Page 1 of The Cowboy and the Bombshell
CHAPTER ONE
Penelope
This was it. This was the day I had been working towards for the last seven years. Everything I had done, everything I had sacrificed, had been for this.
Everything I ever wanted was hanging in the balance of this one meeting. Nothing could go wrong today.
Nothing.
I studied myself in the polished steel doors of the elevator, checking again to make sure my outfit was perfect.
Pencil skirt just the right length to entice but not distract? Check.
Silk blouse in a beautiful royal blue to perfectly accentuate my eyes and just enough cleavage to hint at what remains hidden? Check.
Sky-high stilettos that were tall enough to ensure I would be crippled by the time I’m fifty? Double check.
And last but not least, my blonde hair is pulled into a neat bun at the back of my neck, looking tidy but not matronly. I smiled at my reflection and applied one last coat of shimmery rose-colored lip gloss. Today was my day. I could hardly contain my heart as it beat excitedly in my chest.
Watching the numbers on the digital display climb higher and higher, I thought back on everything I went through, every obstacle I faced to get here.
I started college straight after high school, jumping right in for the summer semester so I didn’t waste any time. After struggling my way through the four years it normally takes to earn a Bachelors of Marketing at NYU and completing it all in only three, I immediately started my internship here at Pennington Hotels. Even though the one year internship was unpaid, it was worth it to be able to secure a spot on the marketing team when my term was up.
For as long as I could remember, my one goal in life had been to work at a Pennington hotel. As a little girl, my parents both worked regular blue-collar jobs. My mother was a nurse and my father had been a dedicated member of the New York City Police Department. Growing up in Queens, it was easy to see the difference between the haves and the have-nots; all I had to do was look across the East River at the shining towers of Manhattan to see that, while I didn’t want for much in my life, there were definitely people who wanted for absolutely nothing.
I didn’t resent them; far from it. I simply noted the differences between us. While some people rode around in a shiny black town car driven by a man in a neatly pressed suit, my family didn’t own a car at all, relying on New York transit to get wherever we needed to go. Some kids went shopping on Fifth Avenue for back to school clothes and left with more than they could ever wear, while my mother taught me how to bargain hunt at thrift shops and update and alter the clothes to make them cool again. Well, cooler anyway.
And while some families traveled to distant beaches or exotic cities for their vacations, my parents saved up every year so they could take me across the Queensboro Bridge on my birthday, where we would stay in a beautiful room at the Pennington Hotel.
It always felt magical, walking into that incredible lobby, with its high ceilings, gleaming marble floors, and gigantic chandeliers dripping with crystals. Like I was finally the princess I always dreamed I would be when I binge-watched Disney movies and drove my parents nuts by singing along at the top of my lungs. My parents would splurge on a park view room, allowing me to see all the way across Fifth Avenue, watching the sun glinting off the waters of The Lake. I would beg every year to go the Central Park Zoo where my parents would follow along patiently as I raced from exhibit to exhibit, loving the different animals that were housed there, always feeling like we were in the center of an enchanted forest. Then we would wander the park, eating from food trucks and taking in the street performers and families out enjoying the last few days of their summer vacation. In the evening, we would go out to dinner, wearing the nicest dresses my mother and I could find and alter, eating at the best restaurant we could afford. We tried a different place every year, but always got our dessert from a little shop that we swore only we knew about (ridiculous, I know, because there was no way our three slices of cheesecake a year were enough to support a business, but we liked to think we were special, if only for a day).
At night, I would stay up as late as I could, wrapped in a blanket and sitting at the window to watch as the late August sun would dip below the horizon across the park, painting the tree tops in liquid gold, the sky on fire with reds and yellows.
Needless to say, some of my best memories involve the Pennington Hotel.
I frowned slightly, remembering how long it had been since I had a birthday in Central Park. My heart clenched painfully as I thought of the reason those special trips had stopped.
I shook off the memories, both good and bad, as the elevator pinged my arrival at the penthouse level of the hotel, the very same hotel I spent all those birthdays in. The owner of the company, Mr. Harold Pennington himself, lived here permanently. After his divorce ten years ago, he had renovated the entire top floor, tucked away behind the copper topped towers that ringed the roof of the hotel, turning half into a private residence, the other half into the corporate headquarters. In my time at Pennington Hotels, I had never been called to this floor, but I had never been up for promotion to Vice President of Marketing before either.
Stepping off the elevator, my heels clicking on the imported tiles, I walked into the foyer, noticing a small reception desk in the middle with two closed doors behind it, one on each side. Seeing the woman sitting at the desk cast a bored glance my way, I headed in her direction.
“Penelope Lund here to meet with Mr. Pennington,” I said politely.
The woman arched a single well plucked eyebrow as she ran her gaze over my outfit. I could sense her silent disgust as she pursed her lips. The clothing I was so proud of just moments ago now felt like dirty rags under her scrutiny.
Looking down again, I noticed things I hadn’t before. The buttons I’d sewn on multiple times because the blouse was too expensive to just replace. The skirt which I had hemmed by hand last night after finding it in the clearance section at the Bloomingdale’s outlet; it had been marked way, way down, because it was two seasons old. And while my shoeswereKate Spade, upon closer inspection I could see the scuff marks I had tried to cover with felt marker when I picked them up at a charity shop in Brooklyn.
Not wanting to let her know that her judgment stung, I brightened my smile and dared her to actually say something.
She didn’t.
She did, however, tilt her head ever so slightly, indicating a row of uncomfortable looking chairs. I assumed she wanted me to sit there, so I did, crossing my legs and bouncing the top one rapidly, as I tended to do when I was nervous. My confidence was a bit shook, thanks to the silent fashionista over there, but I took a few centering breaths, remembering all the reasons why I was the best choice for VP.
My grades at NYU were impeccable, the reference letters from my professors glowing. My time at Pennington Hotels had been well spent, quickly rising from a junior consultant, to project leader, to department head. My specialties were social media and digital marketing, as well as brand expansion. I was a key player last year when Pennington Hotels added a line of boutique rental cottages along the Jersey Shore.
There was no way they could turn me down. I had this position in the freaking bag!
At least I thought I did. That was until the door to the private residence across the foyer opened and out walked a man and a women I knew all too well.
