of the skirt. It must have been a trick of the light, but the lustrous black material seemed to take on an ashy hue. It hung limply from Sam’s hand.
“Then she’ll know he’s the one.” Gwen gave one of the gooey smiles so prevalent today as a well-built man ambled over and tucked his arm around her waist. “After all, I already knew Alec, here, but it wasn’t until I put on the skirt that I knew he was the one for me.”
“If I recall, there was a certain red sweater you wore with it.” Alec grinned. “I liked that sweater.”
Gwen batted at his arm. “Anyway, when you find him, you’ll know. And then you toss it at your wedding to some extremely lucky woman.” After exchanging goo-goo eyes with her husband, Gwen went off with Alec.
Sam stared at the skirt and then at Kevin. He stared back. She knew all right, and she didn’t need the skirt to tell her.
1
SUMMER IN NEW YORK CITY. It was…great. Really great to be here, Sam reminded herself. Just great. It would be greater if she could find an apartment, though. And she’d thought San Francisco rental prices were high.
But today, she was committed to making something happen. Nothing and nobody was getting to her today.
Dropping off a report with the receptionist, Sam headed for the banks of elevators that would take her from the executive offices to the fabulous lobby of Carrington’s flagship hotel in Manhattan.
She rounded the corner in time to see an elevator close behind a tall man—being tall herself, Sam always noticed tall men. He was walking away from her with a confident loose-limbed stride that seemed vaguely familiar. He wore a sports coat that she could see was well-cut, though the plaid was too loud for her taste, just like the jackets Josh—
She froze, staring at the back of the man’s head. No. This man didn’t remind her of anyone, certainly not anyone who might jinx the day for her.
Certainly not Josh Crandall, scourge of the convention sales circuit and Sam’s own personal nemesis.
An involuntary shudder rippled through her. Nope. Not Josh Crandall. Couldn’t be. Sam got into the express elevator and rode it all the way to the lobby. She had left Josh Crandall far, far behind. He was still scrambling—in his usual underhanded, sneaky way—to book conventions for Meckler Hotels, while she, who prided herself on honesty and fair dealings, was about to become Carrington’s east coast sales manager.
Sam exited the hotel and crossed Forty-second Street on her way to the post office. She was currently staying in a substandard room at the Manhattan Carrington. Once maintenance repaired the problem—the air-conditioning wasn’t as enthusiastic as it needed to be—then she would move to another unrentable room. She’d been living like this for two weeks now and this weekend, her housing vouchers, such as they were, ran out. Sure, she could have an employee discount, but even with that, the hotel was too pricey to stay in the whole summer.
Today, Sam had been at her desk two hours early and was taking a long lunch, determined to find some place to live, or at least a cheaper hotel.
She pushed open the door to the post office, thankful for the air-conditioning. She did miss San Francisco’s temperate weather.
Because it was noontime, there was a line at the post office, but Sam figured there was always going to be a line in New York and she might as well get used to it. Sam got at the end of the line, which looped back on itself three times like an amusement park ride. Since all the clerk windows were open, the wait shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes or so. And if it was longer, well, what could she do about it?
She fanned herself with her soft bulky package. In it was the skirt. She’d never had so much attention as she’d had since catching the thing at Kate’s wedding. School friends she hadn’t heard from in years had contacted her for progress reports. And magazines, too, for pity’s sake! There had been articles about the thing. And not one, but two reporters had tracked her down here in New York.
And then there were all the women who’d e-mailed her to check on her progress. Good grief. She hadn’t even worn the thing, not counting that hideous evening right after she’d caught it when Kevin had insisted that she try it on and she’d hoped it wouldn’t fit.
It had. It had fit as though it had been made for her. Sam was a tall woman—five-ten in flats which she wore because she felt like it and not to de-emphasize her height—and the skirt flirted with the top of her knees.
Kevin had wanted to flirt with the top of her knees, too, and insisted she wear the new addition to her wardrobe to dinner. He loved the skirt. Sam couldn’t see why. It was black and maybe shorter than she generally wore, but not outrageously so. Nothing special. The material that had seemed so rich and warmly luxurious earlier was now sleazy and limp. It wasn’t doing anything for her. Unfortunately, neither was Kevin. She didn’t want to wear it to dinner, which Kevin had taken as an invitation to skip dinner for other pursuits when that hadn’t been Sam’s intention at all.
Kevin had become obnoxious and Kevin was never obnoxious. He’d made a cryptic remark about willing to buy the whole cow instead of settling for milk—another animal metaphor—and that she should appreciate it. She didn’t. They’d argued and Sam had been forced to tell him right then that she’d decided to come to New York after all.
He’d blamed the skirt, which was so incredibly stupid she couldn’t believe it, but, understanding that his pride had been hurt, Sam had allowed it.
She never intended to wear the skirt again, let alone throw it at her nonexistent wedding. Why would she want to mess up her life just when it was getting interesting? And the thing that really chapped her was that Kevin had just assumed that Sam would give up her chance at a promotion to stay in San Francisco with him. It never occurred to him to move to New York with her, not that she wanted him to, but still. He never got it; he never understood that he expected her to make the big sacrifice without considering making one of his own.
The sound of crumpling paper as she squeezed the package brought Sam back to the present.
Inhaling, she cleared her mind of all things Kevin. New York air could do that to a person. In spite of her mother’s tempting suggestion that she do all womankind a favor and burn it, Sam intended to mail the skirt back to Kate. That’s all there was to it.
She smoothed out the label. Let Kate invite some desperately single candidates to an elegant little luncheon where she could use all her bridal china and throw the thing at them.
Exhaling, Sam massaged the muscles in her neck, relaxing because for once, no one she knew was watching her or comparing her to the other job candidates.
Yes, competing for a position was a particularly effective form of torture in hotel management circles, no doubt thought of by a high-paid consultant who’d never actually experienced the unrelenting pressure of being scrutinized for days on end. Carrington’s executive board was always hiring consultants. If she got the job—and maybe if she didn’t—she was going to tell them what they could do with their consultants. Diplomatically, of course, because even though somebody was going to crack soon, it wasn’t going to be Sam.
There were to have been four candidates for the position of east coast convention sales manager, but one had declined, citing a reluctance to relocate to New York City—the wimp—so it was now Sam and two men. Her mother had been calling for nightly updates and to give Sam feminist
