You Had Me at Good-bye Read online

  This book 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 events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Tracey Bateman

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,

  no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system,

  without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations throughout are from the King James Bible (public domain).

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  Printed in the United States of America

  First eBook Edition: February 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-51147-6

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  If You Liked YOU HAD ME AT GOOD-BYE . . .

  1

  A girl has every right to stand up for herself. To insist that she be treated with, at the very least, a modicum of respect from her employers. Doesn’t she? I mean, seriously. Is it too much to ask that I not be humiliated every single day by the powers that be? I’ve given my heart and soul to Lane Publishing for the past nine years. And I’ve gone high enough on the ladder that there’s nowhere to go until someone leaves or gets fired.

  I don’t know—maybe I’m just bitter. But it does seem like there are an awful lot of menial tasks for someone at my level in the office. An editor should not be doing the job of an editorial assistant, should she? Tell that to my boss. It’s always: Dancy, make copies. Dancy, get coffee. Dancy, clean the bathrooms. Well, no. Not that bad. Except there was that one time when the custodians were on strike, but that didn’t last more than a couple of weeks. Anyway, I might as well be the janitor, for all the respect I get around there.

  Forget the fact that I would be a great senior editor. Much better than Jack Quinn! Forget the fact that Jack, who is coincidentally my brother’s best friend from NYU, swooped down with his stupid English accent and charmed his way into my job. Forget that Jack is devastating to look at—wait, actually, do forget that. I didn’t mean it at all. “Pretty is as pretty does,” my mother always said, and Jack doesn’t do very pretty, let me say. So by those standards he’s a big ugly troll. With dimples. And a cleft in his chin. And you should see his eyes . . .

  No. Stop it! I will not be distracted by that man’s looks, charm, or accent—which may or may not be fake! It’s all his fault that Mr. Kramer, the publisher, gave the job away. It should have been mine. I was robbed.

  I jerk to my feet in Nick’s Coffee Shop, all bad attitude and determination. Jimmy Choos planted, knees locked, hands resting on the table, I make a fast decision. It’s far past time I made it clear how serious I am about this. The opportunity is upon me. It’s now or never.

  “Mr. Kramer,” I say in an extremely professional manner, using all my training as a debutante to give me that special air designed to make the other guy feel intimidated. “I truly feel that my talents are not being utilized to their full potential. I’m dissatisfied with the direction of my career at Lane Publishing. And if changes aren’t made, I will be turning in my resignation shortly. There are, as you know, many opportunities for a young professional with my abilities in New York.”

  The emotional exertion of making that kind of threat is just too much, and my wobbly legs revolt, refusing to hold me up for one more second. Exhausted by my feeble attempt at the whole “I am editor, hear me roar” game, I drop back into the wooden chair. I’m actually panting. “How was that?”

  Tabby and Laini, my two best friends in the world, cheer me on like I just won the Tour de France.

  “Hear, hear!” Tabby says, raising her gigantic latte mug in my honor. “I especially like the part about the opportunities for a young professional. Don’t you, Laini?”

  “Bravo!” Laini pipes in, lifting her own mug as though she’s toasting the queen. “Do it just like that and Kramer will realize, once and for all, that you mean business.”

  “I don’t know.” I can feel the frown lines making permanent etches in the non-Botoxed skin between my eyes. Something that mystifies my mother. Thirty years old and haven’t had Botox? Oh, the horror.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Tabby demands. “Take a stand already. That guy works your tail off for all these years, then hires someone else for the job he promised you. And then proceeds to upend the entire staff. It’s no wonder you’re ticked off. You have a right to ask some questions about his intentions. That Kramer guy has fired eight office staff members in the last six months, for crying out loud. Don’t take it sitting down. Find out if you’re next in line, and if you are, make him sorry to let you go.”

  “I know, I know.” I push my fingers to my temples to rub away the knots forming there. “I’m going to do it. Only, probably not next week because there’s this huge thing with the Paris office and he’s going to be up to his elbows in bagels and baguettes . . .” My voice trails off as my friends shake their heads at each other.

  “What?” I demand. “I am going to do it.”

  “Um-hmm,” Tabby grunts out around a swig of chai latte. Laini snickers. Real ladylike, both of them.

  I’m completely outraged by their lack of understanding. “I should disrupt his focus when all these bigwigs are in town? What if he fudges the entire meeting and we lose a major distributor, all because I want more respect? I’ll lose my job for sure, and then where will I be?”

  “Well, there are all those other opportunities,” Laini says—not to me, to Tabby.

  Tabby gives her a nod, keeping her expression stoic. “Right, especially for a young professional in New York City—such as our friend Dancy here.”

  Laini gives an exaggerated sigh, clasping her hands—which would benefit from a little lotion, by the way—to her chest. “Oh, but she’d hate to bother Mr. Kramer, the boss from you-know-where. I mean, what if he gets distracted or something?”

