He studies my face—undoubtedly detecting my bullshit but not calling me on it—his mouth pressed into a deep frown. “You’re sure, querida?”
The endearment tries to slip through my defenses, but I mentally build a barricade against showing any emotion. “Certa.”
Everyone around me—Marcelo, Tia Viviane, my mother, even the guy pretending to watch soccer who’s eavesdropping on the conversation—visibly relaxes, the tension of the moment cut by my assurances that all will end well. And it must. End well, that is. Because I have no other choice—my career and livelihood are at stake.
Sighing on the inside at the detour in my day, I make a last-minute addition to my to-do list: eat my feelings. My gaze lands on the half-eaten roll of bread. No, that just won’t do; it’s way too basic. I need fat, and carbs, and tons of sugar. Where’s a goddamn powdered doughnut when you need one?
Chapter Four
Lina
Note to self: A dozen glazed doughnut holes can work wonders on your disposition.
After an evening of bingeing on TV and sweets, I greet the new week with optimism and a plan, one that includes an early-morning meeting with Rebecca Cartwright. Now more than ever, I need to cultivate my contacts and keep my eyes peeled for new business opportunities, so when I contacted her last night and she offered to see me first thing this morning, I jumped at the chance.
According to the quick research I did during the Metro ride here, the Cartwright is one of three boutique hotels owned by the Cartwright Group. The flagship location is in the District; the other two properties are in Northern Virginia. In another life, this building housed a bank, and remnants of its austere beginnings, such as the large white columns that flank its breathtaking entrance, complement the simple yet eclectic interior design. Thanks to a massive skylight in the center of the circular lobby, the marble floors gleam, and the sun’s rays highlight every detail, from the abstract art adorning the textured walls to the steel lines of the contemporary furniture. It all comes together to give the hotel an upscale yet unpretentious vibe.
The sound of Rebecca’s heels enters the space before she does. As she approaches, her tinny voice floats through the room. “Lina, thanks so much for coming to see me on such short notice.”
I rise from the sleek yellow leather couch and extend my hand. Her grip is firm but not overpowering. We make eye contact for the customary few seconds and pump our clasped hands three times; I bet we both attended business-etiquette workshops in high school.
“It’s good to see you again, Rebecca.”
“Let’s sit for a minute,” she says, gesturing to a small table by a window, the hustle and bustle on New Hampshire Avenue audible just beyond the pane as we settle in. “So here’s the deal. We’re rebranding in several areas, one of them being wedding services. I’ve been searching for a wedding planner to direct this new vision for our hotels, serve as its public face, and plan weddings, of course. You impressed me on Saturday. So much so that I’d like you to put yourself in the running for the position, assuming the thought of directing wedding services for a Forbes five-star-rated hotel with an award-winning restaurant appeals to you.”
I’m stunned, but I manage to drum up a decent question. “You’re not looking for someone to direct general event planning, right?”
She smiles and nods. “Right. I’m looking for someone to focus on weddings and build our brand in that specific area.”
“Okay, got it.” I wipe my palms on my skirt and puff out a short breath. “Another question, then. I currently work with an assistant. She would need to be a part of any venture I consider. Is that possible?”
This time, Rebecca’s nod is even more vigorous. “If we offer and you accept a position as director of wedding services, you’d be authorized to hire your own select staff. If that means hiring your current assistant, I’d have no problem with that. I’d authorize 50K for a full-time assistant.”
“And my salary?”
“Double that,” she says. “For work at all three hotels, of course.”
Inside, I’m flailing like Kermit the Frog. One hundred thousand dollars. Holy shit. Is this really happening? I want to squee, but I contain my excitement as I process the possibilities. If I land this job, my lease problem wouldn’t even matter anymore. I’d be moving into larger, cozier digs at the Cartwright—and doubling my income, too. This is the break I never imagined I’d get, and my mother and tias would be ecstatic. But I can’t get ahead of myself just yet. I’ll need to keep looking for alternative office space in case this doesn’t work out. Still, am I going to try to get this gig? Shit yeah. “You’d like me to interview for the position? Today?”
Until now, Rebecca’s navigated this interaction confidently, but in this moment she seems less assured, her hands flitting around as though she’s nervous. I can see that my question, although an obvious one, isn’t easy to answer.
“I’ll be honest,” she says. “I knew the moment I met you I’d have a hard time choosing between you and my top prospect to date.”
Oh. Bummer. There’s someone else—presumably, an equally impressive and highly qualified someone else—who’s already a standout in her eyes. Well, I guess I’ll just need to work doubly hard to prove I’m the better candidate.
“So this is where my marketing folks factor into the equation,” Rebecca says. She glances at her wristwatch and stands. “Let’s move to one of our conference rooms. We can talk more there.”
I jump up from my seat, a bundle of energy waiting to be unleashed, then force myself to simmer down. “Sure. After you.”
Rebecca strides down the hall, her upper body twisted around so she can face me. “It just so happens that my talented marketing people are visiting today. I figure we can all get together in the conference room, and I can further explain my proposition and get them up to speed in one meeting. They’d be heavily involved in helping you present your ideas, and I think you’ll get along with them splendidly. Sound okay to you?”
“Sounds great.”
Rebecca leads me into a meeting room and motions to a seat at the head of a glass conference table. “Make yourself comfortable. Do you need anything before we begin? Coffee? Water?”
If there’s one thing I do well, it’s going an entire day without drinking a single ounce of fluid. Dehydration is a real possibility at any given moment. And when I’m nervous—as I am now—thoughts of spilling liquids on myself, or worse, thoughts of spilling them on someone else, only add to my agita. So no, I don’t want anything to drink. Pasting on a measured smile in the hopes of projecting confidence, I settle into the chair and smooth my hands over the front of my pencil skirt. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Rebecca, who’s been leaning against the threshold, straightens. “Great. I’ll grab the guys so we can get started. Back in a sec.”
Now that I’m alone, I take in my surroundings, scanning the space for a focal point to latch on to during the meeting, should I need to calm my nerves. It’s a trick I’ve used since college, when I realized that my mother’s old advice about picturing everyone in their underwear wouldn’t work for me. Back then, I’d get caught up in guessing which brands my classmates and professors were using, which styles they’d favor, and so on. There’s nothing worse than imagining your econ professor in a plaid tie and leopard-print thong. Nothing.