Hot Hires

  Synopsis

  When business turns to pleasure, romance ignites.

  In New York is Losing Hope by Nan Campbell: With thirty-five on the horizon and still single, Hope Mason is abandoning her beloved New York City to try her luck in bright, shiny Los Angeles. One problem. This New Yorker is terrified of driving, an essential skill for Californians. She hires instructor Val Caceres to teach her how to drive off into the sunset, but Val could be the one thing she doesn’t want to leave behind.

  In Two Women, Two Weddings by Alaina Erdell: Aarti Singh’s brilliance in cardiology hasn’t diminished her longing to be an event planner, even if familial expectations demand a career in medicine. Meanwhile, Jo Samuels’s love life has taken a back seat to her demanding chef career and her desire to keep her life simple. When Aarti hires Jo to cater a wedding, their attraction is undeniable, but how can they fall in love when they’re struggling to be true to themselves?

  In For Love or Money by Jesse J. Thoma: Short-seller Frances “Frankie” Sender has always been good at picking winners, but her skills might make her the ultimate loser when a company she is researching frames her for a crime. Her only chance at staying alive is Dakota “Oz” Osborne, a woman with a million-dollar reason to toss her in jail. They’ll have to trust each other and avoid the easy cash out if they want the stock to rise on a chance at love.

  Hot Hires

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  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  By the Authors

  Nan Campbell

  Like They Do in the Movies

  The No Kiss Contract

  The Rules of Forever

  Hot Hires

  Alaina Erdell

  All Things Beautiful

  Off the Menu

  Fire, Water, and Rock

  Hot Hires

  Jesse J. Thoma

  Tales of Lasher, Inc.

  The Chase

  Pedal to the Metal

  Data Capture

  The Serenity Prayer Series

  Serenity

  Courage

  Wisdom

  Romances

  Seneca Falls

  Hero Complex

  The Town That Built Us

  Guide Us Home

  Hot Hires

  Hot Hires

  “New York is Losing Hope” © 2024 by Nan Campbell. All Rights Reserved.

  “Two Women, Two Weddings” © 2024 by Alaina Erdell. All Rights Reserved.

  “For Love or Money” © 2024 by Jesse J. Thoma. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63679-652-9

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: June 2024

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design by Inkspiral Design

  eBook Design by Toni Whitaker

  Acknowledgments

  Nan Campbell would like to thank Arturo Leon, a New York City driving instructor so skilled he’s been written about in The New Yorker. (Look him up!) Thanks for the tips and tricks, Arturo. Thanks also to June—your journey to licensed NYC driver is the inspiration.

  Alaina Erdell would like to thank her sensitivity reader, Shraddha Shah, for the gracious education and insightful suggestions, and her partner, for her steadfast support and gentle correction of all things medical.

  Jesse Thoma: I’d like to thank C.F. Frizzell for her gracious reading of early drafts and invaluable feedback. To my wife, thank you for being you and choosing me. Finally, to the readers, thank you for continuing to pick up my work.

  New York is Losing Hope

  Nan Campbell

  Chapter One

  Some people say New York City is the place you go when you want to remake yourself. I guess all the steel and concrete and summertime hot garbage stink are supposed to scour you clean of all the bullshit you picked up where you were before. But I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve always been here. Born uptown in Columbia-Presbyterian almost thirty-five years ago. Where am I supposed to go when I need a fresh start?

  Fresh is not a word I’d associate with my hometown. But by October, the swampy heat is thankfully behind us, replaced by cool, crisp autumn in New York—arguably the freshest time of the year. It’s my last fall here, and my absolute favorite season, but it’s not quite the roasted chestnut-scented, leaf-shedding, sweater-wearing, When Harry Met Sally fantasia we’ve all been conditioned to expect. That Manhattan exists only on streaming sites nowadays.

  Even if it’s not some figment of a Hollywood screenwriter’s imagination, New York City is a place of change—it’s in perpetual motion, and it’s constantly forcing you to learn new things. Opportunities for gaining knowledge can come from the unlikeliest of places. Like last week, I learned a valuable lesson while standing on the platform waiting for the Q train. I was listening to my Veronica Mars rewatch podcast when my left Airpod popped out of my ear and onto the subway tracks. A rat almost as big as a dump truck leaped over the third rail, skittered over to my poor defenseless Airpod, chomped away for three seconds, and then—I swear by Saint Nora Ephron—it looked up at me and laughed. Where else in the world are you going to get a lesson like that? Definitely not something I remembered from my days at PS 290.

  And moments after opening the door of my garden level apartment, I was learning again, whether I wanted to or not. Here to ruin this brisk, sunny, October morning was a biodegradable baggy of poo resting on the lid of one of the empty garbage cans at the curb. So thank you, anonymous Upper East Side resident, for kindly providing me instruction in communal dog rearing this morning. I picked it up with the very tips of my thumb and index finger and dropped it in the bin, and crashed the lid down with a terrific clang.

