“He gave you a dirty look?”
“Yep. Well, it was more like a scowl. Like I was some freak. He did say ‘hey’ as he passed me by, though.” His voice. God, his deep-as-sin voice. Recalling his words from New Year’s Eve and even just the one word today has my panties all a-flutter.
“Well, that’s, um, something.”
“He probably just did it because he could tell I’d made an idiot of myself.” I know that’s why he did it.
“No, I’m sure he saw how adorable you were in your—oh God, were you wearing Pops’s coat again?”
“Of course; it’s my only coat.”
“Well, now I get it. He probably thought you were a homeless person.”
I let out a startled laugh. “What? I don’t look homeless.”
“Yeah, in that coat, you kinda do. I wish you’d just take one of mine….”
“No. Ilovemy coat. Screw him if he thinks that way. My hair was sort of okay today, and I had on some fairly decent shoes. I definitely didn’t look homeless. Theresa wouldn’t let me look homeless. She expects us all to wear nice clothes in the store.”
“I know. Well, at least you saw him. Was he as good-looking as you remember him?”
Better. “Nah, he was nothing special.”
Lauren giggles. “Yeah, right. He’s hot as sin, and you know it.”
Yeah, I know it. I ignore her current line of questioning, “Okay, gotta go. I’m at their building and King Brutus is ready to get home. Talk to you soon. Kiss, kiss.”
“Whatever. Kiss, kiss.” She chuckles, hanging up.
“Worst. Day. Ever,” I sigh to the dogs. No, that’s not true. The worst day ever was the day Pops died. Before that, it was the day my mom and Grandma Margaret were killed. This is nothing. Forcing my shoulders back into a more confident posture, I lead the dogs into the lobby of the high-rise and press the Up button. “Time to get home so I can get back to work,” I say while patting Maggie on the head. She’s my favorite. I love all three of them, even Brutus, but Maggie the sheltie is the sweetest.
Back at work, I know I’m late. Theresa gives me her signature look—a small smile and a wink. I love her. She’s amazingly kind. She knows I walk the dogs on my break, and she’s fine with it. I’ll make up the time another day. “Sorry I’m late. Brutus was an ass. I mean, he wasespeciallydifficult today.” I try not to cuss at work. Theresa’s store is very fancy. It’s expensive to shop here, so she expects us to behave like civilized sales personnel.
“Well, he is the alpha, right?” she asks. She saw us walking one day and stopped to meet the threesome.
“Yep, definitely the alpha.”
“I find that fascinating. The smallest one is the one in charge,” she says with a chuckle. “I love that.” She probably does. She’s a tiny dynamo herself. Sure, she’s sweet and kind, but if you cross her, watch out. “Okay, I’m heading out to lunch, then I’m meeting with a potential new artist for the store. I’ll be back at three o’clock.”
I giggle when she says three o’clock, and then I remember what happened earlier. “Thanks for letting me know. I should be okay on my own.”
“If you need me, call.”
“I will.”
The rest of the day drags by slowly. I don’t work alone in the store very often, but when I do, I hate it. It’s boring as hell. To keep busy, I do my usual and begin cleaning and dusting the cases, starting with my own little section. I pull out my set that includes earrings, necklace, and a bracelet all made in twenty-four-carat yellow gold. The three pieces are delicate. The necklace is thirty inches long. Every three inches, there’s a tiny gold disc that’s less than one-quarter inch wide. On each, ten in all, I’ve embossed and carved pictures of things from the sea. One disc has a starfish, others have various fish species, one of them has coral, and one has a jellyfish.
The remaining pieces are part of the same theme, although I do my best not to make them exactly the same. You could buy all of the pieces and wear them together or buy them separately. They go together without having togotogether, if that makes any sense. The price isn’t low either. I’m asking twelve hundred dollars for the necklace alone; the bracelet is eight hundred dollars, and the earrings are six hundred dollars. I’d love to sell the set, because I’ve got several more designs at home I’d like to showcase. Someday, someone will see them and think they’re perfect.Someday.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PLAN OF ATTACK
I spentthe rest of the week prepping for an upcoming job. We’re setting up a protection detail for a Grammy Award–winning singer named Shyanne. She’s set to perform two nights at the United Center here in Chicago next month. There’s a lot to handle, and most of that involves the assignments of my men and women at each event. Shyanne not only has the actual concert for us to cover, but she’s also doing television and radio interviews.
The issue we have relates to her entourage. Why do these performers think they need twenty-three people to travel with them? I know some are there to do her hair and makeup, while others are costume people. The rest are just hangers-on, freeloaders, and bloodsucking leeches. Yeah, I’ve got issues with those people. Seriously, it’s nuts. Not only do we need to protect her, but we’ve also got to do background checks on the “friends” and have to keep eyes on them the entire time. I hope my crew of fifteen people will be enough.
As I contemplate the deal with the diva, my mind wanders back to MacKenzie. I regret the day at the jogging trail. I just didn’t expect her to recognize me and then act excited to see me. I feel like an utter asshole. Setting my laptop and notes onthe coffee table, I lay my head back and close my eyes. “I need a plan,” I say aloud. A plan of attack. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want her to think it was contrived, even though it’s contrived as hell.
