“Thank you, Kat. That means a lot coming from you.” I glance past her shoulder to the edge of our cashier station, where a potted miniature rosebush sits. “Where did that come from?”
Megan lightly smacks her forehead. “Oh, God, Ialmost forgot. Mr. Hennings dropped it off for you earlier today. He grew it himself.”
I smile at the mention of the wealthy, sixty-something gentleman who’s one of L’Opale’s more eccentric, but charming, clients. “What a sweet thing for him to do. It’s beautiful.”
“He’s a romantic, that’s for sure,” Meg says. “I hope when I’m old and gray I’ve found a man like him who takes the time to tend his own roses and still woos his ladylove with pretty, handmade lingerie.”
Kat scoffs. “Walter Hennings isn’t buying handmade lingerie for an old lady, Meg. He’s buying it for a woman in Latvia who’s almost young enough to be his granddaughter.”
I sigh and shake my head, even though she’s right. Not that any of us have met the widowed, retired executive’s girlfriend. He’s sadly relayed that Ilona refuses to relocate to the States until she’s able to bring her mother along with her. While Mr. Hennings wrestles with the paperwork to make that happen, he’s been sending his long-distance love dozens of bespoke lingerie gifts, which I’ve designed to his exacting specifications—even using myself as a sizing model for our seamstress at times, since Ilona and I share a similar build.
“If you ask me, he’s pathetic,” Kat mutters. “I won’t be the least surprised to find out she’s only using him for his money. And more power to her, if she is.”
Megan frowns. “Well, I think he’s sweet—and apparently not yet ready to retire from the bedroom,” she adds with a giggle.
Kat rolls her eyes. “That’s an image none of us need in our heads. You know, he’s been coming in here forthe past six months and hasn’t brought his mystery woman to the shop even one time. For all we know, he’s wearing all of that lingerie himself.”
I choke on a laugh. “Talk about an image no one needs to picture. You’re awful, Kat. And there is no way in hell he could ever squeeze his portly body into anything he’s purchased. Mr. Hennings may be a little odd, but he’s kind and easy to work with. He’s also quickly become one of our best clients.”
“One ofyourbest clients, you mean. That old man hardly gave me the time of day when he was in the shop yesterday. Which, for the record, is fine by me.” She folds her jacket over her arm as if she’s about to walk out the door, then pauses, tilting her head at me. “Why are you giving me that look?”
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth. “Because I was actually hoping I might convince you to take over his account for me, now that I’m going to be committing all of my time to Avery Ross’s project these next several weeks.”
Kat groans, tilting her head back on her shoulders before leveling a flat stare on me. “Go ahead, rub salt in my wounds. First, I miss out on landing a celebrity artist-slash-gazillionaire’s-fiancée for a client, and now you’re foisting me off on a lecherous sugar daddy. I really think I’m starting to hate you.”
I lift my brows. “So, is that a yes?”
She sighs. “Do I have a choice? You’re the boss.”
“Thank you. I owe you, Kat.”
“I know.” She gives an abrupt wave of her hand. “Well, I’ve had enough fun for one day, so off I go. Goodnight, both of you.”
“I’ve got to run and catch my train, too,” Megan tellsme. “Do you need anything before I go?”
“No. I’m fine. Go on home. I won’t stay long.”
I walk with her to the boutique’s front door, waving back at her as she hurries away on the darkened sidewalk outside. It’s after seven in the evening, but Madison Avenue is still busy with its endless flow of pedestrians and street traffic. I flip our sign to CLOSED on its brass chain, then head back to my office to pick up where I left off.
~ ~ ~
I’m not sure how many hours pass before my stomach complains that I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime. Working in blissful solitude, soft music playing in the background, I am energized and could easily keep this pace all night.
But Kat had a point. Burning myself out with a manic burst of creative productivity probably won’t serve me well in the long run. Not to mention the project.
And I’m liable to pass out if I don’t break for something to eat now.
I get up and head into our small coffee room to grab a snack from the refrigerator, which is mostly stocked with beverages we keep on hand for entertaining our clients. As I’m digging past the cans of sparkling water and hundred-dollar bottles of champagne to hunt for my last cup of yogurt hidden in the back, I hear something that draws me upright. Just a small noise, coming from somewhere in the back of the store.
I hear it again, a faint metallic rasp that sends a current of unease through me.
Abandoning my search for food, I walk past myoffice and Katrina’s, toward the supply room and the rear door that opens into the small parking lot and narrow alleyway running between our building and the one behind us. The alarm is set and the door is made of steel that boasts two deadbolts, both of which are firmly seated and undisturbed.
But I could swear the sound I heard was someone testing the door handle, trying to get in.
I step silently forward and put my eye to the peephole. No one’s there. Nothing in the tiny lot outside except my lone Volvo parked in the faint glow of the old floodlight mounted overhead.
I exhale a sigh. Definitely time to call it a night if my mind is starting to play tricks on me.
