Trust Me Read online

  Isabel Jolie

  Trust Me

  Copyright © 2020 by Isabel Jolie

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Isabel Jolie has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  Poem by Becca Lee

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-7343291-4-8

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Isabel Jolie

  And as she fell apart

  her shattered pieces began to bloom -

  blossoming until she became herself,

  exactly as she was meant to be.

  -Becca Lee

  Chapter 1

  Olivia

  New York hums with a frenetic energy. I’ve missed this city, its buoyancy and the constant whirr of life more than I ever thought possible. Others might see grit and grime, but when the sun bounces back from the skyscrapers, I see the rainbows. To me, this island belongs to dreamers.

  When I fled, I didn’t have a plan. No idea where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. I simply had to get far away from a painful reminder and public scrutiny. As a stranger in an adopted country, I had time to do some soul searching. Time to regroup. Heal. The woman stepping off the plane and into the JFK terminal returned home with focus and a plan.

  I’ve been back for two weeks. I’m following my plan. The past is behind me. That’s what they say, right? Onward bound. Game on.

  On my first day back, I was a little lost, wandering down Edgecombe Avenue. The spotted gold lettering on the window of Manhattanville Coffee caught my eye. Everything about the coffee shop called to me, the brick wall behind the bar and the thick marble slab counter as aesthetically appealing as any café in Prague. One side is a wall of windows that can open into doors in warm weather. A row of five tables for two line up alongside the windows. I’ve only been in the business school program for two weeks, but I’ve already staked a claim to the fourth table by the second window toward the front.

  Today, I’m sitting at my table, reveling in the delectable coffee aroma when I should be studying. We first-years have this crazy intensive accounting focus that kicks off the semester. As an advertising major, I passed through undergrad without ever taking an accounting course. I’d thought of it as a class for mathematically-challenged students.

  That’s so not what it is. I’m not sure what it is, but none of it makes sense to me. I should be focusing on accounting. Instead, I’m mindlessly flipping through the “40 Under 40” Fortune article. Procrastinating.

  The large wooden door opens, and a gorgeous male specimen meanders up to the marble counter. We’re talking Abercrombie model. Wavy brown hair, not so long that it falls below the ear, but long enough that you can see actual waves dusted with natural blond highlights. He’s wearing faded jeans and a dark navy sports jacket with a white pressed shirt. Something about him looks like Texas, but I can’t put my finger on what, exactly. His sunbaked skin? The cowboy boots? Maybe it’s the way he walks? Kind of like he just dismounted from a horse. Yeah, horseback riding in Manhattan. Pull it together, Olivia.

  I drag my attention away from Mr. Gorgeous, drop the magazine on the table, and pull out my accounting textbook. The giant, heavy, eight-hundred-page textbook that could double as a weight when working out.

  I’m on chapter two but should be on chapter ten. In one hour, my accounting professor’s open office hours start. My plan is to drop in and either convince him to commit to meeting with me each week or recommend a tutor.

  Paige, the blue-haired barista with hoop earrings lining her entire right ear, giggles. Her cheeks turn pink as she delivers Mr. Gorgeous his coffee. I refrain from rolling my eyes. The girl has a star tattoo on her nose. Mr. Texas doesn’t at all look like her type, but she can’t stop herself from flirting. Because, yes, he is that attractive. Women probably throw themselves at him in fits of giggles and a mindless fluttering of eyelashes all the time.

  Mr. Gorgeous settles in a leather chair one row over, directly in my line of sight. Without so much as a glance my way, he pulls out a folded Wall Street Journal from a thin, dark brown metro briefcase. Oh, my. How am I supposed to read accounting with that eye candy sitting right there? He sips his coffee, adjusts his paper, and quick as lightning, his eyes meet mine. He flips out the paper with one hand, concealing his face. The one-handed paper manipulation move. Talent. Gorgeous and talented.

  Since his paper blocks his vision, I’m free to stare. He has thick wrists, muscular forearms, and I can see what looks like a silver band bracelet. No wedding band. Intriguing. I’d guess he’s in his thirties.

  As he reads, one brown leather cowboy boot resting over a knee, he gives off a laidback vibe. The kind of guy I’d hoped to run into in Prague but never did. His persona is reminiscent of Matthew McConaughey from one of his roles as a relaxed business guy or lawyer in the south.

  Maybe it’s his Southern aura—his leisurely gait, unpolished brown leather belt, and of course, the brown leather cowboy boots. Texas would be a good bet. He might be a better fit for Delilah, my old roommate Anna’s colleague. She’s as deep south as they come and plans to return to New Orleans. You could take this guy back home to New Orleans. Delilah’s parents would take one look at those well-worn boots, slap him on the back, and drawl, “Welcome home, son.”