  Tabby clearly can’t hold her laughter any longer. She snickers, which of course sets Laini off, too. “Well, wouldn’t that be horrible for the poor man?”

  Funny. Very, very funny.

  Tabby turns back to me. “Don’t worry, Dancy. If your head is next on the chopping block, you can always move back in with your mom or dad. Although Fifth Avenue would be a comedown after cramming into our spacious apartment all these years.”

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

  “Just do us a favor, Dan,” Tabby says, her face suddenly devoid of humor, her tone somber.

  “What?”

  “When you finally break the news to Kramer about how you’re not going to take it anymore, be sure he’s actually i
n the room so he gets the message.” The girls break into laughter, even though I see nothing amusing about any of this.

  “Shut up.” I toss a napkin at Tabby, which she easily bats away.

  “Hey, you three,” Nick calls from across the room where he’s taking care of customers. “Knock it off or I’m tossing you out of here.”

  Tabby’s not even slightly intimidated by the shop’s owner. The two of them have had this special bond ever since her fiancé, David, sort of made his move right here in the coffee shop and asked her out over cheesecake. She turns to the counter. “Hey, Nick. How about another round for me and my friends here? Dancy, the cowardly lioness, needs courage.”

  “And brains,” Laini calls.

  “And you two need a couple of hearts,” I grump.

  The Italian fiftysomething mobster (allegedly) behind the counter lifts a hand. “Hold your horses, girlies. What do ya think this is, a whiskey bar?”

  “Sorry.” Tabby grins.

  “We have to go anyway,” Laini says, before guzzling the rest of her latte.

  For the first time I notice that Nick’s looking a little frazzled. Unusual for him. “Hey, Nick, where’s Nelda?” The line’s backing up to the door, and Nick’s all alone. His wife of thirty years is usually right there in the trenches with him, but she’s conspicuously absent this morning.

  “Well, she ain’t here, now is she?” Nick barks, taking his gruffness to a new level. I mean, he’s always a little rough around the edges, being that he is probably a Mafia mogul, but I’m almost positive that’s just a front for his tender heart.

  “We can see she’s not here,” I bark back, because I’m not in the mood for any more dissing today. I mean, I do have my limits. “Where is she?”

  “That’s my business, ain’t it?”

  “Wow, I’ve never seen Nick so freaked out,” Laini says. “That article in the New York Times calling this shop ‘one of Manhattan’s best-kept secrets’ really made the business pick up today. Weird that Nelda’s MIA.”

  I’m more focused on Nick than on what Laini’s saying, so the rest of her comments go over my head—except the part about Nelda being MIA. “You don’t think she left him, do you?” It’s an honest question. Marriage isn’t exactly sacred in my family, the way it is for Tabby’s parents.

  “No way,” Tabby says, without taking her eyes away from Nick. “If anyone’s in it for life, those two are. She must be sick or something.”

  A man in a very smart black suit that may or may not be Armani gives an unsophisticated bang on the counter. “I don’t have all day.”

  Nick swings around from the latte machine, and I swear I see actual steam shooting not only from his ears, but from his eyes and nose as well. He’s like a bull snorting at a red scarf. “Buddy, one more word outta you and you’re gonna be drinking this thing with a fat lip.”

  I flatten my palms on the table and push myself up from the chair. “I’m going to help him.” I move across the shiny wooden floor with as much grace as I can muster in three-inch heels. My shoes click with one step and clack with the next, a sound that always fills me with confidence—something I need right now—as I slide behind the counter before the customer recovers from Nick’s bad attitude. I smile at the guy. “Your order is coming right up, sir.” I send him a dazzling smile, one that seems to do the trick. “Thanks so much for your patience.”

  I may not have any actual hands-on experience at customer service, but how hard can it be to pour coffee and smile at idiots who have no idea that dressing for success means nothing if you can’t be civil? In my book anyway.

  I snatch an apron from the hook next to the swinging kitchen doors. I’m actually feeling positive and ready to get into the trenches with this big galoot, for whom I suddenly feel a huge surge of affection.

  “What can I do, Nick?”

  “You can get your behind back out front, princess. This ain’t no self-serve joint.”

  My face warms under his admonishment as my glass goes from half full to a little on the empty side. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Help what?” he asks, distracted as he makes change. A frown burrows into the fleshy skin between his eyes.

  “I thought I’d give you a hand with this crowd. But hey, if you’re not interested, I’ll just have another iced green tea. Hold the whipped cream, please. I’m watching my weight.” That was a little mean, wasn’t it? But it wouldn’t hurt the guy to be a nicer to the help.

  He slams the register shut and glances over at me. “You wanna help ol’ Nick? No kiddin’?”

  Does he not notice the green apron wrapped twice around my body? Not exactly my usual style. I give him a shrug. “No kidding.”

