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13
PLACES
The fitness instructor is done with me by nine. The intense two-hour session leaves me weak-limbed but wide awake as I exit the Wall Street subway and make my way to Blackwood Tower.
Today, I’m feeling a little less self-conscious—but no less vigilant—courtesy of the eight Bloomingdales shopping bags that arrived on my doorstep this morning. I opened the first one to find a note from Fionnella.
As discussed, dress rehearsal for clothes begins today. Find enclosed first selection.
As discussed? First selection?
Am I that unsophisticated to need a rehearsal for clothes? My frown stayed in place all through breakfast. I was a little out of it last night after my epic rant in the apartment, but I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered a discussion about a new wardrobe. My brain may be a seething mass of fear-induced knots, but I’m sure I would also have remembered a planned shopping trip to Bloomingdales on my behalf. My eventual text to that effect garnered a one-line response.
Apologies. Instructions still stand. The Boss insists.
End of story.
I tug at the scarf around my neck as I hurry down the stairs to the basement and wonder if the problems I’ve managed to alleviate on the outside of Blackwood Tower will achieve the opposite effect inside.
Miguel’s interest has been especially sharp the past couple of days, ever since I started working upstairs. He blithely ignores my evasive answers and probes with more questions.
And sure as shit, he’s the first person I see when I walk into the break room. There are a couple of kitchen guys taking a break, but one walks out as I enter, and the other is absorbed in his phone and doesn’t look up when Miguel spots me and gives a low whistle.
“Hola, chiquita.” Dark brown eyes rake me from head to toe. “Wow, looks like someone tripped and fell out of Vogue Magazine today.”
I ignore him and attempt to walk past him. He grabs my wrist, his hold surprisingly rigid as he examines the label of my new black, waterfall-styled coat.
“Valentino…” He frowns as his speculative gaze moves from the label to my face and back again.
Panicked, I snatch my wrist so hard from his grasp I know it’ll leave a mark. Shit. “You don’t ever touch me without my permission, Miguel. Ever.” There’s anger packed into every millimeter of that hushed sentence.
He raises his hand and steps back. “Cool it, sweet thing. Was only trying to compliment a lady, s’all.”
Every instinct screams at me to walk away, but I see the questions swirling in his eyes. I need to diffuse this new interest before it mushrooms.
I grind my teeth against the lies I need to tell to protect myself. But I have no choice. I can aggravate Miguel, or I can continue being laconic in the hope that he eventually gets the hint. Although from the way his eyes drop from my face to linger on my tits, I don’t think that day is coming soon.
“It’s…the coat…is a fake. And I have a thing after work. That’s why I’m dressed like this.”
He nods. “Like I said, we’re cool. You could’ve just said that.”
I notice he doesn’t apologize for grabbing me. I choose not to inform him that the last man who touched me without my permission ended up with a bullet in his chest. In fact, I stash that memory firmly into the don’t go there box and head for my locker. I can feel his eyes on me. When I look over my shoulder, I swear he’s aiming his phone camera at me while pretending to be absorbed in it.
Jesus.
I quickly turn back around and grab my work gear. As I peel my clothes off in the changing room, I examine each label and my mouth drops open. Valentino, Ferragamo, Balenciaga, Forever 21. My new leather boots are stylish but look fairly standard. Until I check the label.
Manolo Blahniks.
My heart sinks further.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
After the fitness instructor left this morning, I hit the shower and dressed in a hurry, knowing I needed to hustle or be late for my shift. When a quick examination of each bag revealed an entire ensemble, I thanked the Lord because I didn’t have to waste time coordinating outfits. I just threw on the jeans, top and coat in the first bag, dragged on the boots and left.
The thought that I may have inadvertently painted a bull’s-eye on my back through carelessness steadily claws through me for the next two hours as I finish laying tables and sorting condiment baskets in the Executive Restaurant. Once that’s done, I take a quick break, then return to wait on the side of the counter for the chef to finish preparing Quinn Blackwood’s lunch.