Chapter Nine
There’s a few minutes, right after I wake up in the morning, where I almost forget about it.
I have a deep sense of unease lodged in my chest, but I’m not exactly sure why. It’s not until I’ve got my toothbrush stuffed in my mouth that I remember what my tongue was doing yesterday.
Shit.
I was hoping it had all been some bad dream. But no, this is real life. I kissed Devon Wakefield.
Kissed him! On the mouth! With my mouth!
What the hell’s wrong with me?
I’ve never, not once, crossed boundaries with a client like this. Not even close. It doesn’t matter if they’re attractive or not. It doesn’t matter what I want, it’s wrong. It’s a terrible idea. I’ve always known that, and it’s never been a problem before.
Of course Wakefield had to ruin everything.
I’m sure it was just a power play on his part. This is how he likes it. Me, confused and unbalanced, outside of my comfort zone. Him, always in control. He doesn’t know how to handle anything else.
I pick up the phone and call him as soon as I’ve wrung out my hair and wrapped it in a towel.
“Good morning, Ms. Kirkland.” His voice is entirely too smooth and self-satisfied.
“We need to talk about what happened last time.”
“Not sure what you’re referring to.” Devon is shuffling papers in the background, louder than is strictly necessary, I imagine. “Are my tastes in jewelry that bad?”
“Stop it,” I reply, sharply. “You know what happened. We violated the professional boundary. It can’t happen again.”
He’s silent for a few moments. “Okay,” he says, finally, his voice a bit quieter. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. I went too far. It was just…”
“A mistake,” I cut in.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” he mutters.
“But it was,” I insist. “A lapse in judgment. I’m not blaming you. We’re both at fault. But if you don’t make an effort to keep the professional boundaries intact, I’ll have to terminate our contract. You understand?”
I wish I could see his face. It’s impossible to read him under the best of circumstances, but without seeing him, I’m at a total loss.
“I understand,” he says, finally. His tone is completely flat. “I’ve got to get back to work. Are you setting something up for our next meeting?”
The pointed use of meeting, not date, isn’t lost on me.
“Yes,” I tell him. “A double date with a few friends of mine. You’ve been doing well pretty well so far, so I think it’s time to level up.”
“All right,” he says. “Do I get to know the identity of this mystery couple?”
“Nobody you’ve met before. I checked. Part of this whole exercise is teaching you to think on your feet.”
“What if we hate each other?”
“Then you still have to act gracious. That’s the whole point.”
“But I don’t really want to date someone with friends that I hate.”
“Mr. Wakefield,” I sigh, “this isn’t the time to test my patience. I’ve got a long waiting list of clients who’d be happy to take your place.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” he grumbles. “Sorry.”
No you’re not.
But it’s pointless to argue. “I’ll see you next week, Mr. Wakefield.”
***
It’s after ten o’clock when I finally shut the office down for the night. I already sent Becca home, despite her protests. She always worries about my safety, being here all alone, but it’s not like we’re in a war zone. I just keep my wits about me, and my phone ready to call for help if need be.
I’m keeping a brisk pace on the sidewalk when I hear uneven footsteps racing up behind me. Probably just someone running late for their train, but I stick my hand in my purse for the pepper spray, just in case.
“Miss Kirkland! MISS KIRKLAND!”
Oh, God no.
I walk faster, but somehow, he manages to catch up with me.
“Miss Kirkland,” Mr. Pizelle wheezes out, as he finally closes the distance between us. “I need to speak with you.”
“No, you really don’t,” I reply, keeping my gaze locked ahead. “We’re not doing business anymore, Mr. Pizelle. I need you to respect that.”
“But you were right,” he pants, desperately. “I was wrong. I get it now, I’m willing work with you again. We could draw up a new contract. Just a few special dispensations for me. I’m not asking for some kind of special snowflake status, I just think I should be able to run my own…are you listening to me?”
“Mr. Pizelle, I’m going to ask you to leave me alone.” I’m still not looking at him, still clutching the pepper spray in my purse. “We have no relationship. Not professional, not personal. I am not interested in working with you. I wish you all the best.”
“Stop it with that bullshit!” he snarls, half-leaping in front of me on the sidewalk. I freeze just before colliding with him, stumbling and catching myself against the brick wall of the closest building. “You think you’re too good for me, just like all the others. Meanwhile you’re dating a man for money, just like a common whore.”
I stare at him, my stomach churning and my heart thumping. But I keep my jaw set. “Do not speak to me that way.”
He sneers. “Aren’t you gonna ask me how I found out about you and Mister Playboy?”
This is ridiculous. I’m letting this sad, strange little man intimidate me. That’s not who I am.
I square my shoulders and keep marching forward, pushing him out of the way. He howls as he stumbles on the curb, rolling his ankle.
“YOU FUCKING BITCH!” he yells after me, as I walk faster and faster. “YOU GODDAMN FUCKING BITCH. YOU’RE GONNA REGRET THIS.”