  Yet I saw him first. He’s my daydream. I sit back, coffee mug hovering over my lips, and let my mind roam. How would it start between us?

  He’d put his paper down and smile at me. A warm smile. He’d focus on me so I could see the color of his irises. From this distance, I can’t tell. But, no, if this were to happen, he’d look up and notice
me.

  Then he’d walk over and politely ask to sit with me after telling me his name. I’d flip my hair back off my shoulder in a seductive manner and smile with a gracious and casual air. I’d tell him I was finishing up, and I’d close this mammoth book so he’d have room to set his coffee cup on our table.

  As we talked, he’d reach out to hold my hand, and his fingers would play with mine. It would turn out that we both like business. He’s older, so he already has his M.B.A. He’d be impressed that I had this amazing job offer but decided to take a step back to pursue a graduate degree so I wouldn’t hit a ceiling in the future. He’d find my goal-oriented sensibility appealing.

  We’d talk all afternoon. Maybe eat lunch here, sharing fresh bread and cheese, and then as the sun was setting, he’d ask me if I had dinner plans. After dinner, we’d walk back to his nearby apartment, and we’d know. We would both know we had found our other half. The person who brought out our best. It would be easy. Everything would be easy between us.

  I’m so happy in my daydream, staring at his sinewy forearms, that I don’t even hear Take It Easy by The Eagles blaring. Mr. Gorgeous flicks one corner of his paper down to eyeball me about the same time I hear my ringtone. My coffee splatters onto my black slacks as I startle from my comatose state. The loud ringtone blasts through the low hum of coffee shop noise.

  The contents of my backpack pour out onto the wooden floor and into the aisle as I search for my cell. Heat radiates off my face. Not one to sit and chat on the phone in a coffee shop, I snatch my phone up and press decline.

  Mr. Gorgeous flicks his paper and shifts it to remove me and my offensive song from his view. The snap of his paper hits my ears like a scolding. I reload my backpack, throwing the pens, lip gloss, random coins, and Post-it Notes back in with more than a little annoyance. This isn’t a library. A ringtone isn’t a personal affront. Noise is all around.

  I pick up my phone from the table to text Delilah back. Glancing up as I type, I catch the backside of Mr. Coffee Shop Beautiful rambling out the door.

  Bye-bye, Mr. Coffee Shop Love. C’est la vie.

  These are my years to get a degree, redirect my career, and find my success. And tempting as daydreaming is, I need to focus on the most boring subject I’ve ever encountered, accounting. This might be an island of dreamers, but it’s also an island of doers. We achieve our dreams by working toward them every single day.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, I wander down the long hallway of offices searching for the number I scribbled on my Post-it Note. I pause after locating office number 222. The door stands slightly ajar, and I peer through the opening onto a nondescript wall, high ceilings, and dated fluorescent lighting. I push it wide open without knocking, expecting a hallway to other offices. Professor Longevite’s head lifts, and he peers at me over his laptop. His shoulders slump, his skin is pale, and dark circles are visible beneath his eyes. He looks as happy as I feel when I read accounting.

  “Hi. Um, I’m sorry. Is it your open office hours? I’m in your accounting class.”

  He stares at me. A moment passes, and I wonder if he heard me. I open my mouth to repeat my question when he deadpans, “Office hours start next week. You can close the door on your way out.”

  “But the first-year accounting exam is next Friday. I need help. Next Friday will be too late. Could you recommend a tutor?” I’ve made many attempts over many days trying to read my accounting textbook like a book, and it doesn’t jive.

  He shifts the spectacles from his nose to his forehead then points to the chair across from the desk. “Sit.”

  He scratches along the side of his floppy, lopsided mop of reddish hair, and when he pulls his hand back, it looks like a few pieces of hair remain on his palm. He stares at it for a brief moment. “Actually, here, pull your chair by mine. I’ll give you a quick overview.”

  “Thank you so much. I didn’t take accounting in undergrad, and I’m a little lost.”

  He nods like this does not surprise him. “What chapter are you on?”

  “Two,” I say, a little ashamed.

  He tilts his head to the side and leans back in his chair. “Here’s the deal. For next week, you need to be thinking of it as learning to analyze how a business is doing. Income statement, balance sheet, statement of cashflow. You need to make sure you know how those work.”

  I pull out my pen to take notes. A shadow crosses his office doorway, and I glance up. For a minute, I think I see Mr. Coffee Shop’s back walking away, but I shake my head. No way. Accounting. Focus.

  Professor Longevite stops speaking and looks to the door as if he’s expecting someone to walk through it.

  I follow his gaze out into the empty hallway. “I know you weren’t expecting to have office hours right now. If you need for me to come back at a different time, I can do that.”

