Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
It helps that I’m learning what my parents have been endeavoring to teach me since the day I was born.
Sentimental value far exceeds dollar value.
Only last week, my apartment was filled with designer furniture and pricy antiques, but I wasn’t game to sit on a single armchair while wearing a skirt with a zipper in the back because I was afraid of the damage it could cause.
This morning, I stomped across the floorboards with no concern that trinkets on the shelves could topple over.
Zane was down to a final tablespoon of crushed candy canes, and I was determined to sample it off his body as he had mine.
I won the battle. I can’t say the same for the vase I picked up at a thrift shop years ago. It wobbled to the ground when Zane’s hand shot out to secure a hold of anything he could when I took him to the very back of my throat.
Its cracks are blatantly obvious. I will never accept Zane’s offer to replace it, however.
It’s perfect the way it is.
Damaged but more beautiful than ever since it survived the trauma.
As my eyes shift from the vase Zane glued together at six in the morning to the ring I once thought was priceless, I realize it doesn’t add an ounce of value to my life—neither sentimental nor monetary.
It is as worthless as the man who once made me believe I wasn’t enough.
The heaviness on my shoulders clears when I remove Peter’s number from my block list before sending him a quick message.
Me:
You have until midday tomorrow to pick up the ring. I’ll be busy until Christmas Eve after that.
Zane asked Emma to block out his planner indefinitely, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Some of his decision could center around wanting to spend time with his family at Christmas.
As my message is marked as read, I receive a notification. It isn’t from Peter. It is a text announcing I missed a call from a local number while searching for a Christmas present for Zane.
I flick away Peter’s reply before calling my voicemail to listen to the message.
I can barely hear the number the caller requests I call back on. My heart is thudding too fast in excitement about the first half of her message.
“Ms. Stranger, it’s Maryann from Marigold Investment Brokers. To say I was pleased to hear about your recent dismissal from Black Industries is an understatement. We’ve been trying to poach you for our firm for years…”
“Seattle? You want to offer me a partnership at your Seattle firm?”
“Yes,” Maryann replies, her tone not as low as mine, her personality still chipper. “Is that a concern?”
“No. Ah…” I run my sweaty palm down the skirt I put on to represent the take-no-shit-from-anyone businesswoman I portrayed while pretending I wasn’t engaged to my boss.
My ruse is as faultless now as it was when I accepted Peter’s marriage proposal, but I feel faker than the thistle-free tree in the corner of Maryann’s office.
This isn’t me.
The woman sitting across from Maryann is a shell of the woman I am meant to be.
So, as much as I am grateful for the opportunity being bestowed upon me, I can’t accept it.
Magic won’t occur if I don’t strive to unearth it.
“I appreciate you bringing me in so close to Christmas, and I am incredibly grateful that you believe in me, but Ravenshoe is my home, so I am only seeking a position that will keep me here and working toward my goal of establishing my own investment company.”
Maryann is shocked by my denial but hides it with a smile. Her surprise is understandable. The salary on offer is staggering. I’ve never seen so many zeros, but my parents gave up far more than financial security for love, and it worked out perfectly for them, so I’m willing to risk the same.
“Then I guess that concludes our interview.”
I nod, agreeing with Maryann. “I guess it does.”
I shake her hand before twisting to face the man watching our exchange from the corner of the room. After farewelling him with a chin dip, I exit an office double the size of any one Peter will ever have with my head held high.
The interview didn’t go as planned, but it proves what I’ve always known. I’m a damn good analyst and, when given the chance, will be an even better stockbroker.
As I exit Marigold’s head office, a familiar jingle makes me smile. “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas.”
While approaching the Santa seeking donations for a local children’s homeless shelter, I pull a few notes out of a recently acquired purse.
He accepts my contribution with a grateful head bob before complimenting my outfit.
“This is my business attire. It isn’t as comfortable as yours, but beggars can’t be choosers.” When his rosy cheeks assure me that he is sweltering under layers of velvet, I say, “I saw a handful of alternative suits on a website earlier today. You could probably find something a little less weighted for the warmer climates. Cotton would—”