  “It wasn’t me! Or Buster. I swear.” Mrs. Finkelstein approached with her cocker spaniel straining on his leash as he tried to get near me.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t, Mrs. F.” She’d caught me scowling at an inanimate trash receptacle at 8:40 on a Saturday morning, but what are you gonna do? After I dragged the garbage cans through the wrought iron gate that separated our building from the sidewalk, I bent toward Buster and gave him all the love he deserved. “You would never, would you, Buster, baby? You’re a good boy. You don’t even poop, do you?”

  “Oh, yeah, he does. But I dispose of it properly like any civic-minded dog owner should. Got something warm in my coat pocket right now.”

  Yikes. This was exactly why I didn’t own a dog. The whole poo-handling part. It was infinitely preferable to love on someone else’s fur baby rather than care for my own. But maybe getting a pet would be something to consider when I got to Los Angeles. I pressed pause on the Buster love fest and lifted the garbage can lid for her. “Here you go. An easy two points.”

  “Please forgive me, Hope. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the shit I’ve been carrying on my person since Seventy-fourth Street. The things we do for our loved ones.” Mrs. Finkelstein dropped her baggy in, took a small bottle of hand sanitizer from her other pocket and offered me a squirt before using it herself. “What are you doing out and about so early on a Saturday?”

  The front door on the parlor level opened and the woman who gave me life swanned out onto the stoop in her Pucci caftan—the one she reserved for fancy brunches or various moments of high dudgeon. Mom held a bottle of champagne in one hand and a carton of orange juice in the other. “Are you excited, Hope? Today’s the big day.” She set her beverages on the third step and sat. “Good morning, Minerva. Care to join us for a mimosa?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Mrs. F. sat down on the stoop. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Hope is starting a new phase of life today.” She popped the cork on the champagne and poured a measure into three paper cups.

  Phase of life? “Let’s not get carried away, Mom.” She made it sound as if I, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, had finally received a visit from Aunt Flo. I remembered her bursting into dramatic rafts of tears when that milestone had occurred at age thirteen, but right now I detected a subtle, sarcastic edge to her mild words that I really didn’t want to deal with right now.

  “What? It’s not every day a Mason undertakes the task of navigating the city from behind the wheel of a motorcar.”

  “Nobody calls them motorcars anymore, Mother. It’s the twenty-first century.” I gave all my attention to Buster again.

  Mrs. F. raised her eyebrows. “You’re learning to drive? At your age? Why?”

  At my age? I was only thirty-four. What the hell was she implying?

  �
��That’s what I’d like to know, Minerva. There is no earthly reason for Hope to drive. That’s what the subway and the bus and taxicabs are for.” She handed a mimosa to her longtime neighbor and tried to hand one to me.

  I stood and leaned against the iron newel post. “No thanks.”

  “Don’t slouch, Hope, and take this. I’m trying to be supportive.”

  My spine straightened as if I were one of Pavlov’s dogs, involuntarily reacting to that tone my mother had been using on me since I was five. Then I slouched again just to spite her, like I was five. “I don’t think drinking alcohol right before my first driving lesson will endear me to the instructor.”

  “Oh, right.” She stifled a laugh and set the cup on the step next to her. “I didn’t think of that. Yet another reason not to drive—you can drink whenever you like!”

  “Even at nine in the morning.” Mrs. F lifted her cup. “We should toast your new endeavor somehow, Hope. How about a virgin orange juice?”

  “Fine.” I scanned the street for the driving school vehicle to rescue me, even if it was ten minutes too early.

  “This is the Upper East Side,” my mother said, as if I didn’t know that. “Everything is walkable. You know, Hopey, you live in a very unique city where you don’t ever have to drive. There are so many options now, with the Uber and the Lyft and what have you.”

  “I’m well aware, Mother.” She had activated her sermonizing function, and I truly did not have the patience for it this morning. Couldn’t she see I was trying to devote all of my mental energy to quelling my driving lesson anxiety? I focused on the unconditional love in Buster’s eyes.

  “And even before your grandfather bought this building”—she threw a hand toward the facade behind her—“Masons have chosen not to contribute to the auto industry and its outsized carbon footprint. You’re finally back where you belong, living under the Mason family roof again, but if he knew about this, he’d be turning in his grave.”

  Please. As if Grandpa—the loveliest grandpa who ever lived, but let’s face it, as timid as the day was long—had the sack to drive in the city. Or had the faintest idea of what a carbon footprint was. He died when I was nine. But I silently endured my mother’s lecture because if she knew the real reason I had decided to learn to drive, our morning cocktails on the stoop would turn into the Spanish Inquisition with my mother playing the role of Torquemada.

