Read Online Heiress for Hire by Erin McCarthy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Erin McCarthy
Ads: Link
ceilings were only seven feet high.
Clearly in the nineteenth century, women weren't six feet tall in stilettos.
The entire house seemed to have been built on a miniature scale. Rooms were tight, hallways narrow, the tub wedged under a gable so that the one time she'd tried to use it she'd had to limbo to climb in. Then when she'd settled in the water, her knees had scraped the ceiling.
She'd stuck to showers since then.
"What am I doing here, Baby?" she asked, turning on the lamp in the parlor. She had come to Cuttersville on a lark, bored out of her mind in Chicago. The usual parties and clubs had only emphasized to her how sterile and artificial her life was, how she had many acquaintances and party pals, but very few real friends.
Seeing her ex-boyfriend Logan one night, a barely legal skinny blonde on his lap, sucking back mojitos, had done her in. He was an ugly, painful reminder that she was needy, that she craved love and affection just like a dog did. That no matter how much she said it didn't matter, she still wanted her father's approval. She still wanted him to admit, just once, that he was pleased to have her as a daughter, even though she hadn't been born with a penis.
Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, she had worked that club, letting Logan know she didn't care, it didn't matter, she was Amanda Margaret Delmar, heir to the Samson Plastics conglomerate and she was untouchable. As cool as the diamonds in her earlobes.
And the next morning, she had packed six suitcases, hopped a plane to the middle of fucking nowhere, and had rented herself this little gray house. Boston had told her the landlady had fleeced her on the rent, but she hadn't cared. What did it matter when the money was never-ending? Boston had already been dating Shelby, but just the fact that she was in Cuttersville had irritated her father and left him pondering her next move. He seemed to think she was Napoleon in heels, planning her next capture of an unsuspecting, underarmed, rich man.
So here she was, with a dog and low ceilings.
"Let's see what we have in the kitchen, Baby." She had gone to the grocery store when she had first moved in and bought several boxes of cereal, margarita mix, and tuna packets. Maybe inspiration would hit while she was nibbling Shredded Wheat.
It didn't. And the cereal was stale.
Picking shreds back off her tongue, she got a glass out of the cabinet and turned the tap to cold. She hoped she could drink the water here straight out of the tap, because she didn't have a whole lot of options. San Pellegrino wasn't going to magically appear in her fridge.
First on the agenda was going back to the store and buying food to tide her over. Easy enough. She could grocery shop, had done it before. You just picked things out, put them in the cart, tossed them on the belt, and paid. No problem. She was so damn self-sufficient.
Then she had to find a job.
That one was a little trickier. Because she had no clue how to find a job.
People applied for jobs. They sent out resumes. They surfed job boards for positions. She knew all that. But how they applied, where they got resumes, what jobs they were qualified for—she had no clue. Her father had always smoothed the way for her with everything.
"Baby, this is damn depressing." She sipped her water, picked at her cereal straight out of the box, and looked down at her dog. "Maybe we should go home."
If she called a friend, she could bum the money. It wasn't something she would be proud of, but it seemed like the smartest course of action available to her at the moment. Maybe with some begging she could ask her landlady, Mrs. Stritmeyer, to refund her August rent. Mrs. S was Shelby's grandmother, and Shelby had offered to help. With that thousand bucks, she could get back home and work something out.
But the problem with that was, she had no idea what she would do in Chicago either, or if her father would even
Clearly in the nineteenth century, women weren't six feet tall in stilettos.
The entire house seemed to have been built on a miniature scale. Rooms were tight, hallways narrow, the tub wedged under a gable so that the one time she'd tried to use it she'd had to limbo to climb in. Then when she'd settled in the water, her knees had scraped the ceiling.
She'd stuck to showers since then.
"What am I doing here, Baby?" she asked, turning on the lamp in the parlor. She had come to Cuttersville on a lark, bored out of her mind in Chicago. The usual parties and clubs had only emphasized to her how sterile and artificial her life was, how she had many acquaintances and party pals, but very few real friends.
Seeing her ex-boyfriend Logan one night, a barely legal skinny blonde on his lap, sucking back mojitos, had done her in. He was an ugly, painful reminder that she was needy, that she craved love and affection just like a dog did. That no matter how much she said it didn't matter, she still wanted her father's approval. She still wanted him to admit, just once, that he was pleased to have her as a daughter, even though she hadn't been born with a penis.
Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, she had worked that club, letting Logan know she didn't care, it didn't matter, she was Amanda Margaret Delmar, heir to the Samson Plastics conglomerate and she was untouchable. As cool as the diamonds in her earlobes.
And the next morning, she had packed six suitcases, hopped a plane to the middle of fucking nowhere, and had rented herself this little gray house. Boston had told her the landlady had fleeced her on the rent, but she hadn't cared. What did it matter when the money was never-ending? Boston had already been dating Shelby, but just the fact that she was in Cuttersville had irritated her father and left him pondering her next move. He seemed to think she was Napoleon in heels, planning her next capture of an unsuspecting, underarmed, rich man.
So here she was, with a dog and low ceilings.
"Let's see what we have in the kitchen, Baby." She had gone to the grocery store when she had first moved in and bought several boxes of cereal, margarita mix, and tuna packets. Maybe inspiration would hit while she was nibbling Shredded Wheat.
It didn't. And the cereal was stale.
Picking shreds back off her tongue, she got a glass out of the cabinet and turned the tap to cold. She hoped she could drink the water here straight out of the tap, because she didn't have a whole lot of options. San Pellegrino wasn't going to magically appear in her fridge.
First on the agenda was going back to the store and buying food to tide her over. Easy enough. She could grocery shop, had done it before. You just picked things out, put them in the cart, tossed them on the belt, and paid. No problem. She was so damn self-sufficient.
Then she had to find a job.
That one was a little trickier. Because she had no clue how to find a job.
People applied for jobs. They sent out resumes. They surfed job boards for positions. She knew all that. But how they applied, where they got resumes, what jobs they were qualified for—she had no clue. Her father had always smoothed the way for her with everything.
"Baby, this is damn depressing." She sipped her water, picked at her cereal straight out of the box, and looked down at her dog. "Maybe we should go home."
If she called a friend, she could bum the money. It wasn't something she would be proud of, but it seemed like the smartest course of action available to her at the moment. Maybe with some begging she could ask her landlady, Mrs. Stritmeyer, to refund her August rent. Mrs. S was Shelby's grandmother, and Shelby had offered to help. With that thousand bucks, she could get back home and work something out.
But the problem with that was, she had no idea what she would do in Chicago either, or if her father would even
Similar Books