***
The next few days pass without incident. I don’t hear from Wakefield again, and more importantly, I don’t hear from Pizelle. I’ve now escalated things per my usual protocol, going down to the police station and filling out an incident report just in case. These guys never escalate beyond yelling at me in the street, or occasionally lurking by my apartment until they get spooked and scatter like the coward bullies they are. But I’m not taking any chances.
“You really are a magnet for these creeps, aren’t you?” Officer Franklin said, while he handed me a paper cup filled with tepid water and a stale bag of Lipton. All I could do was give him a rueful half-smile. He must’ve filed a dozen of these for me. Nothing ever comes of them, but he never tells me to stop wasting his time, and I’m grateful for that small mercy.
Now it’s Tuesday, and I’m getting ready for my not-a-date. I wish I could explain the knot in my stomach. I’m pretty sure it’s not because of the incident with Pizelle. It feels like I’m in high school again, about to run into my crush at choir practice.
Gross.
Wakefield’s town car arrives ten minutes early. I know this, because I’m ready well ahead of time, staring out my window. But I still don’t come down, even when he texts me to let me know he’s there. Not until it’s time.
He gets out and opens the door for me, but I don’t make eye contact as I slide into the seat. My dress rides up a little on my thighs and I can feel the luxurious slide of the buttery leather against my skin.
“It’s good to see you,” he says.
“Mmmhm,” I reply, checking my phone. I’m wondering if I should check the Google alerts for my name, maybe Pizelle is going to start an online harassment campaign or something. I wouldn’t put it past him.
I glance in the rear-view as the driver pulls out, though I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I don’t even know if the guy owns a car.
“You’re distracted,” Wakefield says, after a few minutes. “You keep looking over your shoulder.”
“I don’t,” I insist, craning my neck back around.
“I know it’s not about me, unless you think I’m somehow stalking you from the street while still inside the car,” he say
s. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I reply, firmly. “Professional boundaries, remember?”
“So we can’t talk?” He looks slightly hurt. “Come on, Cassie.”
“Ms. Kirkland,” I correct him. Then I immediately regret it, because it takes me back to that moment on the sidewalk, with Pizelle running after me.
“Come on.” He touches my shoulder, ever so gently. “You look pale. Something’s eating away at you, and I know it’s not me, for once.”
“Just a disgruntled client,” I reply, in a clipped tone. “That’s all. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
“Is he stalking you?” Devon asks, his voice suddenly serious. “Cassie, this isn’t something to shrug off. He could be dangerous. I can refer you to my security guy -”
“I’m fine,” I cut in. “Do you think I don’t have my own procedures in place for this?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just…I know what it’s like.”
Glancing at his face, I can see he’s not lying.
“Thank you,” I tell him, a little softer. “I appreciate your concern.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands me a business card. “Promise me, if you get even the slightest hint that you’re in danger, call Andre. Tell him I referred you.”
My brow furrows slightly as I stare at the card. Andre Strong, security consultant to the stars. Writer of three New York Times bestsellers, expert witness, and celebrity bodyguard. Of course that’s who Devon would hire.
“I’ve read his book,” I muse, aloud. “Trust But Verify. It was pretty good, I’ve recommended it to a lot of clients.”
“Oh, of course,” says Devon. “It’s been almost twenty years since he wrote that, it’s amazing how relevant it still is. You know Letterman credits him with getting his head on straight about that stalker he had in the nineties. He used to joke about her on-air, until Andre told him to knock it off. All attention is good attention.”
It’s sort of sweet, how much he cares about my safety. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to lose his deposit.
I really need to amend my contracts to address what happens if I turn up dead in a dumpster.
“Hey,” Devon says, cutting into my dark thoughts. “Quit planning your own funeral. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you tonight.”
“But I’ve got to plan it,” I reply, smiling a little. “Who else is going to do it, Becca? I can’t put that burden on her.”
“Well, I always assumed my offspring would handle mine,” he says, thoughtfully. “I think it helps people to feel useful after someone’s died. Otherwise you just sort of…go adrift.”
“Your offspring?” I raise an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve been hiding something pretty big from me, that’s not really an option yet.”
“Future offspring,” he amends. “Potential offspring. You know what I mean. That’s what I need you for.”
The implication, accidental or not, hangs in the air around us.
“Make sure to talk about that on the first date,” I say, to cut the tension. “Hey, nice to meet you, I’m looking for a broodmare to give me a son so that I don’t have to pick out my own casket.”
“Oh, please,” he laughs. “Casket? I’m going to be buried in my McLaren F1.”
I just sigh.
“It’s a car,” he says, finally. “A really expensive car.”
“Thanks. I’m aware.”
“And I’m joking.” He pauses. “Obviously I’ll be buried in a Maserati.”
I let out an undignified little snort of laughter. I can’t help it.
Devon grins. “There we are. I knew you still had your sense of humor in there somewhere.”
The car pulls up to the restaurant, and I don’t bother waiting for Devon to get out and open the door for me. Normally I would, because the kind of women he wants to marry are often into these little gestures. The niceties that are supposed to feel like respect, but feel more like nobody trusts you to handle basic life tasks on your own. But I’m in no mood tonight. I climb out on my own, ignoring the not-so-subtle glances of everyone on the sidewalk trying to figure out who we are.
