, if I may be immodest, I’m a bit of a Swiss Army Knife in his professional affairs.”
As he says this, I don’t connect the name and I’m utterly confused. “Butler?” is the only thing I can think to say.
“I believe the modern-day term is house manager, but I am not a modern man.”
And then it hits me.
Julian Langley. Owner of the New York Vipers. The car. The advice. The unsolicited advice. Me stepping on my own toes and getting me in a bind, and now I’m wondering if that’s what got me fired.
My stomach drops all over again, this time with humiliation layered on top.
I overstepped. I offered unwanted advice to the owner of the New York Vipers like I belonged in the back seat conversation. He’d smiled politely and then he had me fired right after I dropped him off. That’s why all my appointments are missing. I’m sure of it.
“I understand,” I rush out, my voice tightening. “If this is about this morning, I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I know it wasn’t my place, and I really need this job, so if there’s any way to reverse—”
“You are correct,” Percy interrupts, though not unkindly. “Mr. Langley was indeed responsible for the change in your schedule. He arranged for it immediately after you dropped him off this morning.”
The confirmation pummels me like a body blow and I groan as if I’m in pain. Abby’s eyes widen across the kitchen as she reads my expression.
“I—” My throat closes around the words. “Please. I know I crossed a line, but I can’t afford to lose this. If there’s any possibility of undoing it, I would be incredibly grateful.”
“Ms. Hawthorne,” Percy says, and there is the faintest suggestion of amusement beneath the polish of his accent, “I believe you misunderstand the purpose of my call.”
I blink, disoriented.
“I am contacting you,” he continues, “to inform you that you have been hired by Mr. Langley.”
“Hired?” I repeat slowly.
“Yes. Technically by the Vipers organization, though in practice, you would serve as Mr. Langley’s personal driver.”