by Gina LaManna
“Good,” she said, the chipperness returning to her voice. “Anything else?”
“Nick Flanagan—what do you know about him?”
She stood, brushing invisible lint from her apron. “What do you mean?”
The stiffness was back. Discomfort lined her face, her movements unnaturally robotic.
“He’s worked here for a long time, too, so I’m guessing you must have known him for a while.”
“He’s younger than me, so we didn’t associate much. But yes, I knew him—know him still. And his parents.”
“His parents worked here too?” I purposely feigned ignorance, trying to tease out information from Mrs. Dulcet. As much as I liked the woman, a few pieces didn’t add up.
“The Clark Company is very much a family run business.” Mrs. Dulcet’s voice turned brusque. “The Clarks are unique people, and they value loyalty above all. Finding good employees is difficult—finding loyal employees is near impossible. All of the employees here care deeply about the success of Mr. Dane Clark and his company, and many families have worked here for generations.”
“Of course.”
“But—” she continued. “When loyalty is broken, the Clark’s do not respond well.”
The edges of foreboding sent a shiver down my spine. “Did something happen with Nick?”
“There’s only been one person fired from the Clark Company. And it was Nicolas’s father.”
“And you don’t like Nick because of this?”
“I won’t comment any more on the matter, as it’s not my business.” Mrs. Dulcet’s expression was stony. “I’ve voiced my concerns to Mr. Clark. He listened, and that’s the end of the story.”
“But—”
“Should your visitors arrive a minute before ten p.m., the alarms will sound.” Mrs. Dulcet stepped into the hallway. “There are extra towels and a bathrobe hanging from the door. The mini bar has milk for the Oreos. Clothes can be found in the closet.”
Then she left, shutting the door behind her. It took a moment for the silence to settle, the sudden chill in the room taking some time to dissipate, even after her footsteps died away.
Something was amiss between Nick Flanagan and Mrs. Dulcet, and I needed to find out what—and why—the distaste. If the stolen blueprints were truly an inside job, could it have something to do with Nick and his father? Or was there something else I hadn’t yet uncovered?
I set the files on the bed, fished the Oreos out of the nightstand, and said a quick thank-you to the cookie gods for watching over me. Or maybe it was Dotty Pink sending sweets from the afterlife.
I poured a glass of milk and settled in at the ancient writing desk in the corner of the room. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Sherlock Holmes himself had sat in this chair once upon a time. This whole day felt like I’d stepped out of reality and into a fairytale—a high-tech fairytale.
The room felt like a hint of Buckingham Palace breathed into NASA headquarters. A large, squashy queen bed draped with a thick golden comforter and pillows to match sat on one end. Chairs built more for looks than for comfort perched before a desk, a tray on top with fancy paraphernalia serving as decorations: a globe, a weighty notepad, a letter opener.
I turned my attention back to the desk before me, resting the glass of milk on a notepad so it wouldn’t leave rings. I couldn’t imagine how much it had cost to outfit this room.
A few dunks of the Oreo, and I had enough energy to get started on my strategy. First on the list was to text the girls.
Me: ALERT: Urgent meeting. My room, tonight. Tell the guards out front you’re here to see me. Follow the path with the yellow railing and climb through the window with the sign in it. I’ll provide snacks.
Babs: Are you kidding me, Dorothy? A yellow brick road?
Annalise: That’s breaking and entering. No. I will not be a part of your shenanigans.
Me: But… Oreos.
Babs: Say no more.
Annalise: No more, Babs! You said you were cutting out sugar.
Me: Babs, I’ll see you at ten. Don’t come a minute sooner.
Babs: You got it.
Annalise: If I’m arrested, you guys are coming with me.
Babs: Yay! Dibs on George Clooney. If he’s unavailable, I’ll take the Oreos.
Then I refreshed my milk and cookies, and dove into the stack of files.
“You’re kidding me!” I lunged for the knob on the shower. “Stop it, already!”
