Page 19

Before I have a chance to approach the reception desk, I notice a man approaching me with intent from a single, distant desk at the far end of a long hallway to the right. I wait obediently.

Through the glass wall, eyes flicker my way with interest. The bakery box is drawing attention.

“Miss Monroe?” The man greets me. “I’m Brant. We spoke on the phone.” He looks at the box in my hands. “And what’s this?”

Might as well go with the truth. “It’s an apology cake.”

He raises a sharp eyebrow. “Well.” He looks me over. “You seem… sweet.” He lowers his voice. “Let me prepare you that Mr. Vance is not.”

“It’s okay. I totally get it, and I can handle him. I’ve met him before.”

What am I saying? I’m so nervous, I could pee. Right here. In the immaculate reception area of the gleaming subterranean financial offices of Vance Industries.

Brant seems surprised to hear that I’ve met his boss, and completely unconvinced that I can handle him, but leads me along the hall toward the single, imposing door at the far end nonetheless. This man walks fast. I hurry to keep up as he remarks on the nice day we’re having. Somehow he makes even that sound haughty.

I’m too nervous to make small talk.

The door at the end of the hall is black. It’s not encouraging.

Brant knocks crisply, then opens the door and leans in. “Mr. Vance, your eleven o’clock is here,” he announces, then steps aside and shoos me into the room.

The door shuts behind me with a heavy thud as Brant abandons me here, alone, with Mr. Black. I mean, Harlan Vance.

He’s sitting approximately a mile away from me across a cold expanse of gleaming polished concrete floor, behind a massive desk. His dark eyes meet mine like a switchblade opening, and my breath lodges in my throat like a wad of bubble gum.

“Good morning,” he says curtly.

It practically echoes in here.

If it’s such a good morning, why isn’t he smiling?

I swallow the gob of trepidation in my throat, thinking of Mom. “Good morning.”

I glance around with discomfort. This room is not bathed in daylight. The ceiling is a regular ceiling and there are no windows. There’s a small sitting area to the right of his desk withdark, stiff-looking furniture at sleek angles, that looks like no one’s ever used it. To the left, a wet bar is inset into the seamless dark cabinets that line the wall.

It’s compulsively neat and pretty much empty. No art on the walls. No plants.

There’s really nothing much to look at.

Just him.

I cross the empty expanse of the room toward his desk, my sneakers squeaking a little on the shiny floor. His gaze drops to the bakery box in my hands.

“Before you say anything,” I blurt, “please let me apologize. For last night. I work with cakes in the back room at a bakery most of the time, alone, so I’m rusty with front of house service. But,” I add hastily, realizing he could take that as yet another reason to fire me, “I’ve waitressed before. It was only my fifth shift at Velvet last night, though. I’ll get better.”

“Get much better,” he says grimly. “Fast.”

“For sure. I mean, I will.”

He leans back in his seat, regarding me in sharp silence. Probably wondering why I appear to be delivering him a cake no one ordered.

I’m starting to sweat in my chef jacket. Maybe Nicole was right about showing cleavage; if I’d done that, maybe I wouldn’t be overheating right now.

“Also…” I press on, determined to right my wrongs. “I shouldn’t have given you my real name. I thought you were just a regular patron, so I should’ve given you the fake name I’m supposed to use at Velvet. It’s Dominique.”

“And who decided that?” His voice is low and resentful. “My brother?”

“Um, I’m not sure. The name was just sort of handed to me along with my uniform.”