His Off Limits Best Friend - Vivian Wood Page 0,63

Mrs. Whiteworth, she’d been caught at her most vulnerable.

“You can talk to me, you know,” the woman said. “I know I don’t always seem like the warmest person in the world. And I’m not HR, and I’m not your mom, but it’s clear you’re going through some things.”

“I… I won’t let it impact my work again,” Sam promised with new resolve.

“Sweetheart, you can’t do it all,” she said. “Trust me. What are you, twenty-six? Twenty-five?”

Sam nodded. Twenty-five years old and mooning over some boy like she was sixteen. How did she let it come to this?

“It’s a beast of an age,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. “I was twenty-five once. I worked in the catering department for a company that no longer exists, but served every political gala in the city.”

Sam looked at her with a new perspective. She couldn’t imagine the regal woman in a black apron with platters of food.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the woman said with a laugh. “I did, really. And I was quite good at it. I wanted to be a chef, like Julia Child. Well, not like her, but you know what I mean.”

“A chef,” Sam repeated. What do I want to be? It had been so long since she’d pondered it. She knew she wasn’t cut out for a great career in event management, that was for sure.

“And I was crazy in love. Or lust. Thought I was, at least,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. “The kind where I was happy to throw everything away for it.”

Sam blushed. Was I that easy to read? “What… what happened?” she asked.

Mrs. Whiteworth sat down in one of the guest chairs. “He was the son of a very influential politician at the time. If I told you his surname, you’d probably be able to guess. I met him when I was helping to cater one of those godawful snoozefests.”

She cocked her head and looked at the elegant woman. Sam couldn’t imagine her being anything but poised. And able to get anything she liked.

“But,” Mrs. Whiteworth continued with a sigh. “It didn’t work out. As you can see,” she said, and waved her bare ring hand at Sam.

“Was it unrequited?” Sam asked. She nearly laughed at the word herself.

“Unrequited? No, not entirely,” Mrs. Whiteworth said with a smile. “I like to think not. We carried on in secret. For nearly a year, in fact. He worried that being with me would mar his family’s reputation. His budding political career.”

Sam looked at her lap. It all sounded too familiar. Although Connor had never told her that outright. She’d never asked or looked into Sandra’s background. What did Sandra have that she didn’t? The right upbringing? The right education? What’s wrong with me?

Mrs. Whiteworth leaned toward her. “If he doesn’t see what a catch you are, he’s a moron,” she told her.

“How did you know?” she asked. And how much do you know? Did she know Connor was a client?

“It’s obvious, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. She held up a finger to her lips. “Don’t worry. I don’t think the rest of the office knows. It takes age, and experience to be able to see it. Plus, your generation is so obsessed with their own lives, they barely notice others exist.”

Sam’s face burned. She was part of that generation, of course. And Mrs. Whiteworth was right. When was the last time she’d taken a genuine interest in anyone’s well-being at work? When was the last time she’d noticed anything about them unless it had to do with her, too? She couldn’t help but think of poor Jenny. She’d swooped in on her when she’d thought Connor was hot on that first day, and she’d been unfairly angry at her with the whole dating app thing—even though she’d never approached her about it.

She didn’t know a damn thing about Jenny, and they’d started at nearly the same time.

“I had no idea.” It was all she could think of to say.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. “You’re young. I know you’re probably tired of hearing that at this point in your life, but it’s true. You have no idea how young, or how much is ahead of you. I know it feels like whatever you’re going through right now is too heavy to carry. Trust me, it isn’t. You’re a strong woman.”

Sam blushed at the unexpected compliment. She wanted to look away; the woman’s eyes were almost too intense. But she forced herself to hold the gaze. “Why do you think that?” she