TITLE: The Toast Bitches
GENRE: Contemporary Romance
Hana hesitated on the unnaturally clean sidewalk and glanced at the note in her hand. She looked at the street signs again to make sure she had the right address. This wasn't a newspaper office.
Ninth and West 48th. Streets with numbers, a world away from McCann and Dunkling.
She'd read about Michael Preston's swift rise through Dempster Media, and his determination to remain a bachelor as his empire grew. She didn't care about the trail of broken hearts. She had her eye on that starting salary.
She pushed her rimless glasses up her nose and studied the polished brass nameplates. She pressed the red button beside number three.
Nothing. She pressed again.
"Who is it?" His voice sounded okay, but what can you tell from a voice?
"I'm here about the job."
"Come on up. Third floor." The door clicked, and she pushed it open. The scent of lemon polish wafted through the small lobby. She struggled with the ornate elevator door, ripping off a fingernail in the process.
"S***." She sucked her finger and tried again. Finally, the lever budged and she entered the elevator.
At the top floor, the door slid open to reveal a sparely furnished loft. Late afternoon light spilled from a large multi-paned window onto a faded Oriental carpet. "Hello?"
At first, all she heard was distant birdsong from outside, but she soon detected the clatter of cutlery.
She followed the sound and found the great Mr. Preston doing the dishes.