Not only had it taken me twenty-seven minutes to figure out how to turn the stupid spaceship shower on, but I’d done it all wrong. Jets blasted from the side of the shower walls straight at my face, splattering my clothes, the towels, the floor, and everything else that would ideally stay dry.
I thumped at the handle, twisted it, and elbowed the wall until finally I wrangled the thing into an off position. I stepped back and surveyed the damage. Let’s just say that the prognosis wasn’t good.
Puddles of water rivaling the size of small ponds sat on the floor. I hadn’t even showered yet, but my body and all the clothes on it were soaked—as were the towels. Any article of toweling that wasn’t drenched I grabbed, making a somewhat useless attempt to mop up the mess.
When I’d done a sufficiently decent job of making sure the bathroom was no longer a pool, I stripped out of my wet clothes and grabbed the mostly-dry bathrobe from behind the door, swaddling myself in a cloud of fluff.
I nabbed a decorative tray from the desk in my bedroom and, very gently, removed the books and ornaments and frilly doo-dads sitting on top. I proceeded to use the tray as a laundry basket, since I couldn’t find a bucket or clothes hamper anywhere.
Stumbling out of my bedroom in search of the laundry room, I wrapped the robe tighter around my body. To the right, the hallway lead to a dead end. From the left, a low rumble—a drier?—came from the direction of the common room I shared with Mr. Clark.
I crept down the hallway toward the living room. After all, since I was basically a secret agent, creeping was part of my job. I had seen neither head nor tail of Mr. Clark since breakfast, so there was a good chance I’d be safe.
Then, I spotted it. A small door off the common room. That’s where the rumbling sound was coming from, and I’d bet good money that behind those doors sat two very beautiful machines; a washer and a drier.
If I could just manage to get my towels washed and dried before dinner, nobody would ever have to know I was the idiot who couldn’t work the shower. I had too much pride to explain how I’d gone through six towels on my first night here. Call me stubborn.
My tip-toeing game was on point as I snuck across the common room. I hardly indented the carpet as I moved, succeeding in making it across the great expanse and into the far room without incident.
As soon as I stepped through the door, I knew I’d found the right spot. The fresh scent of detergent and the soothing sounds of clothes spinning in the drier welcomed me. I inhaled the fresh, clean scent with delight. The search for the light was another struggle, but one I’m proud to say I overcame with minor difficulty.
I noted, with a shred of disappointment, that there were ten minutes left on the current load in the drier. From what I could tell, it looked like a pile of small hand towels swirling around—not something the housekeepers would be rushing to grab from the machines. With any luck, they wouldn’t even notice my load. I’d just dump my sopping pile into the washer for a quick cycle, then get them switched over to the drier. Hopefully, I had time to pull myself together before dinner and hold on to some semblance of my dignity.
Two minutes later, the washing machine gurgled to life. Breathing a sigh of relief, I shut the light off as I reached for the door handle. I reached, and reached, and reached . . . and by the time I realized the knob wasn’t in its place, I was too late.
“What the hell? Lola?”
Before me stood Mr. Dane Clark in all his half-naked glory.
Looking surprisingly normal in knee-length athletic shorts,
he’d forgotten a shirt. Or rather, he’d taken it off. And that was distracting.
“Oh, um, hello.” I moved to the side, tightening the robe further against my body. It was long, and the material covered all of my girly things—that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I wasn’t wearing any underwear, and even if he didn’t know it, I did. And my cheeks gave everything away, turning as red as Lucy’s hair.
“What are you doing in the laundry room?” He looked over my shoulder before dragging his gaze back to mine. “And why are you hiding in the dark?”
“Nothing. Er, I was just… spying. Watching out for you.”
“Stalking me?”
“No! Think of me like your bodyguard. Or something. I’m your personal assistant and I guard your personal assets like…you know, like your body.”
