Chapter Four
Kristen
One of my coworkers slowly walks by my cubicle, checking me out. Well, my chest, actually. When I squint and stare, he gives a fake cough and walks faster.
What’s this all about? He isn’t the only one to react oddly since lunch. I stare down at my outfit. No weird stains or anything on my clothes. I already checked my makeup twice, and it’s fine. I even reapplied my lip gloss, just in case.
What gives?
Frowning, I turn my attention back to the design I’ve been studying.
“Hi, Kristen.” A slightly breathless greeting makes me look up.
It’s Preston Marsh, an intern. Ropey and lanky, he’s a college senior. As usual, he’s in a white button-down dress shirt with blue pinstripes, khakis and black Chucks. Gel does its best to style his muddy brown hair, but it can’t control the double cowlick, which always stands up, like a mini Mohawk, slightly off to the right side of his head. His wide-set eyes—as gray as rain clouds—are unnaturally bright and enthusiastic behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. They can be startling…even raise the fine hairs on the back of your neck, but intense and eager is how he is all the time. And those are the qualities the company’s owner, Lola No-Last-Name, likes, and he is one of two selected for the year-long rotation program. It’s a pretty cool deal that allows him to see how Lola, Inc. operates. Currently he’s doing the mailroom. It’s not that glamorous, but crappy duties come with the more desirable ones, like watching Lola work. And our internship not only gives him college credit, but there’s a small stipend, too.
Today, his gaze is more intense than usual. And he glances down at my chest. Okay, that’s weird. My breasts aren’t huge or anything, and Lola, Inc. has a strict anti-sexual harassment policy…and Lola enforces it. There’s no reason for people—men or women—to check my girls out, but people have been doing exactly that.
I point my index finger at him and make a hook.
He comes closer, sudden wariness in his gaze. “Yeah?”
“Why were you looking?”
He clears his throat. “Looking at what?”
“Preston, I know when a man is checking out my chest. No matter how slick you think you are, you aren’t that slick.”
He clears his throat again. “Um. I didn’t really… No offense, Kristen.” He raises both of his hands.
“None will be taken if you tell me why you were looking.”
“Why are you asking me? I can’t be the only one who—”
“Precisely. You’re not. So what’s up? Is there something on my chest? My clothes?”
His complexion turns beet red. “No. You look great. It’s just…” He shifts his weight, left to right and back.
“Yes…?” My patience grows thinner with every ticking second.
Suddenly, my phone rings. One glance at the screen and my heart starts beating a little faster. It’s Antoine. I pick up the phone, my thumb over the green button.
Seizing the opportunity, Preston moves away, pushing his mail cart like his ass is on fire. Of course, I know exactly where to find him.
I answer in my sweetest tone, “Hello?”
“Where are you?” Antoine demands.
“At work, naturally. It’s only”—I check the clock on my laptop—“four eighteen.”
“Good. Gather your things and meet me at the delivery entrance to the cafeteria on the first floor. It’s in the alley. No matter what, do not go outside using the main entrance.”
“What? Why?”
“Do it now. I’m waiting.”
Oh, wow. This is the first time he’s ever called…then asked me to play hooky with him. I’m so tempted, but…
“Karen, do you mind if I leave early?” I ask my boss, who’s walking past on her way back from the break room.
She stops, turning toward me in a skintight black leather dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. But she has the model-esque body to pull it off, along with expertly carved facial bones and enough attitude to own the ensemble. Her shoulder-length, super silky, straight black hair spills forward as she leans closer, and she gives me a stare, her brown eyes unblinking. Then she finally nods. “Sure. It’s probably better that way.”
Huh? Before I can ask what she means, she walks off, long legs eating up the hallway as her stilettos hit the industrial beige carpet.
Curiouser and curiouser.
I shove everything into my laptop bag and purse and hop into an elevator before Karen changes her mind…and before Antoine gets tired of waiting. Maybe he sensed I was going to be lonely this week. I was sort of bummed that I couldn’t think of a good reason to spend time with him after I go get my car from the hotel today. When Dominic and Liza were in town, Liza invited Antoine to dinner and stuff. He never turned her down, probably because she’s very good at making people say yes. Then she made sure to let me know Antoine was coming, so I could just “drop by” and join the meal.
On the other hand, Antoine sounded a bit tense on the phone. Is something wrong? I doubt anything’s happened to Dominic and Liza. They texted me last night after landing safely in Bora Bora.
Maybe I’m just overthinking this. I always do when it comes to Antoine. Liza often tells me I need to just let my gut be my guide, but it’s sort of hard when I feel like I can’t afford to make any mistakes. Everything I do has to be perfect.
When I reach the cafeteria, the owner, Mrs. Lim, tsks, shaking her head. I heard she’s in her fifties at least—and she must be that old, since she has two children in their thirties—but her pale golden skin looks smooth enough to belong to a woman twenty years younger. She’s skinny except for her waist, and she always wears untucked shirts to hide it.
“Terrible shame, that,” she says in heavily accented English, her thin lips curving downward. “You know, it’s fake. I know.” She points at her heart.
What?
“Come. Your friend called.” She gestures at me, leading me to the back of the cafeteria. “You ask your brother to fix it, yes?”
Ask Dominic to fix what? Ever since his engagement to Liza, a.k.a. Elizabeth Pryce-Reed, one of the most famous heiresses and philanthropists in the world, everyone in the building has learned more about me than I ever wanted them to know. Mrs. Lim is no exception.
Antoine is in the cafeteria kitchen, near the big delivery door. He hands Mrs. Lim a couple of hundred-dollar bills. She waves them away without making eye contact with him, then flees before he can force the money on her.
He sighs heavily and gives me a searching gaze. Unlike my coworkers, he doesn’t look at my chest, damn it.
He sticks his head out the door, then says, “Okay, let’s go.”
I walk out after him, and he opens the passenger-side door to the same SUV he brought to pick me up this morning. I hop in; he shuts the door, climbs behind the wheel, and we’re off.
The car smells like leather and Antoine. I stare at him, wondering what his plans are for the evening. Maybe he’s going to take me to some romantic place for dinner because he doesn’t want me eating alone. Well, I wouldn’t care if we went to a cheap diner with torn vinyl seats and cracked linoleum. I just want to spend time drinking him in.
As the SUV makes a turn and gets on the wide road where Lola, Inc.’s main entrance is, I see photographers. No, not photographers—that’s too respectable a word. They’re paparazzi. Lots and lots of them. They’re shameless, like scavengers circling around, looking for scraps to feed on, and the building’s security team looks like they just bit into a rotten peach.
I crane my neck. “Wow. What’s going on?” Lola sometimes does custom work for a few select celebs, but I don’t think any are visiting now.
“You don’t know?” Antoine’s voice is extra grim.
“What?” I ask, sudden dread replacing the euphoria of being picked up by Antoine.
His face tight, he hands me his phone. I tap the screen. All the air seems to whoosh out of the car.
On the screen is a picture of me. And I’m topless.