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counted Millie’s Ice Cream Shop. Then it was four. Peyton didn’t think Millie’s should be included in the tally because she had worked there only one hour before the manager found out she was just thirteen years old and made her go home.
    None of those jobs mattered, though. They all happened before she found her true calling to the culinary world, and they were simply a means to an end. In high school the part-time jobs kept her in Mary Lynn apple-flavored lip gloss, tattered jeans, and oversize sunglasses. In college they paid for her laptop and all the other extras not covered by her scholarship. But this job did matter because, in her mind, it was going to be the start of a stellar career. Too late, she realized she should have been more skeptical. From the very beginning, the job seemed too good to be true, and after a few days at the magazine, she discovered it definitely was. The boss, or rather, the pervert from hell, was responsible for her misery.
    Her first day could only be described as bizarre. She had been told she would have a parking spot assigned to her inside a heated garage, which was attached to the main building. Since she wouldn’t have to trample through the snow to get to the door, she decided to wear a dress and heels. She settled on a wool fitted pale-pink dress with a high V-neck and a straight skirt.
    It was five below zero when she left her motel room, and getting to her car in the parking lot was painful. God only knew what the wind chill was. Within a minute her skin was burning. She slipped the key in the ignition while she whispered, “Please start, please start.” She added a Hail Mary, and on the third try the motor came to life. She’d had a new battery installed before she left Texas, yet with this cold it was amazing that anything with moving parts would work. Her lips were blue before the heater started blowing warm air.
    Peyton didn’t need directions to the
Bountiful Table
headquarters because it was the tallest building in Dalton. According to Bridget, Peyton would be able to see it from anywhere in town. She was right about that. It was a giant monolith, extremely contemporary, with gleaming silver letters on top spelling
Swift
Publications.
You couldn’t miss it.
    As she drove toward it, she tried to figure out what the structure was supposed to be. It was round and cylindrical. The closer she got to it, the more it looked like a silo, but it appeared to be black. By the time she reached the winding drive leading to the garage, she realized the surface of the building was made of dark reflective glass. Any windows were obscured. She surmised that the structure wouldn’t win any awards from
Architectural Digest
unless they gave one for what-were-you-thinking. Like a giant statue of the bogeyman in the middle of Disneyland, it didn’t belong.
    Bridget was waiting for her in the lobby. She wasn’t friendly. Thin and gaunt, she frowned as she gave Peyton the once-over.
    “I’m pleased you’re wearing a dress,” she said. “We don’t have an official dress code here and most of the women wear slacks, and the men wear whatever they want, but Drew—Mr. Albertson—prefers his assistants and trainees to wear dresses or skirts. You’ll be working on the eighth floor. Come along and I’ll get you settled. Mr. Albertson is out of town, but he’ll be back in the office tomorrow or the day after. You’ll meet him then.”
    At five feet five inches, Peyton wasn’t all that tall, but she felt like a giant next to the petite, skin-and-bones woman as she walked by her side to the bank of elevators. Bridget’s expression was so rigid, Peyton thought her face might crack if she smiled . . . assuming she knew how.
    They passed two women in the hall. Both were smiling until they spotted Peyton. Then they frowned and, like Bridget, gave her the once-over. Feeling terribly self-conscious, Peyton looked down at her shoes to make sure they matched.
    The elevator ride was