by Aven Ellis
I stop dead in my tracks as the lights from the cameras blind my face. They’re snapping away, not stopping, getting very close to me and yelling at me.
My heart begins racing. Oh my God, I think, panicking. They’re stalking me. They found out where I worked and waited to ambush me.
I’m so stunned I don’t know what to do. I stand rooted to the pavement, my heart pounding in my chest.
“What’s going on?” Brandon asks, jarring me from my paralyzed fear. “Who’s yelling at you?”
“I have to go,” I say, disconnecting the call.
“Is that Harrison?” a photographer shouts. “Are you talking to him?”
Now they are right in my face, taking picture after picture after picture.
Just walk, I think. Get to the boutique. Just get inside.
I don’t say anything. I look down and grip my tote a little tighter as I move.
“Come on, don’t be shy.”
“Kylie, look up!”
Now they are walking backward so they can face me head on, the flashes still popping, my very image about to be plastered everywhere for people to dissect and discuss—
The public is going to rip me to shreds. I’m not a model. They’re going to talk about my hair and my weight and what I’m wearing today—
I hurry my step. The Flynnbabes! They’ll hate me. I have the one thing that the 300-plus members of that board want—Harrison.
I know they’ll never see me as good enough for him. Which will lead to post after post of my unworthiness for Harrison, with them questioning how someone like me—simple, boring, girl next door me—snagged one of America’s most eligible bachelors.
Oh God. Nausea rises within me at the thought of being judged and torn apart and my private life no longer existing.
I’m going to throw up, I think, feeling the bile in my throat.
Anxiety attacks me. I need to flee. I have to get as far away from as these photographers as possible.
“Excuse me,” I say, as they are all crowded around the doors of Boutique Dallas as I try to get in. “Pardon me.”
“Come on, one smile!”
I rap on the glass door, praying that someone will let me in quickly.
I’m feeling suffocated by them as I feel them right on top of me, still flashing, still yelling.
Suddenly Mona comes into view, casually strolling through the store with the shop keys in hand.
Please hurry, I will her. Get me inside.
Her eyes widen as she sees the photographers behind me. Then she opens the door, and I bolt inside as Mona shuts it after me.
“What on earth?” she asks, looking at the photographers.
Laurel looks up from the jewelry display case she is standing behind and smirks at me.
“The paparazzi want pictures of Harrison Flynn’s new flavor of the month,” she says snottily as she pulls out a tray of bracelets to inspect.
I stare at her. I’m still shaken by the paparazzi ambush, and now I have my bitchy boss knowing about my private life, too.
And it’s none of their business. All of them—the media, the Flynnbabes, my boss—none of them are entitled to know about me and Harrison.
But they do, I realize as the nausea roars back. This is my new reality.
“Did you forget coffee?” Mona asks in a whiny voice.
I stare at her. She’s got to be fucking kidding.
“You really don’t expect me to fight through the press to get coffee today, do you?” I blurt out.
“Yes, we do,” Laurel says, repositioning an Eddie Borgo bracelet in the tray. “That’s part of your job, Kylie. It’s not our concern that you have a pack of press wanting to take a photo of you carrying a tray of Starbucks, as mundane as that is. At least you had the good sense to wear your DVF wrap dress today so the graphic print should add some interest to the pictures.”
I’m so upset I’m trembling. How dare Laurel talk to me like this? I need to tell her off. I need to tell her to talk to me professionally and that her comments about my personal life are unacceptable.
But as the words formulate in my head, I know I can’t say them. I don’t want a confrontation with my boss, it’s the last thing I need this morning. I need to just put up with it for now. I’ll deal with Laurel when the time is right.
When I’ve been here longer.
“Fine,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’ll go get them.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Alyssa says, coming across the sales floor. “I’ll gladly do it for you, Kylie. You get settled.”
I exhale deeply. “Thank you, Alyssa. That means a lot.”
“Alyssa and I can take turns this week,” Bradley says. “This will die down.”
“Obviously,” Mona interjects. “It’s not like Kylie is the actual celebrity here.”
I grit my teeth. Yes, apparently there is no chance of me being cool or gorgeous enough to be a celebrity.
And I’m sure people think I’m not cool or exciting enough to be with Harrison Flynn, either.
I shove that thought aside and make my way to the back room. As I do, I glance over at the Men’s Department, thinking it will be good to distract myself with work today and finish the College Launch display—
I stop walking and stare at the floor.
Everything I started working on yesterday before news of the accident broke is undone. The vintage pennants are gone. The mannequins are re-dressed in summer clothing.
Mona has struck again.
I’m pissed. Obviously Mona couldn’t wait for me to bolt out of the store during a crisis so she could rearrange my whole display. Everything I’ve done—down to the smallest detail—has been removed.
“Doesn’t it look fabulous?” Mona says, walking up behind me. “I thought it would be best to finish the display instead of leaving it in a state of chaos yesterday.”
