“You still love me, though, right?”
“Yeah, but only because of the kiss,” I say grumpily.
Lauren smiles slyly at me. “Now, we just need to figure out who Mr. Three o’Clock really is.”
Good luck with that. I smile at my friend, then throw my arm over her shoulders and lead her toward her husband. “I’m going to head out. I’m beat.” I know she’ll stay up and party all night long.
“What if your man comes back? Don’t you want to talk to him?”
I’m not sure that I do. It could ruin the most amazingly perfect New Year’s Eve kiss of all time the second I opened mymouth. Open mouth, insert foot is my MO. No, I don’t need to see him again. That kiss alone will last me for months, maybe years. It’ll be my own personal romance novella that I can dream about every night. “Nope. I’m good.” I smile at my friend. “Night, everyone.” I wave to them as I make my way out the door to the coat-check area.
I reach into my bag to grab my claim ticket and encounter something moist and squishy. I’m momentarily struck dumb, until I recall what I did earlier. “Yuck. Caviar.” I pull the wet ball of a napkin filled with fish eggs out of my clutch and search for a garbage can. Finding one near the coat-check stand, I toss away the smelly lump. I look down at my hands and see caviar residue. “Gross.” Searching for a place to wipe my hand, I decide to head to the ladies’ room to wash them and clean out the purse. It’s Lauren’s bag. She’s got fifty of these things, but she still won’t want this one to smell like dead fish.
Making my way to the restroom, I pass a room that looks like a security office. The door is ajar. I can see several monitors displaying the ballroom.I guess that’s how they make sure we’re all safe. As I turn toward the ladies’ room, a familiar shadow passes by the door, Mr. Three o’Clock. It’s hard to miss that silhouette. The guy is big and tall at well over six feet. He’s got the widest shoulders I’ve ever seen, and those sit on top of an amazing chest and arms. I could tell when I barely touched his shirt how rock-hard his chest was. Right now, he’s bent down next to another man, checking out a screen. I let my eyes follow down from the back of his head to his ass. “Jeez,” I hiss quietly. It’s amazing. Like an athlete’s butt.Turn away, Mac. Nothing to see there.I quickly turn and enter the restroom. “I don’t want him to see me,” I whisper to myself.
The good, or maybe the bad thing about seeing him just now? I now know he’s a hotel security guard and he was working tonight. Nice to know, I guess. Not that I’d know what to do withthat information. I don’t. It’s still good to know—even though I’ll never be in this hotel again.
Back at the coat-check station, I hand over my ticket and wait. When she returns, I slide on my old trench coat and head outside. I’ll need to grab a taxi tonight. The buses will be packed with drunken revelers, and I don’t want to deal with that.
I stand outside and let the hotel doorman get me a taxi. In only minutes, I’ve handed the nice man five dollars, and I’m sliding into the warm car. I give the driver my address, and he looks at me twice. Yeah, I don’t live in the greatest neighborhood, but it’s been my home for most of my life. I’m used to it.
He quickly maneuvers in and out of traffic, and in no time, he’s stopped in front of my house. I hand him fifteen bucks and hop out. I open the metal front gate and trudge through the light layer of snow that has accumulated on the lawn tonight, pulling my keys out as I walk to the back of my building—to my private entrance. Once inside, I hang my coat on the hook near the top of the stairs and step down into my basement apartment—to my sanctuary. A sanctuary my grandfather created for me. He worked construction most of his life, until his body couldn’t do it anymore. He did everything from framing to plumbing to electrical work. Grandpa Frank, or “Pops” as I called him, was an amazing man. Creative and clever. I attribute my artistic abilities to him. He loved to draw and design houses just for fun. He used to draw me funny pictures of animals and people, some of which are still hanging in my apartment. He was a good man, and I miss him like crazy.
He worked for months on this space. He knew he was dying, but I prefer not to think about that. I know he must have been worried about me for the sixteen months he was sick. But he made sure I was taken care of all the same. I wipe a tear from my cheek. It’s been almost five years, and it never seems toget better—this feeling of loss, missing him. I make a concerted effort to think happy thoughts about Pops. This apartment is one of those things that make me happy. It is, in a word, amazing. He created something so unique, quirky, and special that I could never imagine myself leaving.