  His attention returns to me. “A friend was supposed to meet me here, but he probably got caught up with work. If he shows, we can schedule a time. For now, let’s get through this.”

  He opens the accounting textbook that had been lying on his desk and pushes it to me. “Don’t try to read the textbook like a book. It’s a reference book, explaining to you how to get answers. Let’s start with understanding debits and credits.”

  I sit there for the next hour taking notes, absorbing his monotone voice. More than once, I squelch the desire to ask him if everything is okay.

  I leave his office a much calmer person. I’m getting it. More than that, he helped this strange view of math make sense. He might be the most boring professor I have ever encountered, and he might also need antidepressants, but Professor Longevite knows how to explain the material. I make a mental note to make cookies and bring them for him next week as I head out the door.

  My internship this semester is at Esprit Transactions. The founders started it as a way to make it easier for businesses to accept credit card transactions. Esprit revolutionized online payments when they made open source code available to developers, and they’re now the number one backend source for commerce websites in the world.

  I hop into a cab so I won’t be late to the first orientation meeting. As the cab bounces along the avenue, I pull up my favorites list. Ten minutes to kill.

  I tap Anna’s name. Voicemail.

  I tap Delilah’s name. On the second ring, she answers.

  “Hey, there!” her cheery voice sounds through the line.

  “Hi. Guess what? I saw a Matthew McConaughey lookalike.”

  “Maybe it was him. Maybe he’s filming around here. You never know.” She’s such an optimist.

  “While that would be lovely, it wasn’t him.”

  “No, you never know,” she insists. “It could be. Celebrities can be hard to spot.”

  “I know. But it wasn’t him.”

  “No, you never—”

  “Stop it. Are we meeting up tonight?” I love Delilah, but the girl would have continued that circular conversation for at least five more minutes if I didn’t nip it.

  I barely knew Delilah before I moved away, but I’ve seen her more than anyone since I returned two weeks ago. Anna, my best friend and college roommate, found the love of her life while I was in Prague. She still makes time for me, but Anna’s a bit of a workaholic, and between Jackson and the office, she’s pretty scheduled.

  Delilah, a New Orleans blondie, seems to always be available. She’s a creative director with Anna at the Evolve ad agency. It feels a bit like Anna set us up knowing she wouldn’t have adequate time for the two of us now that she’s in the throes of romantic bliss.

  I exit the cab and head into the tall glass building with the green Esprit Transactions logo at the top. I check my watch. Fifteen minutes early. Good.

  I stop in at the front desk, and they check my license before letting me pass to the elevator bank. As the elevator starts to close, a suited arm catches the door. The dark suit nods at me as he walks in and puts an arm out to hold the door for another man. My m
outh opens into an “oh.”

  Mr. Coffee Shop steps in the elevator.

  Mr. Suit asks me what floor, and, speechless, I point at the panel to show I’ve already pushed my button.

  Mr. Coffee Shop frowns and stares at me. He steps to the far side of the elevator and doesn’t stop watching me.

  I nod acknowledgement, because he’s not going crazy, he has seen me before, and I offer a soft, polite smile. Mr. Suit pushed the twenty-eighth floor, so they must be together.

  I keep looking at Mr. Coffee Shop, then away from him. Every time I glance his way, he’s blatantly staring at me. I rub my tongue across my teeth as a quick check for lingering food particles, then swipe through my hair to check that it’s vertical. He never looks away.

  I want to say something like, “Were you at Manhattanville Coffee earlier today?” but every time I go to open my mouth, something stops me. He’s not saying anything. I shift my feet, an uncomfortable sensation rising underneath his blatant stare. He must know he’s seen me but can’t place me. I tend to stare at people when I’m in that situation, trying to figure out how I know them. I swallow, and the noise is too loud. My toe taps as discomfort threatens to engulf me.

  The doors open onto the eighteenth floor, and I rush out, glancing back at Mr. Coffee Shop Man. He stares without apology. I offer one more timid smile to him before the elevator door closes. Does he work here? What are the chances of seeing him twice in one day?

  I breathe to get my bearings. I see a restroom at the end of the hall and enter. I run a brush through the long, wavy mass on my head and rinse with mouthwash. I’m dressed professionally in black heels, black slacks and a white wraparound blouse. I dressed today aiming to bridge the gap between a college campus and corporate America. I apply lip gloss, decide I don’t need any blush after my run-in with Mr. Coffee Shop, and zip up my little make-up bag. One last check in the mirror, and I head out.

  A receptionist with her dark hair pulled back into a low bun smiles at me, offers me a clipboard, and directs me to the conference room. She explains this afternoon’s session will be with HR. We’ll complete the required paperwork and have a brief orientation. On Monday, we will be assigned to our departments.