Left Behind (Lost & Found #1)

by C. L. Stacey

  I am in the middle of applying a fresh new coat of mascara to my lashes when my eyes catch the time. Kellan is due to pick me up any minute now, so I speed up the process and screw the wand back into the tube.

  There’s this thing I have about being late to stuff. I absolutely hate it, so I plan accordingly. I laid my dress out before my shower, so that’s twenty minutes I don’t have to worry about wasting.

  Shoes. I need shoes, so I stop by my closet to pull the cobalt blue pumps that go perfectly with the dress I’d chosen, then I head straight to my bed.

  Just as I am slipping my arms through the lace sleeves of my dress, my phone beeps with a text alert, and my eyes drop to the screen. I read it without stopping, now sliding my feet into my Barbara Bui’s.

  Harper’s message reads that she and Nick are about to leave their home in an estimated time of five minutes. Which in Harper’s language means ten, because unlike me, Harper never leaves when she says she will. You add five minutes to her promised estimate—that’s the amount of time she usually wastes telling Nick how slow he’s moving.

  I stand in front of my mirror and pull the long tail of my high-pony to the front so it’s lying over my left shoulder, then I run my hands over the front of my dress to smooth it over. I’m looking for anything else my look might need, but I give up my search when I hear the doorbell ring.

  First spritzing myself with my favorite perfume, I grab my clutch and dart for the door.

  Kellan let’s out a low whistle as soon as he sees me. “You look stunning.”

  The compliment makes me laugh, and he stares at me with a confused smile.

  “Seriously?” I close the door and lock up behind me.

  “Is it something I said?”

  “You say that to everyone!” I accuse. “Including my mother!”

  Kellan’s eyes drop to my dress again, brow arching when his gaze falls to the hemline that stops just at the middle of my thigh. “Yea, well, I never mean it the way I do now.”

  My eyes narrow at him, and I playfully hit him against the arm with my clutch. “Charming,” I sarcastically remark.

  The doors to the elevator slide open as we make our way over, and a wasted couple comes stumbling out into the hall. They are lip-to-lip, chortling in between kisses. I’m trying not to stare, but it’s hard with the very heavy public display of affection playing out literally right there in front of me.

  I let out a startled gasp when Kellan pulls me roughly to him, helping me dodge the couple, just before they bulldoze right into me.

  “Watch where you’re going, you could hurt someone!” Kellan barks at them.

  “Kellan!” I scold him.

  The couple finally comes up for air, and the guy, despite the hostile tone in Kellan’s warning, is all smiles. “I’m sorry about that, guys. I had my hands full with my brand new fiancée!”

  The girl shoves her hand out with a proud smile on her face to show us her impressive sparkler, and I grin happily at the both of them. “Don’t mind my friend, he’s just mad I told him no.” I laugh when Kellan’s eyes immediately cut to mine, and he good-naturedly goes along with my joke by feigning offense.

  “Yes, she loves to turn me down,” Kellan says to the man before he pushes the button on the wall to call the elevator back.

  “Don’t worry. It only took me six years to get her to say yes. You’ll get there, my man.” The guy scoops up his fiancée and starts hauling ass down the hall, the sound of her squeals and laughter fading in the growing distance.

  My day has been full of interesting conversations. Crazy boss, crazy client, crazy-in-love couple…

  “Wait…” Kellan stares down at me. “How long have we known each other now?” he asks while calculating our timeline out on his fingers.

  My head drops back with my laugh. “You’re funny.”

  The doors slide open for us, and Kellan grins with an extended arm to keep it from closing on me. “Ready to get drunk?”

  “Yes, please!” I breeze by him to board the elevator.

  Get drunk we do.

  Harper made six toasts in my honor. I’m wasted.

  And I gave zero fucks about the appointment I will have to keep in the morning.

  I may be abusing my power here, but now I know that Stephanie will never fire me, and I still can’t stand my client. Wouldn’t you do the same?

  I am on time this morning.

  Actually, I am twenty minutes early.

  Lexi, however, is cutting it quite close.

  Just as I decide she is going to be late, the elevator in the foyer opens, and I have trouble understanding what I’m seeing.

  What I see is Lexi, doubled over in the corner, leaning all her weight against the wall. It isn’t the casual type of lean while waiting out a short elevator ride; she’s leaning against it for support. Her sunglasses are still on her face, as if the lighting in the building is just too harsh for her eyes to bear.

  A hangover. It’s more than evident that she is suffering from a pretty bad one. She had to have taken more than her limit if she is this hungover.

  Needless to say, I am far from pleased.

  I don’t like her reckless behavior.

  I don’t like that the bartender clearly served her too much.

  I don’t like that her friends didn’t try to cut her off at some point.

  I don’t like that she’s a young, single female, wandering around the city while in such a state.

  Maybe I’ll have Daniel spend more time shadowing her.

  Most of all, I don’t like that I care enough to feel this protective, enough to want to prevent her from ever getting this drunk again. She’s a grown woman. Her life is her business.

  Lexi steps off, and I rise to my feet when she begins to make her way over. My hands make their way into my pockets as I wait her out. I have no intention of meeting her halfway. She can drag her miserable ass to me.

