“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.”
So … no midnight celebration for me. I was too cold and tired to care. Plus, the thought of standing in a dingy hallway while the ballroom chanted the countdown was depressing. I nodded, reaching out for Chanel. “Happy New Year,” I managed.
“Oh. Yes.” She looked surprised, her eyes dropping to my outfit as if realizing, for the first time, that I was at the party. “Happy New Year.”
I pulled out the card that I’d been given for the driver, his name in silver font above his number. Dante Radicci. I called the number, tapping the card against my leg as I huddled against an unused corner of the hall, waitstaff passing frequently on their way to and from the kitchen, my hunger growing with each pass of their trays.
After speaking to Dante and arranging pick-up, I hung up and glanced out the back door, the loading d
ock empty, the alley free of cars.
“Thinking of running?”
I turned at the question, seeing the stranger from earlier, his hands in his pockets, strolling toward me. He’d lost the jacket, it draped over one arm, and his bowtie hung loose, the top button of his shirt undone. I glanced away. “Waiting on a driver.”
“Leaving before midnight?”
I looked back. “My boss wants her baby taken home.” I lifted Chanel with a small smile.
“You look tired.” He raised a brow, and I wanted to launch across the hall, despite my tired state, and tackle his sexy ass.
I swallowed. “Just disillusioned. It’s a new job. A little different than I thought.” Wasn’t that the truth? It turned out actually working wasn’t fun. Another life lesson not learned from my parents.
“You’re … what? A pet nanny?” He glanced at Chanel and stepped closer. I tensed. Service provider or not, I wasn’t entirely sure I could resist myself if he came any closer. I could use some servicing myself.
“Personal assistant.” The reply came out wrong, dripping with self-importance. “What are you doing here?” I nodded to his nametag and prayed that he was at least management.
“Maintenance.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “It’s an old building. This is its first big event. I’m here in case it falls apart.”
I followed his eyes, suddenly nervous. “Is that a possibility?”
He laughed. “No. But there are a lot of little problems that could arise. Small fires.” He ran a hand through his hair and I noticed grime across his knuckles.
A maintenance worker. Great material for porn. Not so much for Chloe Madison’s Life Plan. I leaned down and picked up Chanel’s bag, edging closer to the door. I needed to leave before I lost all common sense. “Well.” I pushed open the door, a cold breeze sweeping through the opening. “Happy New Year,” I chirped in parting, shivering despite myself.
He didn’t move, just smiled, as if he could see right through me. “Happy New Year,” he said softly.
I shifted Chanel higher in my arms and walked out, into the dark and empty alley.
Better to risk my safety on a dim New York street than my heart to a blue-collar stranger.
They say the job makes the person. It needed to work faster. I was a disorganized mess, one that lived on fast food and my best friends’ scraps. I beat on the glass of my old world and desperately wanted back in, each day in my new life more discouraging, the varnish of my prior life rubbing off, a new Chloe emerging.
I didn’t want her—I only wanted the past.
New Year’s resolutions suck. When I’d packed up my condo, I’d found mine from last year. The list was on the back of a Nordstrom receipt and was filled with crap like lose fifteen pounds and start meditating and pin more. There were ten things on the list, and I had only successfully completed one: switch to diet soda. Whoopee.
Knowing my track record, I still sat down and made a list. I did it in the backseat of the Brantleys’ Escalade, Dante taking me home after work, the constant stop and go of the traffic giving the writing a slightly jagged appearance, as if the words were haunted. I kept it short, wanting to actually accomplish the list, each item pretty damn important.
1. Get an apartment.
2. Pay off NYU and get my degree.
3. Don’t sleep with Vic.
Granted, it was more of a to-do list than proper resolutions, but whatever. Being new to the grown-up table, I was allowed some slack. My list was also way less glamorous than Nicole’s, whose included being nominated for an Oscar (Resolution #4) and buying a house in Bali (Resolution #18). But I figured the chances of her getting an Oscar and me not sleeping with Vic were pretty neck-and-neck.
I carefully tore out the page and folded it in half, sticking it into my wallet, the action reverent, as if the location might increase my chances. I put the wallet into my purse, reaching down and pulling on my heels as Dante turned down Cammie’s street. Benta lived in a luxury tower, but Cammie loved her brownstone duplex. I wasn’t a fan. The heat came out through a steam radiator, for God’s sake. The woman couldn’t stand germs but bathed in water that shot from 200-year-old pipes.
The SUV rocked as we pulled closer, and I leaned across, trying to see through the snow, my eyes squinting on the figure in front of the brownstone. It was Cammie, stamping her feet against the cold, looking pissed. I cracked open the door, surprised to see Dante jump out, his grin wide and friendly, one he’d never flashed at me.
Hmmm. So the ice king did melt. Maybe I just wasn’t his brand of heat.
