I wince as she eyes my shirt. “I went across the street for a coffee on my break and then promptly spilled it on myself trying to avoid being run over by a guy on an electric scooter.”
She stares at me unblinking before shaking her head. “Do you have something to change into?”
Janel has always been a laid-back boss who rarely cares about what we wear. Case in point, her short hair is currently bright purple and matches her dress. I don’t need to hide the pink in my hair or wear business-casual outfits, but I want to be taken seriously by the clients we represent. I’ve only done the backend work at Starrs Strategy—making calls, fetching coffee, writing meeting minutes. But I’ve heard about the people who come in here needing our help. I don’t want to come off as anything other than professional to the multi-millionaires who have money to throw at their reputations.
“I thought I had a sweater, but I think I took it home with me,” I answer, frowning as I go through my desk drawers. My spine straightens as I turn to her. “Please don’t make me sit this meeting out. I’ll sit on the other side of the room and take notes. The client won’t even be able to see the stain.”
One of Janel’s dark eyebrows pops up. I wonder why she didn’t dye them too, but I don’t bother asking that because I’ve got better things to concern myself with. “Winnie, the people in the building across the street from us can see that stain. There’s no missing it.”
All of the hope and excitement I’d woken up with deflates. “I understand,” I murmur, sitting down and glaring at my shirt.
Janel remains by my cubicle. “Why are you sitting? Our client showed up two minutes ago. We’ve got to go.”
I blink at her. “But…” I’m speechless for a second. “You still want me to be there?”
She rolls her eyes. “Winter, I went to a meeting last week with spinach in my teeth and mascara smudged under my eye. I looked like somebody had punched me. We’re only human, and our client could use the reminder that he is too. Let’s go.”
I’m quick to follow her as she turns and heads down the hall. The room she booked for today is private, unlike some of our other conference rooms with glass walls that modernize the building. It means that whoever is sitting inside is a high-profile client, not some random CEO under scrutiny of a tweet gone wrong or an office affair at a Coldplay concert.
We stop outside the closed door, and Janel turns to me. “Teeth check,” she says, baring her teeth and running her tongue over the pearly whites.
“All good,” I say after careful inspection, getting an appreciative smile from her.
“Before we go in,” she begins, gesturing toward the room, “I want you to remember not to react. Whatever happens in this room is confidential. We’re not here to judge, we’re here to listen and help.”
My smile slips a fraction. What exactly am I walking into? Did this person commit a murder? Something worse? What’s worse than murder? It could be a self-defense thing. Or maybe they were protecting their family or petJohn Wickstyle. I can totally get behind that.
“I can see the wheels turning,” she observes with arched brows. “I need them to stop. You can’t go in there with any preconceived notions. There’s a reason why I picked you for this case and not one of the others.”
If she willingly chose me over Cody or Farrah, that probably means it’s a celebrity. Most likely an athlete or actor. She knows I’m a safe bet because I know very little about sports, which means I won’t fangirl or try sliding my number to someone known in the game.
Rolling my shoulders back, I nod at her. “I can do that. No judgment.”
Unless he hurt an animal. Then there will definitely be judgment. I’ll just keep it to myself.
“Good,” she praises. “And try not to let him get under your skin. He’s good at that.”
Janel opens the door after the heeded warning, leading me inside the large room with a walnut conference table and expensive office chairs surrounding it in the middle. Above the polished wood hangs a chandelier that looks oddly out of place compared to the crisp, clean aesthetic below it. There’s a drink bar set up off to the side with coffee and water on top next to the crystal glasses, and alcohol inside the glass cabinet that looks well-stocked. The paintings hanging on the walls are minimalist and make no real sense to me, but I don’t pay them much mind. Not when I see the man sitting casually at the end of the table with a scowl on his ruggedly masculine face.
“Mr. Moskins,” Janel greets, setting her laptop down on the opposite end of the table. “It’s nice to see you again. Will your agent and manager be joining us this afternoon? I can wait for them.”
His eyes slide from Janel to me, dragging along the front of my body. I can feel his gaze like a heated touch, and the pin prickles of heat travel from the crown of my skull down to my painted pink toenails stuffed into a pair of white heels that are a size too small for me and bound to leave blisters. There isn’t a centimeter his focus doesn’t graze with curiosity, and I feel it all.
Goose bumps cover my skin as he appraises me like a sculpture he wants to put a bid on, and I’d be lying if I said the feeling wasn’t nice. Men have noticed me before, but their gazes always feel slimy. His is curious, maybe a little calculated, but overall cautious.
Good. He should be.
Janel notices where his attention is too. She puts a hand on my arm and says, “This is Winter Bronte. She’ll be assisting me with your case. Winter, this is Thomas Moskins. He’s a hockey player with Connecticut’s new NHL team, the Fireflies.”
Ah, a professional hockey player. I’m not familiar with many of them, but he certainly looks athletic. Bulky and muscular in all the right places, like he can take a hit and still play. I’ve heard hockey is a violent sport, but his body is definitely built to handle it. I’d read that Fairbanks was getting its very own pro team in the league a year ago, which is supposed to boost the local economy when they officially start playing in the fall.
“Bronte?” Thomas repeats, studying me with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s not nearly as dressed up as I am, but he wears his long-sleeved shirt well. It isn’t baggy and hugs his torso and arms like he needs to size up.
Not that I’m complaining.
Isn’t he hot? It’s got to be at least seventy-five today. Summers in Connecticut aren’t brutal, but I’d be sweating through that if I were him.
“Like Charlotte,” I offer sheepishly when I realize I haven’t replied to him.