He raised a hand to scratch his head, and I was treated to a long, uninterrupted view of his torso. A six-pack that’d previously been hidden under his suit rippled as he stretched, his chest big and strong-looking, especially for a tech-whiz. A t-shirt shirt dangled from his hand, and suddenly, I put it all together.
“You were working out.”
“Yes.”
“And you came here to drop your laundry in the machine.”
“Yes, again.”
“And I surprised you.”
“That’d be accurate.”
I nodded a few times, trying to figure out a way to recover without admitting my shower debacle. After a minute of deep thinking, I hadn’t come up with anything good, although I had made the situation worse. Mostly because I’d been staring at him this whole time. With my mouth half open.
“Well, you do a great job,” I said quickly, gesturing to his torso. “You know, on the whole working out thing. Nice muscles. I should try it. The working out. Not the muscles. Whatever. I mean, not whatever. Ugh, forget it.”
His blue eyes turned thoughtful, and I recognized the expression. He wore the same one when he was trying to figure out if I was making a joke, or being serious.
“I did mean it, though. I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic,” I clarified. “Sometimes my mouth just talks and things come out sounding sarcastic, even though I don’t mean it in that way.”
He crossed his arms, and the motion gave me butterflies.
“What I’m saying is that you have a great body, and I wasn’t joking about that. I was joking about me exercising, and, do you know what? If you have a gun, I can just end this right now.”
At first, he looked horrified at my proposition, then that adorable, thoughtful look came back. Eventually, he sorted it all out in that big brain of his and smiled. “A joke.”
“Sort of. I might die of embarrassment instead.”
“But Lola, I don’t want you to die.” He looked at me then, really looked at me for the first time since I’d arrived. His eyes scanned my face, followed the curve of my neck down to the ‘V’ in my adopted robe. When his gaze passed the ends of the robe around mid-thigh, he returned his stare to my face.
I was waiting. “It’s rude to stare, you know.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—” Dane blinked, taken aback. “You stared at me first, so I figured I could stare back. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t stare,” I said, my cheeks burning. “I was surprised. And as your bodyguard, it’s my duty to assess you for injuries.” I waved my hand in front of his body. “If I’m staring, it’s just because I’m making sure you’re not injured.”
“From the gym?”
“There are heavy things in that place.”
“You’re posing as my personal assistant. You’re not actually my personal assistant. If you’d just read the contract, you might understand your duties—”
“I take my duties seriously, dammit!” I didn’t mean to raise my voice, but I was on a roll. “Anyway, you look fine, so I should be going now.”
“Wait, Lola—” He caught my wrist as I strode past him. “What are you doing here? You don’t have to do laundry. I have staff to take care of that for us.”
His use of the word us stopped me for a second. I sort of liked it, and I had no idea why. I cleared my throat, and decided to chew on that piece of insight later. “Well, why are you doing laundry then, if you have staff for it?”
“Mrs. Dulcet—er, the butler is busy. I’m helping out.”
“Me too.” I stuck my nose in the air. “Towels.”
“I thought there were several extras. I will have to let Mrs. Dulcet know that it’s unacceptable for my guests—”
“No!” I waved my hands. This was backfiring in so many ways. “Don’t worry about it. I just like them fluffy and hot. You know, to get all cuddled up in after a shower. I’m warming up my towels.”
“Warming up towels?” He tested out the idea. “Fascinating.”
“Try it sometime.”
Mr. Clark gave a slow nod. “I suppose I could.”
“Great, uh…” I squeezed past him, pausing in the doorway. “So, good seeing you. I’m going to see if I can get the shower to work.”
“Do you need assistance?”
“Good Lord, no. I think I’ve been assisted enough.”
“I’m sorry to have scared you. It’s reasons like this that I prefer to stick to my normal schedule.”
“You don’t have to apologize; it’s my fault.”
“Yes, it is your fault. If you hadn’t arrived nearly thirty minutes late today, I would’ve exercised at my normal time. I would’ve been in the shower by now, and I wouldn’t have run into you here, so yes, it is your fault.”
