Chances Are

By D.L. Lane

Three busy women with one thing in common—no time for love.
 
Meet sensible Grace Hale, predictable Peyton Parkes, and career-minded Sloan Patrick. Their lives were exceptionally mundane, especially in the man department. But what happens when fate crosses their paths, wearing a killer smile?
 
Well…some might say things for them are about to become far more interesting.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Up All-Night Publications
• Release date: May 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890341037

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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February 6th

Today is the day!

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Uh-huh, sure... I swept that desk calendar with inspirational quotes right into the trashcan for a couple of reasons. One, it was pure optimistic drivel, and two? It might be nine o’clock in the morning, but the day already blew—big time. It started with the failure of my alarm clock, which in turn made me eighteen minutes late for work. Of course, the traffic jam on the freeway didn’t help my plight either. Neither did the fact my parking pass had expired. Meaning, my Kia was elsewhere, and I hoofed it three flipping blocks!

As a special reward for being late, and may I add this was the first time I’d been tardy in the two years of my employment at Smith, Cline, and Hall, I received a write-up and a stern scolding from the Queen of the Harpies. Oh, so it’s clear, the Harpy in question was Charlotte Saxton, part of the elite management team. She’d climbed the ladder to success by being the one-time plum pudding of Dexter Cline, co-founder of the largest ad agency in L.A. And rumor had it—though I couldn’t confirm it to be true—she was the current gift that kept on giving to Mr. Hall. But placing those entanglements aside, I should clarify one last thing concerning Ms. Saxton. She is, to my own personal nightmare, my boss.

Seconds ago, I took my verbal lashing like a good little employee, a copy of my write-up, then entered my tiny office, finding enough work to last a week. Since this was such a glorious morning, it stood to reason that I had until the end of the day to get through the foot-high pile of files on my desk.

I couldn’t afford to attend the retirement party for Janice from the secretarial staff. Sadly, it would take place over the lunch hour without me. I’d need to say my congrats and goodbyes sometime before she left this evening. Nonetheless, I wasn’t sure how to squeeze it in.

With a defeated sigh, I put the written admonishment and the Styrofoam cup I’d been gripping onto my cluttered desktop, tucked my purse away in the bottom drawer, then took off my light blue cardigan and flung it over the back of my hideous poop-brown chair. I was looking forward to taking off my shoes since I was pretty sure I had a blister the size of Montana, compliments of my morning jog in high heels.

Running a palm over the bell of my hip, I took my seat.

Glancing down, ready to slip off my strappy Steve Madden’s, I discovered an impressive run in my new silk stockings. I glared, bending to place my finger on the offending snag. You’ve got to be kidding me. No doubt I’d be tossing the thigh-highs during a restroom break. The only ray of light? My legs. They were newly waxed. Yay, me, I didn’t have furry stems!

From the corner of my eye, I caught a pair of Italian loafers at the threshold of my door. Of course, I need not see the man attached to the pricey footwear. I knew who it was—the one and only Mr. Hot-Shot himself.

Problems?

The man had a devastatingly sexy voice. Deep, smooth, and a bit rasped around the edges.

No, I said, sitting upright, looking in his direction.

He glanced at the files on my desk, then down at my leg before scanning the rest of me.

Just great.

I failed to mention two things. Since I’d been running behind, I didn’t bother to put my contacts in. And I was also having an unruly hair day, an ugly consequence of no conditioner. Yep, somehow, I forgot to toss a bottle in my cart last night while shopping. Therefore, to tame the dark, crazed strands, I’d quickly put them into an unflattering braid before hurrying out my apartment door that morning, so I didn’t feel or look my best.

It appears you may be having a bad day, Grace.

If you only knew the half of it, I thought, pushing my glasses up my nose.

In actuality, I was having a few bad years. I’d officially turned thirty-five, was woefully single, and had a job as a lowly executive assistant with student loans up the wazoo for a marketing degree I didn’t use. But those were issues for another story.

Well, I said, it’s— my elbow accidentally skimmed the teetering stack on my desk, knocking a folder off. It hit my lap, forcing me to scramble to grab it, disrupting my skirt and creasing the file while I slapped my other palm on the unsteady tower to keep it from toppling.

Realizing my reply had been abruptly derailed and I’d diverted my attention to stop an avalanche, I glanced up at the too-alluring man in the Armani suit, my cheeks blazing hot with mortification.

You were saying?

Oh geez...those gorgeous Caribbean-blue eyes were laser-focused on me.

His right brow lifted, I’m sure due to my mute state, but it nudged me from the unblinking statue I’d morphed into.

Clearing my throat, I straightened my shoulders. Ahem. I don’t remember what I was saying.

He smiled—all glimmering, bright white teeth.

