He’s taking her out to dinner? If anyone had told me that a few days ago, I’d have given them the name of a therapist who specializes in delusional thinking. However, he told her that he was going to Paris, and he didn’t tell me.
I feel as if I’ve been gut-punched.
“I doubt that,” Thérèse cuts in sharply.
Sloane glares at her. “What…did you just…say to me?”
Thérèse wins my eternal devotion by giving Sloane a pitying smile. “Oh, dear, did you think that drawing out your words means you are intimidating?” She sounds very French as she says that. “I spoke to Blake this morning, and he made it very clear to me that you are no longer allowed to shop on the company credit card. He also wanted me to remind you that the jewelry was a goodbye present.”
The iron vise clamping my heart loosens a little bit.
Sloane’s smile twitches and turns into an angry rictus. She swallows and makes an ahem noise. “I didn’t say I expected Blake to pay for it. I just said that I need a gown for the gallery opening that he and I are going to attend. Together.” She shoots me a look.
Uh, yeah, I get it.
I’m trying hard for a polite, uninterested smile, but I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirrored column, and I look like a woman trying to endure a bout of very painful gas.
Thérèse pulls a two-way radio from her purse. “Hello, Jackson?” she says. That’s one of the personal shoppers. When he answers, in a burst of static, she continues. “Sloane Vanderling needs help selecting a cocktail gown. She will be paying for it with her own credit card. Just remember, when it comes to her, it’s impossible to go too tight or too low cut.”
Sloane’s eyes snap with anger. “I’ll pick it out myself, since this department is going downhill.” She spits the words at Thérèse.
“Can I give you the directions to Saks, then?”
Sloane stalks off, head held high.
Thérèse makes a scoffing noise of contempt. “Pshaw. That girl.” Then she shrugs. “I might have said a little white lie. He didn’t mention Sloane buying a dress, or not. He didn’t mention her at all.”
I hug myself, watching Sloane’s long legs viciously slicing like scissor blades as she rounds a corner and climbs onto the escalator.
“Aren’t you risking getting in trouble?” I ask her.
“What’s he going to do?” She arches a dark, perfectly plucked brow. “Fire me? Anyway, the fact that he didn’t mention her speaks volumes. If he wanted to buy her a dress he would have said so.”
I chew my lip. “Okay, I know this is going to make me sound pathetic, but I need to know. When you talked to him…did he mention me at all?”
“I’m sorry. No. It wasn’t a very long conversation; he seemed to be in a hurry. And he was only concerned with the usual. Which is Blake Hudson and nobody else.” Her voice is tart and her lips thin to paper-cut width.
I have to ask myself, if so many of his subordinates dislike Blake, especially someone like Thérèse, who knows him so well…am I just fooling myself into believing that he’s a decent man in a snark-skin suit?
I don’t believe he’s completely evil. But I also realize I don’t know Blake as well as I thought I did. I’m almost tempted to call Alice, but I’d never actually do that. It would feel like tattling on him. Or begging.
My heart is a ball of thorns, hurting me with each sharp, painful pulse in my chest.
“Tell me some more about our client,” I say faintly, staring at myself and readjusting my smile until it looks real.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Blake
I shift in my seat as our driver weaves his way through rush hour traffic, heading for Hudson’s. We came straight from the airport. I haven’t even bothered stopping off at my house. I could pretend that it’s the jet lag that’s getting to me, but I’d only be lying to myself. I haven’t had a single good night of sleep since last Saturday night.
I’ve spent the entire week in a prolonged freak-out about my epic fails on Sunday, both big and small. I didn’t dare let myself call Winona, text her, email her. I kept telling myself that I couldn’t afford the distraction, but that’s just a dumb lie. On some level, I’ve been punishing myself, and denying myself her presence is about the most painful thing I could do to me.
I’m starting to claw my way back to a semblance of calm, by adhering to my schedule like it’s tattooed on the insides of my eyelids. Like if I deviate from one thing, all the oxygen will vanish from the planet. Every meeting that I previously had scheduled, I attended virtually from Paris. Every email and message went out precisely on time – not early, not late.
It’s 8 a.m. on Thursday, and I finally feel like I’ve earned the right to talk to Winona again. I’m itching to get to work so I can apologize to her in person. I sent her a message half an hour ago and haven’t heard back yet. Not surprising.
Yeah, I didn’t handle things very well.
“Very productive trip, sir,” Henry says as the driver pulls to a stop.
Not only did we snag the designer I was after, we also landed the most popular new dessert chef in France. The designer and chef have been blasting their social media lists with posts about how excited they are, which has been picked up by all the fashion sites and trade magazines, and is putting us in front of millions of new potential customers.
“You’re a master of stating the obvious,” I mutter, flinging the limo door open and leaping out.
Henry follows me without a word, but I feel a sudden chill in the air. I rub my face wearily.
“I’m sorry. That was absolutely unacceptable. I know I’m being a real dick.”
“That is one way of putting it, sir.”
I give him a sidelong glance. “You seemed pretty quiet when we were in Paris. Is everything all right?” He’s also been consistently messing up when laying out my suits for me. He selected a tie that clashed with my pocket square – more than once. I can’t tell anymore if he’s pissed at me or distracted about something.
Henry smiles faintly. “The trip was successful, and all of your plans are falling into place.”
It’s not until we get inside that I realize he didn’t really answer me, but he’s already headed to his office by that point. And I should go to my office, but I need to speak to Winona first, in person.
I already know that she’s mad as hell. She returned all the clothing that I had delivered to her apartment on Monday. My secretary informed me.
When I get to the personal shoppers’ department, Winona is at her desk, typing away on her computer.
“Hey. How are you?”
She doesn’t even look up. Mentally, I punch myself in the face for being an idiot. That’s literally the best I can come up with after pulling a four-day vanishing act?
I pull up a chair and sit down next to her desk. She keeps typing. I look over at Ariel who, for once, isn’t running for her life.
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” I ask her.
Ariel gives me a distinctly unfriendly look. “I’m fine right where I am,” she says.