“Well, okay then.” I turned to leave. Then I remembered I still needed to shower, but I had no towels. “About that assistance you mentioned. Do you have someone who could run me an extra towel?”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Thank you.”
I scurried away without looking back. As awkward as the whole encounter had been, part of me liked testing him, seeing if I could make him squirm, throw him as off-balance as he’d thrown me. Then, he’d looked at me like I was different, special almost, and professed he didn’t want me to die. The whole moment was almost sweet.
As I climbed into the shower and managed to hit my body with fifty percent of the jets, I was in a better mood than before. And when Mr. Dane Clark himself called through my bedroom door to tell me he was leaving a towel outside on the floor, I couldn’t help but grin.
I was feeling pretty proud of myself by the time I stepped out of the shower. I’d shut the water off in one go. I’d also found an amazing, lilac-scented suite of soaps and shampoos already stocked, and lotion to match. It was better than the Ritz.
Climbing back into the bathrobe, I tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, and snatched my towel. The whole thing took under a minute. As it turned out, however, my lightning quick secret agent moves weren’t necessary, since the hallway was deserted.
The moment my fingers hit the towel, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The fabric, soft as cotton candy, was warm. He had popped the towel into the drier for me, and as I wrapped it around my body, it felt like I’d been swaddled in hot chocolate. It was singlehandedly the most adorable, and the most thoughtful, thing anyone had ever done for me.
I floated toward the huge walk-in closet and took a moment to stretch out on the sparkling new couch along the back wall. The furniture sat before an impressive shoe rack, and as I scanned the closet filled with my size of clothing articles, I felt like Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City.
The couch called to me more than the shoes, however, and I stretched out, warm and cozy. That’s when I spotted Dotty’s journal. I must have left it out somewhere, on the bed maybe, because Mrs. Dulcet had placed it gently on the center-shelving unit.
Reaching over, I pulled the purple notebook toward me and flipped open to a random page in the middle. After today, I deserved another prophecy, a hint of Dotty in my life.
The words on this page made me smile.
Enjoy the sma
ll things.
Well, Dotty had always had a knack for perfect timing. I pulled the warm towel tighter, lounged on the couch, and debated resting my eyes. Not for a long while, but…
“Dear, dinner will begin shortly,” Mrs. Dulcet called through the door. “Are you almost ready?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Dulcet!” I shot up off the couch. Apparently, I’d rested my eyes for longer than I’d thought. “Oh, um—what should I wear?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable in! You don’t have to impress me—it’s not formal!”
I thumbed through the closet. My clothes were far less fun than a brand new closet of pretty things.
Either Mr. Clark’s last girlfriend had been exactly my size, or he’d had the place stocked just for me. I continued poking through the drawers until I found a handwritten note in sloppy handwriting that could’ve only come from the male species.
Lola—
Help yourself. I noted your size when you signed the contract. I hope this will suffice.
—Dane
Surely he’d sent Mrs. Dulcet out to do the actual shopping, but the fact that he’d taken the time to handwrite a note was more touching than I wanted to admit.
I hugged the towel a little closer, noticing a familiar scent. It smelled like him—Dane. His detergent, the same scent from the laundry room. It was pleasant—clean and fresh, and I took one last sniff before letting the towel drop to the floor and selecting a nice, yet simple, spaghetti-strap dinner dress that reached to just above my knees.
It was the single most comfortable cocktail dress I’d ever owned. Just running my hands along the edge of the material had me sighing in pleasure at the fabric, cool to the touch and soft against my skin.
The walk down the hall to the kitchen was a short one. Even so, I caught myself lingering near the common space, looking over my shoulder at the laundry room. In case, for example, Mr. Clark made a habit of hanging out half naked with his washing machine.
“Go on into the dining room!” Mrs. Dulcet called as I approached the kitchen, having been denied a sighting of Dane on my pilgrimage through the castle hallways. “Food will be right out.”