“May I help you?” She’s tall and blond, with bright red lipstick and a perfect smoky eye, and she’s not wearing much of anything at all. Black leather straps crisscross over her body, strategically covering any of the bits that could get her arrested.
It’s actually pretty badass, and I wish I had the balls to wear that outfit.
“Hi, I was wondering if I could speak with a bar manager? I’m interested in a bartending position.”
Her eyebrows climb in surprise, and her pretty blue eyes travel up and down my torso, but she raises a walkie-talkie from her desk.
“Sure. What’s your name, honey?”
I start to open my mouth and then remind myself that I can’t give her my real name. Everyone will be looking for Eloise Rizzo.
“Lulu,” I reply. “Lulu Monroe.”
At least, that’s the name on my ID. I kept my nickname as the first name because I’ll need to respond when someone talks to me, and changed the last name altogether. Thank God my muggers left me the wallet. They just took the cash and then kicked me again because I didn’t have any credit cards.
Fuckers.
She raises the device and speaks into it. “Madam Loveland, I have a woman here to speak with you. She’s interested in the bartending position.”
Thebartending position. Does that mean one’s available?
Maybe my luck is about to change after all.
A voice comes through the device. “I’ll be right down. Thank you, Scarlett.”
I smile at Scarlett, who smiles back at me.
“Can I offer you some advice?” she asks me, leaning just a little closer as if she’s going to tell me a secret.
“Sure.”
“Unbutton those top buttons, untuck the shirt, and tie it under your bra line. Show a little midriff.”
I lift an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes. Trust me on this.”
“I’m not too … curvy for that?”
“No way, you have a banging body,” she replies, and I can’t help but snort.
No one, not once in my life, has called my bodybanging.
But she works here, and she’s the expert.
Just as I’ve finished doing what she says, a door opens, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life walks through it.
Scratch that. She doesn’t walk.
She …glides.
She has to be over six feet tall in those black stiletto boots. She’s in a tight white dress that shows off herhourglass figure and does little to hide her massive breasts.
Her glossy black hair is perfectly straight and falls over her shoulders, framing an angular face with sharp cheekbones, nose, and chin.
Dark chocolate eyes scan me from head to toe before she offers me her red-tipped hand.
“I’m Madam Loveland,” she says.
