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 dock 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.