  “Ms. Moore,” I greet her first.

  “Mr. Anderson,” she greets back. Her voice is weak, barely making it over a whisper.

  My patience continues to slip away from me when I notice how sickly pale she looks. “I’d like to see your eyes when I’m speaking to you,” I say, giving my indirect order for her to remove her oversized designer glasses from her face.

  Even with the frames shielding her eyes, I can tell she’s rolling them at me now. She pulls them from her face before perching them atop her head. “Better?” Her tone holds its usual sarcasm.

  “Much.”

  My eyes take in her slightly puffy face, and I do a quick, subtle appraisal of her appearance. She looks presentable, but I can only guess that presentable was all she could manage when stumbling out of bed this morning.

  Years of observing this woman taught me that she’s a crazed perfectionist, especially when it comes to her appearance. Like when she showed up here yesterday, without a single hair out of place.

  Today, her hair is pulled back with a mess of fly-aways in the front that she failed to tame.

  Yesterday, she carried herself with grace, her posture unfailingly confident.

  Today, she walks with a slight hunch, barely able to hold herself up.

  Perfection, she is not. Definitely not today.

  “You look unwell,” I state the obvious.

  There is no guilt on her face, or any sort of emotion for that matter. She just looks me in the eyes when she says, “Yes, I guess that’s one way of putting it. I’m… unwell.”

  As if the conversation we are having is already boring her, she turns away from me, and she heads toward the couch opposite to the one I am standing in front of. Then she stops for a moment, her hand clutching her stomach.

  This place is covered with priceless pieces, some that can’t be replaced, and she is literally a breath away from diminishing their value. “I implore you, do not vomit on any of the furniture.”

  She turns to look at me over her shoulder, her eyes finally expressing some emotion this time. Disbelief. “I
mplore—who talks like that anymore?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but she shakes her hand out to stop me before I can. “I won’t puke all over your precious furniture, Mr. Anderson. Don’t worry.”

  I’m not sure if she meant for those words to be reassuring, but they certainly don’t come out that way.

  The level of hatred this woman has for me is shocking. But what astounds me even more is the fact that she shows no signs of regret over her total lack of professionalism.

  She’s testing my patience.

  She wants me to fire her.

  Too bad I won’t.

  “Have you forgotten about our appointment this morning?” I ask, unfazed.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” She sets her purse down before taking her seat.

  “Do you usually show up hungover to all your client meetings?”

  “You’re my first client, remember?” She smiles up at me, but it’s the furthest thing from genuine. “Hopefully I don’t end up an alcoholic by the time you’re done with me.”

  Another burn.

  What a firecracker this one is.

  I don’t indulge in any more counter remarks, because I’m sure she could go all day. So I steer the conversation back in the direction of why I summoned her here. Business. “Shall we begin?”

  “Let’s.”

  “Very well.” I unbutton the front of my jacket and take my seat.

  We stare expectantly at each other for a good thirty seconds before I ask, “Do you have anything to show me? Don’t stylists usually show up with a portfolio of some kind?”

  “They do.” She nods, and then she quickly adds, “When they have several options they can work with, but that really isn’t the case with you. Is it?”

  I relax into the cushions and drape my arm across the back of the couch. “What exactly is my case?”

  “You’re allergic to color,” she states.

  I tilt my head to the side. “Pardon?”

  “I’ve already studied your preferences before keeping our first appointment yesterday afternoon,” she explains. “Black suits, black shirts, black shoes, no ties.” She is so confident in her answer, but when I don’t say anything right away, she asks, “Was any of that wrong?”

  No. But I don’t tell her that, because those are merely preferences. I don’t want her to wrongly assume that she has me figured out in any way. She assumes she knows enough about me through a simple client file from Stephanie’s office, but she hasn’t the slightest clue.

  The truth would kill her lingering buzz.

  Lexi’s eyes follow me as I stand to my feet. “Come with me,” I say, my tone heavy with my order.

  This man is incredibly bossy, but that’s no surprise, I already knew that. I expected that.

  What I didn’t expect was his patience.

  When I woke up late this morning, I was sure I was as good as fired. I didn’t think he’d even have me step off the elevator, but clearly, I was wrong.

  I am at war with myself. I want this job, but I don’t want to work with him. I don’t necessarily want to push my limits with Stephanie, but I continue to test him. I’ve never been so emotionally confused in my life.

  Stephanie’s speech from yesterday plays through my head, and I accept the fact that we indeed cannot choose the people we work with.

  Sometimes we get lucky with the hand we’re dealt, and sometimes our luck is complete shit. But in the end, we deal.

  Deciding that I’d like to keep my job, even if it means catering to Jackson Anderson, I follow his order, and I get to my feet.

  He leads the way, and I follow him. All the way to his bedroom.

  I hesitate at the door, stopping just under the threshold as my eyes slowly take everything in.

  Dark and depressing are the only words that come to mind. The walls are colored a gloomy grey. The carpet is the lightest part of the room. Everything else is either black or grey.

  Comforter—black.

  Nightstands—black.

