Page 2 of Plunge

CHAPTER TWO

Thistle

FIVE WEEKS EARLIER

The traffic from JFK to lower Manhattan is horrific. I lean my head on the window of the town car and roll my eyes. I could have gotten there faster if I’d taken the subway. But Thistle McMurray doesn’t take the subway anymore, I remind myself.

Looking down at my beautiful manicure and my comfortable-yet-professional travel suit, I remember that I’ve just come from three days in Paris. In between long sessions coaching our CEO through the tax liability of an international merger, I spent evenings wandering around the banks of the Seine, drinking wine at darling cafes along cobblestone streets.

Nobody really dreams of being an accountant, I don’t think. But I sure as hell knew I was getting out of my small hometown, and I knew a career in business was a surefire way to put me in first class on flights to the parts of the world I only ever saw in photographs.

I lean back against the rich leather seats, knowing I should turn on my cell and face the onslaught of calls from my team, but wanting a few more minutes alone with my thoughts. I secretly hate that I can access wifi from the plane now. I used to cherish those hours where I was utterly unreachable. Now, my phone alerts are only silent during takeoff and landing.

And when I’m taking a break in the back of the company car on the never-ending journey back to my corner office.

My knee starts tapping, a habit I’ve developed recently that reminds me of my ex. I find it infuriating that I can’t seem to shake the shaking knee, even with adequate sleep and cutting back on caffeine.

Not that I’ve had lots of sleep this month. Three different international trips to different continents. I’m almost to the point where I need a second passport. Sometimes I need it before it gets back from wherever it goes for the proper visas for travel with Smith Townson.

The praise from my boss still rings warm in my chest after this latest merger. I smile, satisfied with the knowledge I’ve helped round out our portfolio by landing the small Parisian chocolatier. My knee keeps shaking and the longer the car sits, waiting to enter the tunnel, the worse it gets. My mind snaps to a distant memory, of me sitting in those awful plastic desks in high school and reaching my hand across the aisle to place it on the never-stopping knee of my then-crush.

“You’re shaking the whole damn room, Fletcher Crawford.”He scowled at me and I blushed deeply, looking around as my classmates pretended not to notice.

He raised an eyebrow at me and grinned, the first of many times I saw the sly spark of trouble glint in his eye.

I sigh and roll my shoulders, chasing away the memory of a relationship and a town I left behind. As soon as we exit the tunnel, I clear my throat and ask the driver to let me out. I’m certain I can walk to the office faster than this, even with a suitcase and jet lag.

As I roll my bag toward Grand Central Terminal, I pause, remembering my first trip to the city. Fletcher and I played hooky and took the train. For my birthday, he promised to show me the top of the world. We had just enough time that day to ride to the top of the Empire State Building and back down to catch the last train back to Oak Creek before our parents caught on.

I try not to think about Fletcher Crawford. It’s been ten years. Mature, professional adults don’t let their thoughts linger on their high school relationships. We broke up, he moved away, and I raced up the career ladder just like I always planned.

I’m probably feeling sentimental about Fletcher because I’m in between relationships. What’s it been? Six months since I was seeing someone? Eight months?

I sigh again and load the wrinkled Metro card buried deep in my wallet. I hear a 4 train approaching and hurry along with the other New Yorkers, feeling a rush of exhilaration as I race to catch the downtown subway before it departs.

A half hour later, I’m rolling my bag through the lobby and waiting impatiently for my assistant to come take it from me. He’s supposed to meet me down here with a briefing on this afternoon’s top priorities. I finally turned my phone on to see if I got service underground. His was the only text I bothered returning with the spotty reception.

I spy Larry over by the bank of elevators, his brow furrowed, talking rapidly into his headset. This gives me pause. Larry never gets frazzled. It’s one of his most endearing and infuriating characteristics, and the reason I know he’ll go far in this industry.

He sees me and hurries over, hanging up with whoever was on the phone. “Thistle, thank GOD,” he shouts, taking my bag in one hand and pulling me in for a hug with the other. “First of all, congrats, lady. Kick ass work getting kudos from Walter!” I smile as he continues. “Second of all, I just got off the phone with your brother.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m sure he was calling to see if he could get away with not coming home for Thanksgiving. The answer, as always, is that if I have to go, then he has to show—“

“No, Thistle. Not this time.” Larry’s voice has an edge of concern. I stiffen and meet his eye.

“Well don’t keep me hanging here, Larry.” My skin feels like it has ants crawling inside. There’s something about his tone.

He squeezes my arm and says, “Your mama had a stroke.”

---