His grin instantly softened Cammie’s scowl. I stumbled out, slipping on the icy sidewalk, Dante completely unaware as he shook Cammie’s gloved hands, her giggle floating my way. I tried to sneak by and their lovefest came to an end, Cammie’s hand reaching out and grabbing my coat. “Can’t go up there.”
“Why?”
“Something clogged up the plumbing on our floor. The whole place is flooded. I’m waiting for a ride.”
“Boyfriend coming to pick you up?” Dante spoke from behind me and I turned at the question, raising my eyebrows.
“No, just a cab.” Cammie said, smiling. She glanced at me. “I thought we could go to Benta’s.”
“Let me drive you.”
Wow. Definitely not the Dante I knew. He and Cammie were suddenly in movement, one of his hands on her elbow, helping her across the curb, the other opening her door, apparently no need to consult little Chloe in the decision-making process. I slogged alone through the snow, and managed to climb, unescorted, into the passenger side.
We pulled away, and Cammie beamed at me, any irritation over the plumbing gone. “He’s hot,” she mouthed, nodding toward the front.
I shrugged as if I hadn’t noticed, more than a little irritated at Dante’s 180 toward friendliness. Then again, Cammie and I had always appealed to different types—a good thing for a friendship. “Go for it,” I mouthed back. I settled into the seat, turning up the heater, and watched her do just that.
9. My old friend: Tiffany
I woke up Saturday morning on Benta’s loveseat, a spare comforter wrapped around me, a puddle of drool underneath my cheek, to the distinct sounds of a hookup. Not skin-slapping, breath-gasping actual humping, but something solidly in the second-base vicinity.
My spot in the living room gave me a front-row view of the action, happening on Benta’s kitchen counter. Cammie’s dark bare legs were wrapped around one hell of a jean-covered ass, her pale pink nails digging into the guy’s white T-shirt.
“Ahem.” My subtle throat clear got me nothing, the frantic kissing—if anything—heating up.
“Cam.” I reached for my cell, ready to throw it at her, my eyes instead catching on the time display. And that was when my irritation grew tenfold. Not even eight. On a Saturday morning. I rolled over on the loveseat, throwing the blanket over my head, not at all interested in meeting her date. I had a pretty good idea of who it was, especially when I heard the smooth scrape of an accent whisper her name. I hid under the covers, eavesdropping despite my best attempt to go back to sleep. At some point among their whispered goodbyes, I fell back asleep and was spared anything more ’til noon, when Cammie and Benta pushed me awake and into clothes, promising sushi and sake.
An hour later, and I would scream if I heard Dante’s name one more time. Cammie wouldn’t shut up about him. Granted, I might have been a teensy bit jealous, my own romp envisioned with the strong and silent Italian.
Plus, to be honest, how awkward would it be if this turned into anything—my co-worker and my best friend? Chances were it wouldn’t. In the five years I’d known Cammie, she’d never had a relationship last more than a few months. Her eye … wandered. That was the nicest way to say it. Tell her she couldn’t touch something, and she’d trample your ass in her haste to dig her fingers in. Benta, on the other hand … well, Benta was weird. I could spend an entire week talking about her crazy love
life, one that included some of the freakiest sex on the planet.
After two sake bombs, courtesy of my friends, I forgot any irritation about being woken up early. Cammie was freaking beaming at us as she dissected every last moment with Dante, so I couldn’t help but be happy for her on that front too. Not that I could really stay mad at the person keeping me from sleeping on the streets.
We left lunch slightly buzzed, stumbling our way into her apartment, no evidence of flooding present, where she wandered to bed. I found cleaning supplies, determined to be the Best Houseguest Ever and clean the kitchen. I had Spotify playing, a Lysol wipe in hand, and was on a stool, emptying out the cabinet above the fridge, when I moved aside Cammie’s cereal and felt it. My fingers closed on it without thought, pulling it out, the box instantly recognizable, a powder blue one with a tag that made my stomach curl into a tight fist. I stepped off the stool and wondered why, in the jumble of healthy crap that had been in that cabinet—there was a jewelry box with my name on it.
I didn’t have to wonder too much. The box was trademark Vic, my name scrawled in his rough handwriting on a crisp white tag. My denied engagement ring had been Harry Winston, but every birthday, Valentine’s, and “just-because” present was from Tiffany’s.
I sat down on a stool, smoothing the label’s white ribbon with a trembling finger. Half of me wanted to rip off its lid in my haste to see the gift. The other half wanted to drive to the closest dumpster and fling the box inside. Vic had picked this out. Thought of me. Still wanted to spoil me. For a girl who’d spent Christmas ignored by everyone but my two friends, it hit hard. I gently tugged on the ribbon and lifted the lid, seeing a folded note on top.
When I opened the note, the spicy scent of him floated up from the linen stock.
Love, Chloe Page 3