  Couch—black.

  End tables—black.

  Couch cushions—black. Oh, wait… there’s a hint of grey.

  Dressers—black.

  Jesus Christ.

  At least the floor-to-ceiling windows bring in sunlight during the day, and I imagine the city lights provide some light at night. Aside from that, this room is basically a Batcave.

  This room makes me really sad.

  It can’t be healthy, living this way. A person needs some light, but this guy is just dark.

  This room suits him, I guess. Granted, I have no idea of the kind of person he is, but this is how I see him: cold and dark, with a touch of scary.

  “You don’t have to stand there, Ms. Moore. Come in.” Jackson’s invitation brings me back, and I turn to look at him.

  I nod and take my first step into his cave. He’s standing at the entrance of his walk-in closet, so I cross the space to get to him. I follow him when he steps inside, and again, I’m not surprised. Each side is lined with black suits.

  No color. Anywhere.

  This dude is Batman. I’m thoroughly convinced. Either that or he’s part of the Men In Black, but Batman’s much cooler, and it makes more sense.

  Bruce Wayne by day, ruling the world from whatever multi-billion dollar company it is that he chairs. Batman by night, where instead of rescuing people, he fires them before retiring to his sad little Batcave.

  I wonder where Alfred is…

  “As I mentioned yesterday, I’d like to retire every single item this room holds. I want them all replaced. Brand doesn’t matter, I trust you.” He glances down at me when he says it.

  “You trust me,” I repeat, looking up at him. He nods. “You’re sure?” I ask to double check. He nods again. “Alrighty then.”

  “I won’t provide you with a limit, just have Stephanie bill me,” he says. I nod.

  “What will you do with all this stuff?” I ask, staring in awe as I take in all the suits he’s about to let go to waste. There’s so much in here.

  He shrugs, looking around the huge space. “I’ll just have my assistant toss everything. Don’t worry about that part, it’s not part of your job.”

  I tap a finger against my lip, unsure if providing him with alternative options would be crossing a line in some way. “May I suggest something?”

  I’ve piqued his interest. His brows pinch slightly when his gaze meets mine. “Of course.”

  “There are people all over who can’t afford to buy nice things… people who need to look nice for job interviews but can’t afford it,” I begin. “How about you donate it? I’m sure they won’t give these away for free, but I imagine they’ll be way more affordable to, like, struggling kids straight out of college or something.”

  His eyes soften at my suggestion, and then he nods. No verbal agreement, just a simple nod.

  I beam up at him, shocked that we have finally come to agree on something. “Really?” My voice escalates with my excitement.

  I can’t tell if he smiles back or not, because whatever it is, it’s there and gone in a flash. He shrugs at me again. “I don’t see why not. It’s a pretty generous thought, actually.”

  Well, what do you know? Batman’s got a heart after all.

  A small one, but still… it’s there.

  Things are a lot less awkward since last we spoke. She lets me call her Lexi. I’ve asked her to call me Jackson in return, but she respectfully declined that offer. For professional reasons, she’d said.

  Nevertheless, I feel better about us making that little bit of progress. The tiny step feels huge, at least for me it does. But just when things are starting to get easier, she goes right back to making things impossible.

  It’s been a week since I’ve hired her to re-do my entire wardrobe. Almost half the stuff she’s ordered made its way into my closet today.

  ‘Shocked as hell’ doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.

  I. Hate. Everything.

  I�
��ve never seen so much color. Ever.

  I’m standing in the middle of the closet, dumbly staring at the stuff she expects me to wear… out in public.

  The first thing I notice is the wide spectrum of colors in shirts, from red to fucking purple. Seriously, purple.

  This can’t be my closet. It’s like a rainbow vomited in here.

  Second, ties. A variety of them in colorful prints, patterns, and designs… but I don’t wear ties.

  And wait… are those vests I see in the back?

  I walk over and shove a pink shirt out of the way. There’s a collection of vests lined up behind it, from stripes to solids. Color options: greys, navys, and several different ones in the beige family.

  This woman is insane. I don’t wear vests. OR any shade of beige! What the shady fuck is this?

  My list of preferences is microscopic; she pointed that out herself during our second appointment. I’m as simple as they come. Shirt. Pants. Jacket. Maybe belts. Color: black. Always black.

  My brain explodes when I see pants in the next row that coordinate perfectly with the vests.

  No.

  What is happening?

  And Lea has already donated my old things to charity.

  “LEXI!” I shout, unable to keep calm any longer.

  I hear her heels clacking against the floors outside as she hurriedly makes her way into my room.

  “In here,” I call from the closet, and she continues to scurry on over to where I’m still standing.

  “What’s wrong, what happened?” she asks, looking around the space.

  I’m surprised when the expression on her face doesn’t change, like she expects to see all of this crap hanging here.

  There’s got to be some sort of mistake, she clearly had my order mixed up with someone else’s.

  “What is all of this?” I ask, gesturing toward all the stuff hanging behind my head.

  Her head tilts like she doesn’t understand my question. “What do you mean?”

  Good God, she can’t be serious. “This stuff isn’t mine, is it?”