Not one of the stylists who work for him, though frankly, I’d give my left nut for even that much. But him, personally.
I’m mostly sure this is a practical joke.
“Of course it’s real,” Tami scoffs. “Don’t fuck it up by being late.”
It’s like a slap, dragging me back to reality, and I square my shoulders. “You’re right. Thank you. What would I do without you, my favorite fake ex-fiancèe roommate future sister-in-law?”
She laughs like always. It’s our running joke that our relationship on the show is too complicated for a single label. “Don’t forget that you were almost my fake baby daddy,” she warns. “You can’t expect a girl to let the fake almost-father of her fake almost-baby fuck up his life by being late for an appointment.”
I pause with one leg out of my car. “Considering how much we’ve been through in two seasons, what do you think they’ve got for us in season three?”
“Kane! This isn’t the time!”
Whoops. “Yeah, okay. Love you, babe.”
“Call me after,” she orders, then hangs up.
I lock the car and cross the small private parking lot to the building that houses Style Me. It doesn’t take up a lot of space on the street, but it’s four floors, and from the looks of it, all four of those floors are used by the one company. I square my shoulders and resist the urge to straighten my jacket as I approach the door. Working out what to wear to a meeting with a stylist ishard. I didn’t want to look like I don’t give a crap about fashion—even though I kind of don’t—but I also didn’t want to looktoogood, like maybe I didn’t really need him.
That last thing was never going to happen.
In the end, I settled on a pair of designer jeans and a white tee with a blazer over the top. That’s like the uniform for classic casual style, right? Can’t go wrong.
I step inside a small lobby and find myself facing a desk with a security guard behind it. He smiles politely. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Uh.” Fuck. I was expecting a receptionist, not a guard. “Yes.” Pulling myself together, I smile back. “I have an appointment at ten. Kane Fortney.” I give my name so he won’t have to ask for it… and I won’t be slapped in the face with not being recognized. A lot of A-listers wish they could have their notoriety back and moan about never being able to go anywhere without being recognized, and I’m sure one day I’ll feel the same way. Just not yet.
The guard types something into his computer, then nods and pushes a tablet across the desk to me. “If you could sign in for me, Mr. Fortney, I’ll get you a guest badge.”
Wow, intense. I take the tablet and enter my information. My old stylist didn’t have this kind of setup. She had a two-room office in a building full of accountants and tax lawyers, but mostly she’d come to my place for our meetings.
The guard hands me a lanyard with a purple card proclaiming “Guest” in block letters, then walks me to the elevator and swipes a card before hitting the call button. Beyond the elevators there’s a solid set of double doors with another security swipe panel beside them. I barely have time to wonder what’s back there before the elevator arrives.
“Amina will meet you,” the guard informs me, leaning into the elevator to hit the button for the fourth floor.
“Thank you,” I manage, and then the doors are closing. The security here is unsettling… although it makes sense when I think about how many people would love to know ahead of time what Damian’s clients will be wearing to red carpet events. Designers would maybe show him stuff before the public sees it, too. Not exactly CIA-level secrets, but important in their own way.
And more important than any of that: This isn’t a practical joke. My appointment exists.
The elevator doors open again, revealing a smiling woman in her mid-twenties. “Hi, Mr. Fortney. I’m Amina.”
I step out and manage to smile at her, trying not to be intimidated by the fact that she could have just stepped off a runway—both for her looksandher clothes. “Nice to meet you. Please call me Kane.”
“Thank you. Damian’s ready for you, so I’ll take you right through.” She sets off across a room full of people working at desks, and I concentrate on keeping up with her instead of gawking at them. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, or soda?”
“I’m fine, but thanks.” No way do I want to risk spilling anything while I’m here.
“Let me know if you change your mind.” She stops in front of a door. I don’t have to guess what’s on the other side—the wall beside it is glass, and I can see the big, dark-skinned man at a desk with his head bent over whatever he’s working on. The room also has other stuff in it, but my gaze is locked on Damian’s head.
Amina knocks and opens the door, and that head comes up.
“Kane Fortney’s here.”
Showtime.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Thanks,Amina. Please let Sharon know I saw her email and I’ll get to it after this.” I smile, and she rolls her eyes. Sharon’s in charge of all our accounting and finances and can be short-tempered sometimes. I don’t blame her—this is primarily a creative business and sometimes we’re not always great with keeping track of invoices and expenses. The task of keeping us on top of that falls to her, and it’s thankless.