I turn to her. “What happened to my work?”
Mona wrinkles her nose. “You mean those nasty old pennants and beat-up trunk? I disposed of those.”
“You disposed of them?” I cry, incredulous. “Mona, I purchased those with the display budget for College Launch. I scoured eBay for hours to find what I needed.”
“Kylie, you’re new to this. Obviously you don’t understand like I do, from my vast experience, what is visually appealing and meets the high standards we have at Boutique Dallas for our displays.”
I nearly bite my tongue in half so I do not lose it. “Mona, with all due respect, I was hired to do visual displays here,” I say evenly.
“With all due respect, Kylie, you do not have the expertise that I have.”
Then Mona turns around and goes back upfront.
Now I’m shaking. I need to tell her in no uncertain terms that this is not her place; that I was hired to do this job without interference from the assistant manager.
But the thought of having it out with her makes me sick. I hate confrontation. I know Harrison’s right. I know I need to stand up for myself. But . . . but . . . it feels so wrong. What if I make things worse for myself by saying something? Because I’m so new to the boutique, do I even have a right to initiate a confrontation at this point? Do I have a right to even complain?
And the idea of having a heated confrontation with either Laurel or Mona is more than I can handle right now.
I head toward the back of the store. God, I want to talk to Harrison right now. I need to hear his voice, that Boston-accented voice that can reassure me like no one else can. He would want to know about the paparazzi. I want him to advise me on how to cope with that, how to deal with them, what to say, what to do. Harrison would also tell me I need to handle Mona and Laurel, and part of what I love about him is that he knows what I need to hear, even if I am not ready to act
on it—yet.
I step into the back room and put my things away. I fish out my iPhone and see that I have a new text from Harrison:
Fucking hell TATS ran my HOME ADDRESS on TV. I should sue William Fucking Cumberland for this. It’s his damn network!
My heart stops as I read his text. Suddenly I remember seeing Harrison’s physical address splashed underneath the video of his house.
Oh God. Now I realize what this means. My heart lurches in pain for him. His piece of the Basque country is forever ruined for him. The house that he put so much thought into, so much work into, is now known to people everywhere. For fans to stop by and stalk, take pictures, wait to see if he comes out for his mail or to walk Cooper and Lola . . .
Another text from Harrison drops in.
I can never move back to that house now. I’ll hire someone to dig through it and pull out what is salvageable, and hire security for it, but I can’t go back there now. Not with my address out there.
Tears fill my eyes for him. I wish I could make this right for him. That I could give him back his privacy and tell him we’ll fix the house and it will be okay. But I can’t.
And I know right now is not the time to tell him about the paparazzi. He doesn’t need that burden, I think. I know Harrison told me to tell him when something troubles me, but I can’t do this to him. I shove all my problems aside and text him back.
We’ll recreate your Basque house somewhere else. I promise you we can.
I wait for him to reply, which he does quickly.
When you say it, I believe it, Kylie. Because of you, I can believe it.
My heart dances inside my chest. I forget everything that just happened and focus on this man, who is worth any loss of privacy I might have, and text him back.
I do believe it. We’ll do it. Together.
I hit ‘send’ and then Harrison replies:
Speaking of together, I wish you were at this press conference. I can’t help it. I keep thinking about last night, and all I want is you, with me, and for us to be alone. But I’ll settle for seeing you tonight. That is the only thought that is getting me through this day.
A sweeping, happy feeling passes through me as I read his text. He’s feeling it, too. Harrison wants to escape with me and just forget all the drama surrounding us right now. I message him back, telling him I miss him, too, and I’ll see him tonight.
I pull out my purse, drop my phone back in it, and put it away. I pause in the employee restroom and stare at my reflection. The tenseness is out of my face after texting with Harrison, and the thought of seeing him tonight.
I see the color in my cheeks and the way my dark brown eyes are sparkling. I look different when I connect with him, even if it is through a simple exchange of text messages. Radiant. Happy. Confident, even.
You’re changing me, Harrison Flynn, I think, peering in the mirror. I’m already different because of you.
I turn to go out on to the show floor and undo all the hideous work Mona has done yesterday. It’s so weird. Harrison is not the kind of man I ever envisioned having in my life. Ever.
But now that he’s here—and even though Harrison has only been a part of it for a short while—I can’t imagine my life without him in it.
Luckily we’re on the same page as seeing where this could go. Harrison isn’t playing a game with me. And last night only strengthened our bond. We match intellectually. We see each other’s gifts and support each other. And our physical chemistry is off the charts . . .
I drag a stool over to a mannequin and begin to take off the summer clothing on it. No, we are building a future, I think excitedly. These are the first steps toward something really wonderful and amazing and with a man who makes me feel absolutely complete.
And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that will derail that.
Chapter 18
The Pop Quiz Question: Your man is visiting you at work. How do you feel about this?
A) Work is off-limits.
B) As long as it is brief, I’m good with it.