  Of course, I loved my mom and dad. I really did. But the fondness that came with absence was severely reduced by their now very close proximity. When the lease on my East Village apartment expired five months ago, the new terms were four times what I had been paying. Housing was just about the only sector that had bounced back with a vengeance since the pandemic. The garden-level apartment where my grandmother had lived while I grew up in the floors above had been vacant, and my dad offered it to me at an extremely low rent. It was a benefit that diminished my independence in a few very real ways. Not to mention, they wouldn’t let me get rid of any of my grandma’s furniture.

  And now, my mother’s third degree was preventing me from achieving the serenity I so desperately needed right now. I was nervous enough about taking to the streets without her passive-aggressive disapproval masked by pseudo-supportive mimosas.

  I lifted my gaze from Buster to watch a tall woman walk toward us from down the block. She seemed to be checking the building numbers as she got closer and then zeroed in on us. Yowza. She had thick, long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and her features were sharpish—sharp as in angular, high cheekbones but also clear intelligence emanating from her eyes. Tall, dark, and handsome. Her soft butch energy was speaking volumes to me, and I knew I would be staring and trying not to drool at her rangy figure after she passed us by. But then she pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her black fleece jacket and smiled as she approached.

  I don’t think I imagined her gaze lingering on me for a moment before she addressed all three of us, referring to the paper. “Good morning. I’m looking for Hope Mason?”

  “I’m Hope.” I abandoned Buster, who butted his nose against my shin, looking for more attention.

  “You’re Hope?” The woman tilted her head in what might have been disbelief.

  “Yes.” I did a quick, surreptitious check of myself. Did I have toast crumbs on my face? Egg yolk on my sweater? No. What the hell?

  The woman seemed to quickly recover her confusion and gave a quiet chuckle. Her smile grew wider. It transformed her face. I could easily get lost in a smile like that—so warm and friendly, and sexy. Before I could answer her, mom stood. She had that speculative look on her face that could mean anything from is this person delivering a subpoena to am I looking at my future daughter-in-law.

  “Hello. I’m Cordelia Mason, Hope’s mom.”

  “I’m Hope’s neighbor.” Mrs. F. added, lifting her cup again.

  “And you are?” Mom moved down two steps to get within interrogating range.

  “I’m Val Caceres, C&C driving instruction.” She pointed at the embroidered logo on the left breast of her black fleece jacket.

  Mom put a hand by her ear. “I’m sorry. Valka, is it?”

  The driving instructor smiled broadly. “No, Val. Short for Valentina, but nobody calls me that. My last name is Caceres.”

  “Valentina is a lovely name. You should be proud of it,” my mother said.

  “Oh, I am, Mrs. Mason. It’s just easier for my students to remember.” She turned to me. “May I see your driving permit, please?”

  While I produced my brand-new permit for her to inspect, Mrs. F. said, “Where’s your car? Can’t learn to drive without a car.” She looked to the street.

  Val Caceres hiked her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m parked illegally by the fire hydrant. Not the best move for someone charged with upholding the rules of the road, but this street is narrow and I didn’t want to be in the way of traffic.”

  Mom and Mrs. F. nodded sagely even though neither of them had probably ever given a thought to how narrow the street was.

  “Shall we go?” Val showed me that knockout smile again.

  We started in the direction of her car. My heart rate skyrocketed at the thought of actually driving, and my palms turned into tiny Slip ‘N Slides.

  Val glanced behind her. “I’m sorry, but our insurance doesn’t cover passengers. Do you want to tell them they can’t come along?”

  I turned and to my absolute mortification, Mom, Mrs. F., and Buster were following behind us. This was the last thing I needed right now. “They are not coming along, but I think my mom is curious. Please bear with her. I come from a long line of proud non-drivers.”

  “They’re proud they don’t drive?”

  “It’s a thing. Don’t ask.”

  She seemed to accept that. We arrived at a black sedan, its headlights blinking and a little sign strapped to the roof that said C&C Driving School—Confidence on the Roads. She opened the driver’s side door with a flourish and gestured for me to sit, but I opened the passenger side and stealthily slid in. Even though I had bought and paid for this lesson, as well as many more, I had no intention of taking the driver’s seat—yet.

  Val stood in the street. She bent and gave me a puzzled look through the open driver’s side door.

  On the sidewalk, Mrs. F. sounded confused. “How is she going to learn to drive from that seat?”

  Mom’s strident voice was loud even through the closed window. “Yes, what kind of lesson is this? How is my daughter supposed to learn from being a passenger?”

  I sunk low in the seat. Had my mother been this embarrassing when I was in junior high? Because that’s about how old I felt right now.

  “She’ll get there. Hope’s going to learn about the car first,” Val said, and I felt almost boneless with relief when she didn’t insist I move.

  I pressed the button that lowered the window. “I’ll tell you all about it after the lesson, Mom.”

  “If you live that long,” she said ominously.