There are built-in shelves and cupboards of all shapes and sizes throughout this space. For an apartment that is less than five hundred square feet, there’s storage everywhere. Some of the storage spots are even secret. He knew this neighborhood wasn’t the safest. The house has been broken into a half-dozen times over the years. So, when he was working down here, he created five different super-secret hiding places. One of them is behind the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Another is in the parquet flooring. If you press on one of the small wooden pieces, it pops open, revealing a space about five inches by five inches, but it’s at least a foot deep and lined with a hard plastic container to prevent water damage. It is a basement, after all.
There are two drawers in the kitchen with false bottoms, and the final place is in the built-in bookcase in my tiny sitting area. If you remove the books from the third shelf down and you press on the back of it in the upper left corner, the back wall of that shelf flips down. This is the largest of the five spaces and where I hide all of my jewelry-making materials. I spend most of my money on gold, silver, and platinum, and on gems and precious stones, so I’ve got to keep them hidden away. Thanks to Pops, I know that if someone breaks in, they’ll never find my most valuable materials.
My dream is to earn my living making and selling my own jewelry designs. For three years, I’ve been a sales associate at a cool store called One of a Kind in Watertower Place, which is right on Michigan Avenue. We sell handmade jewelry and small art objects, orobjet d’art, as the French say. My boss, Theresa, has even given me a spot in the jewelry case to showcase some ofmy pieces. Granted, the spot is about six inches by twelve inches, and it’s in the glass case that’s in the furthest corner of the shop, but that’s fine with me. My new pieces are delicate, so I don’t need a lot of space. I do my best to direct people back to my little corner, but I haven’t sold any yet. It’s just a matter of time, though. I feel it.
It isn’t like I haven’t soldanything; it’s just that I don’t count the pieces that Lauren has bought. She only does it so I can buy more supplies. But I refuse to be discouraged. I’ll just keep making things and hope someone discovers my pieces in the shop. I can’t ever see a time when I’d stop making jewelry, so it doesn’t matter if nothing has been purchased yet. However, it does get expensive. I prefer to use twenty-four-carat gold, platinum, and silver along with precious stones and gems in my designs. So, if I ever have any extra money, it goes toward materials.
Tonight, I wore a pair of my own earrings and a choker I designed and made, and I had a pocketful of business cards with me in case anyone asked me about them. I know my jewelry is different. It’s not for everyone. The set I’m wearing tonight is really delicate, which complements the lace on my dress. The earrings are made with three thread-like chain links dropping down from my ear. The end holds a tiny circular piece of gold on which I’ve carved a small flower. The choker was made the same way, but on each of the small gold shapes, I’ve carved a star or a planet. The process to make these things takes me a long time because I cut and hammer each chain link from a thin sheet of gold. I like to make as many parts of my jewelry by hand as I can. I do that because I feel a greater sense of accomplishment when I’m finished.
I’d love to say that this one job is all I need, but I also walk dogs for a family in the River North area. It’s not all bad. It keepsme busy and relatively fit. I detest exercise, but I know I’ve got to do it or my ass will balloon out to double its size. True story.
I change out of my pretty but itchy dress and settle in for a night of jewelry making. I don’t have to work on New Year’s Day, so this is an ideal chance for me to work on some of my new designs. I set up my folding table, attach my swing-arm lamp, and grab all of my supplies. I pull out the sheet of white gold and all of my tools so I can begin work on a new necklace. It isn’t long until my mind wanders back to the events of the night—not to Frederick, the jerk—but to Mr. Three o’Clock. I moan aloud, thinking about him, “Damn, that man was smokin’ hot.”
CHAPTER FOUR
WHO’S THAT GIRL?
“I’ve got it, boss,”Gill says excitedly. It’s been almost a week since the event at the hotel, and he’s been frantically reviewing all of the images against the ID information that each guest had to provide upon entering the party. There were hundreds of guests, so it was no easy task.
“You do?” I’m not really surprised. Gill has skills when it comes to anything related to computers.
“Yep. Her name is MacKenzie Blue Parker.”
MacKenzie Blue. “It fits.”
“It does. She’s special, Sam.”
I agree. “Where does she live?”
“Let me check. Hang on. MacKenzie Blue Parker is thirty-two. Blue eyes. Five foot, five inches. A hundred seventy-five pounds….”
I wait patiently. “A hundred seventy-five pounds?” I can’t see that. She looked tiny. Maybe she was hiding an amazing ass under that dress. That would be nice.