C) Seeing him here is definitely the brightest spot in my day.
The day is absolutely crawling by.
I glance at my watch. Only one-thirty in the afternoon. Harrison is going to meet me at my place tonight so we can start sketching out renovation ideas for the current project, and I’m going to take all his papers for both house projects and organize them for him.
If we can manage to focus on work, I think, my cheeks growing hot. Because all I can think about is kissing him—among other things—right now.
I slip a black tank top over a female mannequin, adjusting it carefully at the bottom, taking the fabric and scrunching it around the stomach area. It’s amazing, but after texting Harrison this morning, the anxiety of the paparazzi just fell away. I have this buzzing, electric feeling inside, and all I can think about is seeing him again.
It’s like Harrison is my favorite song, stuck on a loop in my head, every detail of him etched in my mind. His voice, his spicy vanilla scent, his laugh, the way he touches me—
KNTF. Kylie Needs To Focus.
On something other than Harrison.
I clear my throat and go back to work. I layer the piece with a lightweight ivory cardigan, perfect for the College Launch display. I’m just adjusting the sleeves when I hear heels clicking against the tiled floor.
I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see a customer.
But instead I see Laurel leading Harrison over to me.
I turn around, my pulse skyrocketing at the unexpected sight of him.
Laurel gives me a knowing look as they reach me.
“Here she is, Harrison,” Laurel says, a tone of irritation creeping into her voice. She cocks her head to one side, her long, jet-black hair cascading over her shoulder.
“I don’t think I like that cardigan,” she says pointedly.
I stare at her, wrinkling my brow. What? Is she kidding? She didn’t say that when I showed her the outfits I planned for College Launch this week.
“In fact, it’s rather uninspiring,” Laurel continues, cocking her head to the other side, as if she’s seriously debating the merits of my selection. “Boring, actually.”
Suddenly I get what she is doing. She’s making me look stupid in front of Harrison.
You’re such a bitch, I think, staring at her.
“I’ll change it,” I say, not even bothering to defend myself. What’s the point? She’s the manager, right?
“Good,” Laurel says. Then she gives me a fake smile. “And, Kylie, you’ve already had your lunch break, and your afternoon break is later, so let’s not spend more time off the clock with drop-in visitors, okay?”
Then, before I can say anything, she turns and strolls away.
I feel my face turn red in embarrassment. I glance at Harrison, who is standing next to me. He’s pissed. I can see it in the way his jaw is set and his eyes are burning into the back of Laurel’s head. And before I can even say a word, Harrison jumps in.
“Laurel?” Harrison says.
Laurel turns around, her brow creased. “Yes?”
“Yesterday I dropped nearly $1,000 in this boutique. I will be spending close to another $5,000 to $6,000 to replace my formalwear after my house was damaged. Pretty nice numbers, don’t you agree?” Harrison says pointedly.
Laurel blinks. “Um, yes, we greatly appreciate your business, Mr. Flynn.”
I want to laugh. Ha, she’s calling him Mr. Flynn now!
“Then I suggest you let me have a few minutes with Ms. Reed,” Harrison says firmly. “Or you’ll be explaining to the owner why I wrote her a letter detailing all the purchases I made at Neiman Marcus instead of at Boutique Dallas.”
I watch as Laurel’s face begins to take on a n
ice shade of pink.
“Um, yes.”
“Glad we’ve this cleared up then,” Harrison says, nodding at her.
Laurel doesn’t say anything, but just slinks away. Then Harrison turns to me.
“Don’t let her fuck with you like that, Kylie,” Harrison says quietly. “If you push back, she’ll stop this shit.”
I exhale. “I know you’re right but—”
“But you can’t do that yet, can you?” Harrison interrupts.
“I just can’t. Not right now.” Then I shake my head. “But what are you doing here? You’re still coming over tonight, right?”
“Yeah, but I wanted to talk to you about something,” Harrison says. He looks down at his iPhone, swipes a few things, and then turns it around so I can see it.
It’s a picture of me from this morning, when the paparazzi were snapping my photos as I walked to work.
I swallow hard as I see them. Oh God, they’re already out. I study myself, looking very serious and miserable in these pictures. My stomach lurches as I look at the image captured on his phone. I’m sure the Flynnbabes have deemed me a boring, pinched, sad persona who is not worthy of Harrison Flynn based on these awful photos.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Kylie?” he asks, confusion in his voice.
I stare up at him and see nothing but concern etched on his handsome face. I clear my throat and speak from my heart. “You had enough to deal with this morning,” I say softly. “It wasn’t worth bothering you about.”
Harrison puts his hands on my shoulders. “No. Not true. I told you to tell me when things bother you, Kylie. That’s paramount to us building something together. You have to tell me when you’re upset. Please, promise me you’ll do that. Promise me.”
“Harrison, it wasn’t bad,” I lie. “I’m . . . I’m just not used to it.”
“Your face tells a different story,” Harrison says. “You . . . you look terrified.”