  He looks me up and down. Dubiously, I might add. I’ve never been more ashamed of wearing designer labels. Why didn’t I just grab a pair of Levis and a sweatshirt, like a normal person would have? It’s only morning coffee with the girls, for heaven’s sake. And on a day off, yet.

  It’s not often I get a weekday off, but it was pointed out to me—pointedly pointed out—that I haven’t had a day off, other than mandatory holidays and deathly-sick days, in years. Not even a vacation. So I made a bet with a fellow editor that, yes, I am capable of taking a personal day on occasion, and today was locked into the calendar. I woke up dreading today. I knew I had the day off, so why did I dress like I was going to the office?

  “You wearing those shoes?”

  “Yes. So?”

  We leave the obvious unsaid. Three-inch heels. I’ll be lucky if I don’t break my neck. But truly I’ve had a lot of experience wearing these things. If anyone can pull off a shift in high heels, it’s me.

  “Whatever. They ain’t my feet.” Nick shrugs. “At least you’re smart enough to put on an apron. Can you run a cash register?”

  As much as I shop? Pulease. In my sleep.

  “Sorry, Nick,” Tabby calls. “Wish I could stay and help too, but I’m shooting a love scene in Central Park. Blythe’ll kill me if I’m late again.”

  People turn and stare. I hold back a grin because this happens all the time. Laini tucks her hand inside Tabby’s arm. “She’s a famous actress,” Laini explains, but I don’t think they believe her.

  Laini’s telling the truth, though. Tabby is an Emmy-nominated, bona fide leading lady on Legacy of Life, the number one soap on TV. She’s marrying the father of Jenn and Jeffy, the twins who play her children on the show.

  Laini calls over her shoulder, “I promised to help my mom clean out the attic today. She’s having a garage sale next weekend.”

  He pushes the button on the latte machine and waves them away. “Don’t worry about it. The princess and me are gonna be fine.”

  Fine might be a bit of an overstatement, considering the register-tape incident and the multiple spills, not to mention the three-thousand-dollar latte (the lady completely overreacted, by the way, so Nick gave it to her on the house and then told her to take a hike), but we made it through. A full three hours later, I’m only a little sweaty and, thanks to the apron, my clothes have been spared. My shoes, though . . . let’s just say they’ve seen better days, as have my feet and calves. Oh my goodness, I’m dying. I hobble to a chair and slide out of the toe torture chambers. My feet are splotched with red, angry places that will most likely be blisters by the time I get home. But at least my feet look better than the shoes themselves.

  I was seriously thinking of donating these Jimmy Choos to Goodwill, considering they’re last year’s style. But of course they won’t want them now, with the chocolate stains, so I guess I won’t bother. Which is a real shame, actually. I always envision some half-starved, just-out-of-college girl landing a fabulous job while wearing something I’ve donated to Goodwill. I guess that’s a bit prideful—not to mention presumptuous—of me, but it makes me feel . . . useful. Like I’m good for something more substantial than arm candy for the latest fix-up date. Like I’m more than just an editor, working under a British senior editor with a smi
le that screams veneers and a cleft in his chin that he probably bought from a plastic surgeon.

  But I refuse to think about him on my day off.

  I’m definitely not worth much to poor Nick. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t even blame the guy when he sort of yelled at me—well, not the first time, anyway. I venture a glance at the clock. I can’t believe it’s already two! I’ve been working for hours.

  Thankfully the shop is completely free of customers, except for one girl in the corner, long stringy hair covering her face, glasses resting way too low on her nose. Plus, her clothes are too baggy and not in style. I mean, do you have to spend a lot to at least wear something close to fashionable? What’s wrong with today’s girls? Even thrift shops have designer clothes. I know because, as previously mentioned, I donate some every season. And she’s exactly the type of girl I have in mind when I do so.

  She glances up as though she feels me staring. My face warms and hers goes red, and we both look away, I to my final swipe of the counter, she back to her book, which, I have to say, shows great taste in literature. Pride and Prejudice. My favorite.

  “Okay, princess. What’ll you have?” Nick asks. “Anything you want is on the house.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Nick.”

  He shoots a huge grin from behind the counter. “You got me out of a jam, kid. Now, what’s it gonna be?”

  Nick’s praise and fatherly show of affection weaken my resolve. “How about a meatball sub?” I shrink inside a bit. “Or is that too much?”

  “It ain’t enough. You stay there and rub those toes while I go rustle up something to put a little meat on your scrawny bones.”

  I gulp. Meat on my bones? I’m barely down to an acceptable size 2 as it is—well, as far as my mother knows. I’m really a 4, but if I suck in and lie down . . . but then, that only works if I’ve had less than two hundred calories all day. If I eat anything between now and tonight’s dinner party, Mother’s going to know as soon as I walk in the door. She’s got calorie radar, I swear. She’ll look me over, give a long-suffering sigh, and announce my BMI and percentage of body fat with alarming accuracy.