Becky Melby
Ember Quinn lathered her hair, savoring the scent of green tea and lemongrass filling the marble-tiled shower. As needles of hot water from three showerheads massaged her aching shoulders, she pretended she’d just come from a morning swim in the hotel’s rooftop pool.
Instead of the cramped back seat of her 2003 Camry.
After drying off and wrapping her hair in a plush towel, she stepped into her uniform and tied a white apron around her waist. She pulled the towel from her head and added it to the pile on the granite floor. Someone else’s towels.
Not just someone else. She knew who’d stayed in the penthouse last night. Colton Jent. Country. Gospel. Handsome. Single. Rich. A voice that turned her knees to jelly.
She twisted her damp hair into a high bun, then scooped up the towels and headed out into the room with an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Nashville. Staring at the sun reflected in the Cumberland River, she breathed a sigh. Another morning without getting caught.
She stripped the sheets off the king four-poster bed, then reached for a wastebasket, stopping at the sight of a silver pocket watch on the cherrywood desk. She ripped a piece of paper from the pad on the desk and wrote the date and Colton’s name, then slipped the paper into her pocket along with the watch.
The next thing to distract her was an untouched muffin sitting next to an empty coffee cup. Blueberry. Her favorite. She glanced toward the open door. Six weeks of sneaking had fine-tuned her senses. She sank her teeth into the muffin as she gazed out at the city. She chewed slowly. It might be all that kept her going today. Mouth full, she mumbled, “Thank you, Mr. Jent.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sputtering, Ember spun, covered her mouth, and dropped the muffin onto the tray all in one clumsy, awkward moment.
Colton Jent, Dove and CMA Award winner, with more platinum albums than she could count, filled the doorway. “I left my watch.” He stepped toward the desk.
Ember nodded and tried desperately to swallow. “I…have it.” She reached into her pocket and pulled it out. And then realized how it might look. “I…was going to…” What did it matter? He probably wouldn’t believe her anyway. Would he report her? Would she lose her second job in two months? Once again, for something she didn’t do?
“Ember.” His eyes narrowed as he pointed at the tag clipped to her apron. “Interesting name.”
“I had interesting parents.”
“Very pretty.” Now he was staring into her eyes. He was still talking about her name, wasn’t he? “How long have you worked here?”
“Six weeks. It’s just temporary. I’m a journalist. I have a very promising interview this afternoon.” As if the guy would care about the career aspirations of the maid who’d pocketed his watch. Why was her mouth moving without her brain’s permission?
“Really?” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the desk. “Where?”
“Cross Culture Magazine.”
He gave a slow nod. “I’ve heard of it. You know, I’ve done my fair share of interviews.”
Of course he had. Would he… She glanced at the pad of paper and pen. If she walked into this afternoon’s meeting with more than just a portfolio of past work…
“How about I interview you?”
Wait. Those were the words that were supposed to have come out of her mouth, not his.
“It’ll be good practice.” He took the desk chair and motioned for her to sit in the overstuffed chair in the corner.
“Tell me why you’re the best person for this job, Ember.”
Mouth dry as the Sahara, she began at the beginning. Small town newspaper. Big city newspaper. Finally, a magazine. Job security. Putting all her savings into a house for her mom. And then the new boss who expected favors she wouldn’t give. Skipping the part about living in her car, she told him about her passion for human interest stories. “My favorite was a woman who painted folk art murals on every building in a square block in Detroit. She started an urban renewal movement. Singlehandedly. I just love…” She stopped. He was, after all, just being polite.
“The magazine has seen your work?”
Caught off guard by what appeared to be genuine admiration in his eyes, she struggled to think straight. “Yes. They evidently liked what they read because I had a phone interview with an assistant editor and now…in person.” Again, she told her mouth to close and stay closed.
“I’m intrigued. It’s rare to meet someone who strives to see the best in people. I like you, Ember. If it were up to me, I’d hire you in a hot minute. You’d be perfect for the job.” He pulled out a shiny, silver-on-black business card. Instead of handing it to her, he turned it over and reached for the pen. “Here’s my cell number. If you get the job, I’ll take you out for dinner to celebrate. And”—his smile warmed her to her toes—“to get to know you better.”
The rest of the day crawled by in a haze of stripping sheets and vacuuming. By the time she emerged from the employee locker room in black suit and pinstriped blouse, the glow left by the handsome, rich, single man who’d promised dinner had faded. Impossible dream. So unlike her. She wasn’t a glass slipper kind of girl.
The three-block walk banished all remnants of sparkly fantasy.
“Follow me, Ms. Quinn.” The willowy Cross Culture receptionist opened the door to a corner office.
The first thing she noticed was the open pink box on the massive desk. A pink box full of blueberry muffins.
Her gaze went from the muffins to the man behind the desk.
Tenting his fingers, he grinned. “As it turns out, it is up to me. Welcome to Cross Culture, Ember. It appears I owe you dinner.”
Connect with Becky on Facebook, Instagram, or her website.
Spark Flash Fiction 