Part of me wanted to melt into a puddle of goo, but I had to pull myself together. Besides, I wondered what he wanted. Mr. Hall never came to speak with me. In fact, he rarely made the trip to this side of the building. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, he could be found with the other advertising executives and various management teams, talking about fast cars, fast women, and their next vacation hot spot.

Peeking at my knees, I tried, rather poorly, I must admit, to inconspicuously remove the scattered remnants from my lap.

Would you like to have a drink with me tonight?

My head shot up, almost causing me whiplash at his question, jostling my eyewear, and some papers from the mangled file slid off my thighs, sprinkling the floor. I ignored the mess, opting to stare at the man before I heard myself ask, "You want to take me out for drinks?"

Yes. Those glittering blue eyes locked on my uninspiring toffee-browns. I have a proposal I would like to run past you.

A proposal?

I know. I sounded like a mockingbird.

Mr. Hall’s lips twitched then he nodded.

What kind of proposal?

He gave me a crooked grin. A grin, which once fired, was a heat-seeking missile straight to my stomach—the percussion of the impact rolling into regions of my body that wouldn’t be proper to discuss on a Monday or any other day of the week.

Drinks first, he replied, then dinner. Let’s say six, tonight at The Fireside Grill.

I didn’t get a chance to give him my answer, not that he asked a question. No. The man turned and walked off with that purely male swagger that made my mouth go dry.

From the first moment I’d met him, Mr. Hall had captured my attention, but this was different. For some reason, I hated to see him go, and the emotion was ridiculous on many levels.

Blowing some of the straggling strands of hair from my face that had escaped my wonky braid during my jaunt from the north forty, where I’d been forced to park, I contemplated the strange fact he wanted to discuss something with me. Shock, mixed with curiosity, coursed through every fiber of my being as I sat, staring blankly at the open door.

Ping!

That sound snapped me out of my ponderings. The start of a workweek typically meant a lot of weekend correspondence to handle. Hence, the inbox notification reminded me of the scads of e-mails I was sure were waiting to be addressed, not to mention the disarray at my feet I needed to pick up. And with my usual duties on top of what I had littering my desk, I couldn’t waste any more time.

Grabbing the abandoned coffee I’d carried during my mad dash that morning, I popped the top off, dying to drink the no longer hot brew. Cold or not, caffeine was caffeine, and I craved my fix, but before I took a sip, I inadvertently flung some of the beverage from the lid onto, you guessed it, me.

Fanfreakingtastic!

Well, my ivory blouse would be going to the dry cleaners, but in the meantime, the stain I’d soon be dabbing at added to my oh, so wonderful mood.

CHAPTER TWO

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My day continued with the same ease, ha, ha, with which it began. After the lunch I skipped because I worked through the hour, I tried to rally only to find the copier jammed. Always great, right? But with no other choice, I descended two flights of stairs, clutching file folders to my chest as upbeat music taunted me from hidden speakers. When you’ve been reprimanded, put on your boss’s permanent hit-list, given an almost impossible deadline, look like a stained bush woman, are hungry, lack sound sleep, and can’t even remember the last time you enjoyed your job, you’re not up for lively tunes about being happy.

In retrospect, I should have waited for the elevator, but I didn’t take the time, not wanting to stand there. So, once I arrived on the third floor, out of breath and in a hurry, I opened the door and tripped over something—an uneven spot on the broad transition strip where the polished concrete and the commercial carpet met. Of course, I realized this way too late. I’d dropped everything before making it to the ad department’s copy room.

Skillful, Grace.

What I had to photocopy wasn’t really that pressing, but what I must file into last year’s archives was.

I bent down in a rush.

Quickly, I swiped a hand over my forehead to brush back the hair obscuring my view since more wild strands had escaped from my awful braid. I was reaching with my other hand for the scattered documents, wondering if my day could skid off into the wasteland of worse, then decided to forgo that thought. I didn’t want to tempt fate, the universe, or the powers that be with my current track record. If I did, the building might catch fire.

Cursing under my breath, I gathered the paperwork from the floor, and that’s when it happened. I stubbed my finger on the baseboard, breaking a nail. Oh, not just a cracked tip or slight jagged chip, but a full-on into the quick extravaganza.

Ouch! Trying not to cry, I hopped up, grasping my finger in a useless endeavor to stop the pain, and sucked air between my clenched teeth.

Those stupid files I’d collected became the latest blight and started to slip. Oddly gripping them along with my index finger, I twirled, smacked right into a wall of muscle, and bounced back with a squeak.

Large hands grabbed my upper arms to steady me. Still having a bad day, I see.

It would seem so, I replied, glancing up at Mr. Hall.

Talking to him twice in one day was some type of world record.

Here, he adjusted my crooked glasses,