Lost In Us (Lost 1)

“I'm a corporate girl," I say, thinking that I’ll prefer the security of a paycheck to reckless risk any day. Of course, I’ve yet to receive any kind of positive answer from any bank I’ve applied to, so I hope that paycheck won’t just remain wishful thinking. I fist my palms tightly, hoping the usual anxiety over my future won’t show up now.

“So where did you apply?” he asks.

“To every investment bank I could find.”

He laughs softly. “I remember you saying you also take computer science classes along with economics. Not applying for a job in that area?”

I look at him, truly stunned that he remembers that, since I just mentioned it in passing when we first met at the bar. “Computer science is just my minor. And I’m not very fascinated by it.”

“I see. So you really want to work in investment banking?”

“Yeah.”

"Have you ever worked in investment banking before?"

"I did an internship at Merrill Lynch last summer," I say proudly.

"Christ, I did one at Goldman Sachs before my senior year. Most boring three months of my life."

"I liked it," I say briskly.

"Really?"

No, not really. But then again, what do I like? I've been having this dilemma ever since I started jotting down on a piece of paper names of banks to apply to back in October. Jess handed me a second piece of paper (with the title What I Want to Do in My Life written in pink tones with a little heart-shaped cardboard attached to it), insisting that I fill it with the things I love doing most. I looked up professional chocolate-tasting jobs for a few hours before giving up.

The What I Want to Do in My Life paper remains a blank page.

But the page with the list of banks I plan to apply to is anything but blank. It keeps growing every day. It was embarrassingly short in the beginning—I only looked at cities close to San Francisco, so Michael wouldn't have to commute to work once I got a job and we moved in together. Which I was sure was going to happen once I graduated. I almost snort at the thought now. Once he left me, I found out the world was much larger. New York and Washington made my list the night he broke up with me. I could put London on the list too, since it’s one of the best cities for a job in investment banking. But the thought of returning to the other side of the ocean, of being in London again, is still one I cannot bear. I think I never will.

"What makes you so sure I'd be of any use to you?" I ask.

"Dean Kramer," he answers.

My jaw drops. "Who's the stalker now?" I ask in a strangled voice, but fact is, I'm elated that he talked with someone about me. Dean Kramer, no less. So James hasn't altogether forgotten I exist.

"He called to ask me to give a talk next week and I casuall

y told him we're looking for people. He wouldn't shut up about you."

I smile brightly, despite the sting of disappointment. As much as I like Dean Kramer, I wish James had been the one not shutting up about me.

The feeling of disappointment increases exponentially when I look out the window. The vast, perfectly cut fairways of the golf course lie on our left.

"You've got a really low standard for fun activities."

"We're not going golfing, Serena," he chuckles.

This time the effect of him calling my name goes way beyond emptying my mind. Shudders run through me and I sink into my seat again, hoping he will blame the chilly air in the car for the light tremor in my body. I keep my eyes firmly on my knees and take a few deep breaths. Why does he have such an effect on me? He hasn't even said it in a flirty or alluring way.

He hasn't even kissed me today.

I turn to him, prepared to rectify this right away when he announces, "We're here." One second later we turn left down a narrow street, and the sight of two dozen small aircrafts in the distance momentarily distracts me.

I have flown three times before, but I have never used the Palo Alto Airport. It's small and only for private use.

"We're flying?" I ask, stunned, as he parks in front of the wire fence that marks the ending of the airport.

He turns the engine off and removes his glasses.