I pluck the shirt from the middle of the lineup. But just as I turn in the direction of the door that I left cracked open, I hear a gasp.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Rozanov!”
Amara is standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, her lips parted in the smallest O and her feet seemingly glued to the ground. Most people would turn away, walk out, probably quit their job on the spot.
But Amara just stares.
“I came to get your dry cleaning and… oh, God. I’m sorry. I should have knocked.”
“It’s over there.” I nod to one of the side hooks with my chin while slipping my arms into the shirt, leaving it unbuttoned for now.
“Right. Yes. Of course.”
She looks like she’s walking a pirate’s plank as she inches into the closet with me. It’s big in here, but the space seems to vanish. It’s suddenly personal. No room to move, to breathe. Just the two of us almost touching.
I’m not the only one who feels that way. I can tell by the jagged rising and falling of her chest as she hurries to grab the bagged suits from the corner that she feels the exact same.
That and, while I bend to slide into a new pair of loafers, her eyes keep flickering to my still-exposed torso.
She clears her throat. “So I’ll just… take this to the cleaners and pick up your other suits and take them to the penthouse.”
“Perfect,” I answer while buttoning up my shirt and latching my belt. I grab a slim, black tie and start to loop it around my collar.
“And I’ll make sure it’s locked when I leave,” she adds.
“I will lock up when you’re done. I control it.”
She stops and blinks. “Control it?”
“The lock. From my phone.”
“Oh, yes. Right.” She smiles briefly before growing serious again. She looks down, her cheeks tinted with rose, and starts to walk out. Then she stops and turns to me.
“Do you need something else?” I ask when she stands there and says nothing.
“It’s just… You have…” she stutters but doesn’t finish her sentence.
I frown. “Miss Parker, I don’t have all day.”
Amara rests the suits on the center table in the middle of the closet and ventures over to me. Close to me.Veryfucking close.
Then she reaches up toward my face, her hand hovering at the collar of my shirt.
“There’s a… spot,” she says, touching the collar. Her fingertip grazes my neck with less weight than a feather but I still feel it. “It looks like… blood, maybe. It’s hard to see because of the color of your shirt, but?—”
I cut her off by yanking off the tie and stripping out of the stained shirt, casting it aside, and reaching for another.
She leaps backward. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammers. “I should have noticed when I picked it up from the dry cleaner before. I can make a complaint if you want. Or switch cleaners. Or?—”
“It’s not your fault. I cut myself shaving.”
That’s a lie. I’ve never cut myself shaving. I know how to wield a weapon, especially one close to my throat. The blood, of course, is not mine.
“Just take it with you,” I add gruffly. “Make sure they get it out this time.”
“Of course, Mr. Rozanov. Anything else?” Amara swallows hard as I yank another shirt on.
“041914.”
