I am protecting my peace.
That’s what I told myself all day today as I did my job dutifully and efficiently. I am protecting my peace. I am going to work so hard and do so well that Mr. Roth will have no reason to fire me, but I will not give him another inch into my life, either.
But then, he told me not to bring my notebook tomorrow night. What does that mean? What kind of gift is he sending me?
Much to my relief, he does not come to Octavio’s that night. But the next morning, Saturday, I awaken to the doorbell ringing.
On the other side of my front door is a woman wearing a Hartmann’s tag from the department store downtown. She’s carrying a bagin her arms attached to a hanger, and she passes it to me when I sleepily open the door.
“From Mr. Roth, for the event tonight,” she says, then departs without another word.
What on earth could this be?
I carry the package inside and drape it over my chair, then zip open the bag. Inside is a beautiful blue dress with a metallic shine to the fabric, making it look like a cut sapphire, with a matching set of earrings clipped to the tag.
Is this Mr. Roth’s gift?
I pull it out, and it’s got four tiny straps that look like they’ll crisscross over my chest and back. It will show off quite a bit of my cleavage with its swooping collar.
I’ve never worn something like this in my life. I’ve dressed as Velvet, sure, but not as a high-class woman with real sapphire jewelry.
This is not what an assistant wears. This is what adatewould wear.
I stare at the dress for a long time, wondering if he’s saying what I think he’s saying. That he wants to be more.
After getting in my workout for the day and taking a long shower, I stare at the dress a while longer, then finally decide to change into it. I domy makeup to match, using a deep blue eye shadow and thick eyeliner to really accentuate it, then brush mascara into my lashes. Finally, I apply a brown-burgundy lip stain instead of red to let my eyes stand out.
At six p.m. on the dot, I’m waiting at the curb when Mr. Roth’s car arrives. I slide into the back, this time keeping my small black clutch in my lap.
The car doesn’t pull away immediately. No, when I close the door behind me, I turn to see Mr. Roth sitting in his seat, a rather large bouquet of flowers in his hands. He’s dressed in a perfectly white suit, clearly custom made for his frame, with a black collared shirt and red tie. He looks sharper than a knife.
“Ms. Kristoff.” The way he says my name is intentional and defined. “I wanted to express my regrets for my actions the other night.”
My mouth is probably hanging open. This is a set of words I never expected.
He hands the flowers to me, and dumbfounded into silence, I take them. They’re roses, white and red ones with a few black scattered among the mix. They are sexy and they smell delicious, and I can’t believe thatMr. Vincent Roth himselfjust gave them to me.
To apologize.
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. “All… right.”
Mr. Roth quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t press me for more. I sit back in the seat, holding the roses against my chest.
We arrive at the venue a few minutes later, and George drops us off out front. Typically, I go around the back of these types of events while Mr. Roth exits the car and enters publicly, but this time, he reaches out and takes my hand in his.
“Bring the flowers,” he says. “They’ll look good in the photos.”
Photos?He wants me to be in the photos with him?
He pulls me out of the car, and I allow myself to be pulled.
All at once, cameras are snapping. This is a big, hoity-toity fundraiser for the biggest humane society in the country, and the paparazzi want to know who’s coming. And I’m on Vincent Roth’s arm.
My throat tightens as Vincent curls my hand around his elbow, then squeezes it. I really am here as his date. He’s claiming me publicly, for everyone to see.
We enter through the front doors, where a camera is waiting for us to pose in front of a big wall. Easily, Mr. Roth slides his arm around my back and holds me against him as the camera goes off, capturing us for all eternity.
He doesn’t release me as we step away from the camera and slide into the venue. A sign for the cocktail hour points straight ahead, and Mr. Roth leads me with him. He surveys the room, the way he always does at these events, trying to discern who best to mingle with to achieve his personal ends. Networking with other bigwigs is always at the top of his list.
