Out of Order. Barbara Dunlop
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“I can get you a job.”
Shelby shook her head. “You will not. You’ve done enough already.”
Shelby was determined to take control of her own life. And, she still had her pride. Of course, that was only because they hadn’t strip searched her yesterday.
Allison didn’t give up. “But, it’s a great—”
“No,” said Shelby with another firm shake of her head. “Whatever I do, whatever I decide, it’s going to be me this time, just me.”
Allison stood up and went for the phone. “Let me give Greg a quick call.”
Shelby jumped up from her chair. She scooted across the room and scooped the phone from Allison’s hand. “You’re not baby-sitting me anymore. Bad enough that you’re giving me a roof over my head.”
Allison grinned and cocked her head to one side. “Thought you said you were kicking in for rent.”
Shelby backed away, clutching the phone to her chest. “Of course I am.” She glanced down at the newspaper. “Just as soon as I get the balloon delivery job.”
Allison took a few steps forward. “That’ll be nothing but slimy men ogling your legs and pulling you into their laps. How’re you going to meet anybody decent?”
Shelby gave a little shudder. She’d fended off plenty of hands in her cocktail waitress job. She didn’t particularly look forward to it again. “Okay, I’ll take the job at the diner.”
Allison turned the paper so it was facing her and read the circled ads. Then she looked back up at Shelby, raising her eyebrows. “You? Get up at 5:00 a.m.? I don’t think so,” she scoffed.
“Then I’ll be a custodian. They work nights.”
Allison made a face. “Scrubbing urinals?”
Shelby felt her own expression crumple into one of distaste.
“After last night,” said Allison. “Greg owes me big time.”
“He owes you, not me.”
“Yeah, but he’s got nothing I want for me.” She paused. “Well, except for the obvious.”
Shelby smiled. “His heart. His soul. And everything he owns or ever will own?”
“Exactly. But those came with the ring. I need something more before I’m ready to forgive him. And I happen to know that they need a new receptionist at Turnball, Williams and Smith.”
Shelby shrank back and shook her head. “Uh-uh.” She was not about to let Allison exploit her fiancé to get her a job.
“Day shift,” said Alison. “Office opens at eight-thirty.”
Shelby steeled herself against the temptation. She was making it on her own. If nothing else, for the sake of her ego. She was twenty-five years old, and her life was bordering on pathetic.
“Air-conditioned in the summer, heated in the winter,” sang Allison.
“I’m doing this myself.”
“Classy clients. Rich, classy clients.”
“I have my pride.”
“Regular breaks, medical benefits and a pension plan.”
Shelby gritted her teeth. This was cruel and unusual temptation. With a job like that, she wouldn’t be pathetic. She might even be successful.
“Coffee bar on the main floor,” said Allison.
Shelby felt herself weaken.
Obviously sensing victory, Allison held out her hand for the phone, wiggling her fingers. “Frappino’s. Mochaccinos every day of the week.”
That did it. Shelby groaned and handed over the phone. “Fine. Exploit away.”
Not that she expected Greg to say yes. He’d be crazy to hire her. She didn’t know the first thing about being a classy receptionist. But she’d sleep better at night if he turned her down, instead of her thumbing her nose at the job of a lifetime and then wondering forever what might have been.
Allison took the phone, waving it around for emphasis. “It’s not exploitation. It’s not even nepotism. Any job placement agency will tell you to use your contacts. And I’m your contact in Chicago. Use me.”
“Make sure you tell him I don’t know the first thing about being a receptionist.”
Allison grinned as she punched in a number and lifted the phone to her ear. “I won’t lie. Greg Smith, please.”
Shelby’s stomach tightened into a knot.
“Hey, how hard can it be?” asked Allison. “You answer a few phone calls, greet a few clients, file a few folders. You do know the alphabet, right?”
“I still sing it inside my head.”
Allison grinned, raking her messy dark hair across her scalp and shaking her head. “Greg?” she said into the phone.
“What?” she asked almost immediately.
She paused. “Because Shelby woke me up.”
Allison winked at Shelby. “Yes, she is very punctual.”
Shelby’s palms turned sweaty as, despite herself, she started to hope. A cushy job in a law office sounded so much better than delivering balloons in a French maid’s outfit or slinging hash at 5:00 a.m.
Some women just weren’t cut out for 5:00 a.m. Unless, of course, it had been a really great party.
“Of course I’m not mad,” Allison said into the phone. “Shelby did a fantastic job of entertaining me last night.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “Otherwise I would have been so lonely in the club all by myself.”
Shelby rolled her eyes.
Allison grinned unrepentantly as she listened to Greg’s response. “As a matter of fact, there is a way to thank her. She’s looking for a job as a receptionist.”
Now that was a stretch. Shelby was looking for a job requiring a warm body.
“Experience?” asked Allison. “Absolutely.”
Shelby’s eyes widened and she shook her head, making a slashing motion across her throat. Allison had promised not to lie.
“She’s worked with the public for years,” said Allison. “She’s greeted customers, handled cash, balanced expenses. She’s good with details, extremely organized and very personable.”
Shelby had to admit, it was all basically true. If keeping twelve drink orders straight counted as being organized.
“Debbie’s old job? Now why didn’t I think of that?”
Shelby bit down on her bottom lip, afraid to let herself hope.
“She can start on Monday…Of course…Bye, sweetheart.”
Allison hung up the phone and Shelby let out a sharp gasp, trying not to let terror overwhelm her excitement. She had a job. A real job.
“You’re in,” said Allison with a wide smile.
“I can’t believe you pulled that off.”
“Believe it.”
“You’re incredible.”
“And you’re going to be great. You’ve already met Dallas and Greg. And Allan, the other partner, is a pussycat.”
3
DALLAS NODDED to his partner, Allan Turnball, as he strode across the newly decorated reception area of Turnball, Williams