It’s never bothered me before. I spend enough time in public with very rich people, I’m used to being stared at. But tonight, it feels different. I feel naked.
This is why I can’t get emotionally involved with my clients. This exact thing. These kinds of feelings cloud judgment, foster insecurity. This isn’t about me. I’m here to do a job, plain and simple. My ego doesn’t enter into the equation.
I take a deep breath and follow Devon into the restaurant. He pauses at the hostess’ station and turns to look at me, lost.
“We’re here to meet the Risinger party,” I tell her.
Devon’s mouth drops open, just a bit.
“You could have mentioned that your ‘friend’ was Adrian Fucking Risinger,” he hisses, as we follow the hostess to a private booth in the back of the restaurant.
“It shouldn’t matter,” I reply, calmly. “Anyway, you’re bound to be caught off-guard all the time while you’re dating. Get used to it.”
Throwing him off-balance feels good. A little too good. But he deserves it, after our last encounter. It’s nice to have the upper hand again.
“Cassie!” Meg calls out, beaming, as she jumps to her feet and hugs me. “It’s so great to see you.”
“Devon,” says Adrian, standing up and offering his hand to shake. “So great to meet you. I’m Adrian.”
“Of course,” he says, smoothly. “I know you by reputation, naturally.”
“My blessing and my curse,” says Adrian, with a smile. “People always know more about me than I know about them. But of course I can’t complain.”
“Well, you could,” says Meg. “But you’d come across like a real asshole.”
Adrian just grins.
Once we’ve settled in with our drinks and apps, Devon seems to have calmed down a bit. He’s no longer drumming his fingers on the top of his leg under the table, anyway. Meg and Adrian are both great conversationalists, quick and witty and the kind of people who could spin a good yarn out of a phone book. I knew this date would be fun even if Devon was a drag, but thankfully he seems to be having an okay time.
Meg’s sipping from a diet Coke, which is delightfully on-brand for her at a five-star restaurant, but I can’t help but wonder. I know she drinks. Normally. Unless…
No, this isn’t the time to get distracted. If it’s true, I’ll hear about it on Page Six like everybody else.
“So, how do you know Cassie?” Devon’s asking. “Please don’t tell me she was your matchmaker. If your meet-cute story isn’t true, I’m going to lose all my faith in humanity.”
Adrian’s cracking up. “It’s true. Cassie’s successfully worked with friends of mine before. Some of whom were…”
“Unmarriageable,” Meg cuts in.
“Harsh,” says Adrian. “But fair.”
“And that’s me talking,” she says. “Look at who I ended up with.”
“Harsh,” says Adrian, again. “But…”
Devon’s on a roll. “As a romance novelist, do you endorse professional matchmaking, then? You don’t think it’s all too…clinical?”
Adrian shrugs. “Whatever works. For all its trappings, love is just a chemical.”
Meg snorts into her soda.
The entrees come, and the conversation lags a bit as we all begin to eat. Everyone nods and makes agreeable noises to signify that we’re all happy with the food, and for a moment, this almost feels like a normal social event. Just two couples, having a nice time at a restaurant whose wine list has line items that cost more than most people’s mortgages.
No matter how long I move among them, I’ll never quite feel comfortable in the world of the elites.
I know Meg’s the same way, and that’s why I like her so much. She carries herself with an incredible confidence, but it’s the confidence of a girl
who was born in the shadow of Stone Mountain, and probably drove a tractor on her cousin’s farm to have a good time.
Halfway through his steak, Devon grimaces and reaches into his pocket. His phone is buzzing up a storm.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “If I don’t take this, I’m going to have to wear a full suit of armor to my next shareholder’s meeting. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He disappears down a hallway, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
This should be fun. This is fun. The problem is, Meg and Adrian’s aura is downright contagious. They are always watching each other, smiling, and while one talks the other listens in silent admiration. Until, of course, it’s time to cut in with an argument or a well-placed barb, which just stokes the fire between them even higher.
By all rights, it should be obnoxious. But it’s not. It’s intoxicating.
Devon returns quickly, but with a slightly less forced smile. “Sorry, never fails. Every time I’m trying to take a night for myself, my phone blows up.”
“Nothing urgent, I hope,” says Meg, sipping her Coke.
“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” says Devon, smiling at her in a way that makes my stomach clench a little. I glance at Adrian, who is definitely watching, but if anything, it seems he maybe enjoys it.
Well, of course he does. He knows Meg is his, they’ve been through all this. There’s no reason for him to be jealous of some random guy. It’s not like…
Not like what, Cassie? What the hell’s gotten into you?
There’s no reason for me to be feeling this shit, and especially not for a man like Devon Wakefield. I mean, for God’s sake. I’ve worked with men richer than him, more attractive than him, by purely logical standards. Sure, I’ve never met someone who makes my voice quiver or my breath catch in my throat, quite the way he does. I’ve never felt the kind of pull that exists between us, like an invisible thread that tugs painfully at my chest every time we’re apart.
But it’s just a stupid crush. I’ve denied myself for too long. That’s all it is. I just need to get him out of my head, out of my system, somehow.
The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride Page 8