I fiddled with my necklace and tried another tactic. “How long have you worked for the Brantleys?”
“Three years.”
Talkative guy. Any more chattering and I’d need to put in earplugs. It was too bad. His voice had a layer of accent that made it absolutely delicious.
“Are they nice to work for?”
His eyes moved to the rearview mirror, our gaze connecting. He had a very direct stare, one that—once established—was hard to break. And his eyes … damn. A dark blue that picked up the lights from passing cars, causing a shimmer across their depths. “They’re fine.”
It was quiet. Three years. They’re fine. Hell, I’d worked for the Brantleys for six days, and I could fill up a thirty-minute drive with stories. This guy was really committed to the strong, silent vibe he was rocking. Or he had taken to heart the lengthy confidentiality agreement that Nicole had made me sign.
I gave up on conversation and leaned back against the seat, watching the city go by, Christmas tree lights out, a sea of white and rainbow at every turn. It was my favorite time of the year, the New York streets turned into festive art, all of the dirt and grime of the city hidden by a layer of snow. Nicole was celebrating New Year’s Eve at an animal charity event, one where she would parade Chanel around for the cocktail hour before passing her back to me. At 10 PM, a holiday fashion show was scheduled, and Chanel would make two appearances: first in a red gown, then in a diamond-studded collar and a dusting of silver glitter. How PETA was encouraging the ethical treatment of animals by subjecting poor Chanel to this, I didn’t know. But then again, I wasn’t getting paid to think.
The car stopped outside the Brantleys’ home, and I waited a few long seconds, expecting the Driver-Without-A-Name to get my door. When he stayed buckled in place, the vehicle settled into park, I sighed, opening the door myself and stepping out into the cold night air.
The wealthy of the city lived in a different bubble than the rest of us. One where there were no worries of minor problems, the majority of which were easily solved by money. One comprised of beautiful women, powerful men, the drug of success heavy in the air, punctuated with diamonds, caviar, and ego. For the first time, I was an outsider, the Brantleys’ car driving down the back alley of the hotel, a gorgeous old building recently remodeled, its stop short at the loading dock, a flurry of white-coated cooks unloading a catering truck.
“Here?” I asked, looking out the window, my heart sinking.
“Mrs. Brantley said to drop you off here. Use your service provider pass to get in.” The driver casually tossed the barbs out, unaware of how they stuck in my thin skin. Your service provider pass. My visions of elegantly mingling, a champagne flute in hand, counting down the seconds as the ball dropped, a handsome stranger dipping me backward for a kiss, disappeared. A honk sounded behind us, and the driver looked back at me, his eyebrows raised. “You gonna get out?”
I grabbed Chanel’s bag and shouldered it, holding her close to my chest, and opened the door, a second honk blaring, more aggressive than the first. “Jeez,” I muttered, shooting an irritated look toward the vehicle, the driver raising his hands from the steering wheel in the universal gesture of asshole drivers everywhere. I elbowed the door shut and gingerly made my way around the back of the SUV, my heels uneven on the potholed street, one step slipping slightly, my recovery step putting me into a snowy spot. My heel sank, all the way to my ankle, and I gasped, half from the cold, half from the damage it would cause to my suede heels. Beside me, the Brantley’s driver pulled off, seemingly unconcerned over any plight to my Atwoods or me.
“Need a hand?”
I was frozen in place when the man spoke, my left hand stretched out for balance, my right still clutching Chanel, my legs spread, one on firm ground, the other still submerged in slush. I lifted my eyes from my wet ankle and then, staring into his face, lost all train of thought.
He was beautiful. Chiseled masculinity wrapped in a tux, a small smile turned up the corners of his lips, a phone held to his ear as he extended a hand. Carefully, my body balancing as my free hand moved, I reached out, sliding my palm into his and tried to keep upright as his hand firmly closed over mine, dominance in the grip, the heat of his skin shocking, the moment of our connection one that felt a full minute long. He squeezed my hand, pulling me forward as I freed myself, both heels hitting the sidewalk, then released it, the moment lengthening as his eyes continued the contact, his stare holding me in place before he stepped back. He spoke into the phone. “I’m here now.” He moved the phone away from his mouth. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I nodded, and he turned away, his voice low and urgent, my eyes trying to peek at his event nametag, a yellow-edged one, before he stepped away, my gaze following him as he jogged up the back steps and toward the event. The tux fit perfectly on his strong build. Dark, tousled hair, as if he had recently run his hands through it, the scruff of a five o’clock shadow barely visible as he opened the door, the most deadly things hidden. Those hazel eyes. Deliciously playful mouth. Strong features and knowing smile.
Chanel whined, and I glanced down at her, a line of drool dripping off her muzzle, its drop to the ground barely missing her velvet dress. “Right there with you,” I whispered, taking a deep breath before heading in, my right foot squishing with every cold and miserable step.
7. Canines, Couture & Conversation
I leaned against a wall in the service hall, at the back of the fashion show, a long line of pets before me. Nicole was about four evening gowns back, holding Chanel and laughing loudly at whatever the woman next to her was saying. They’d already made one sweep of the stage, Chanel’s costume change done without incident. I shifted, my feet aching from the tile floor, my arms crossed over my chest, the room drafty compared to the ballroom, where four huge fireplaces burned. I’d gotten only a peek at the room, having to run inside to find Nicole, a glorious five minutes spent on the Persian rugs, gigantic chandeliers overhead, a string orchestra playing discreetly in the background.
My stomach growled, loud and unladylike, and the girl beside me gave me a look, like I had any control over my organs. I should have eaten, but I’d assumed there’d be food at the event. It was a correct assumption, my naïveté being that I would be allowed to eat the food. Earlier, I’d tried to reach for a spring roll and was practically tackled by an older woman, who pointed to my yellow nametag like it was a scarlet letter. That was, apparently, how they sort the Important from the Unimportant, via cheap stickers, mine hurriedly stuck on a custom sequined mini from Italy, back when I flew two thousand miles just to shop. My couture didn’t matter to her, just my yellow nametag. Yellow, like the sexy stranger’s from outside. Turned out he was a service provider just like me, both of us playing visitor in a gilded world. My fantasies of a Cinderella ending with him dried up faster than my wet pump, which continued to squish with every step, even after I visited the ladies room and held it under the hand dryer.
The service provider tag shouldn’t have made him less attractive, but it had. I needed a man who had his shit together, who could help me figure out what I was doing. Whose next work commitment wasn’t unclogging a toilet, no matter how well he filled out a rented tux.
Nicole stepped off the runway and stopped, thrusting Chanel in my direction. “Take her home,” she said, her eyes looking past me, scanning the rest of the line before eyeing the ballroom door. “And put her to bed. Then you can go home.”