“Conversation will be avoided altogether,” I say. Taking a seat on the edge of the desk, I submit. “I’m breaking my own rules, Inez. Don’t ever ask me to do this again.”
The scent of lavender swells from the water’s surface. Wisps of hair stick across my damp forehead, fallen from the bundle tied at the top of my head. I’ve soaked in a bath for close to an hour, draining and refilling it as the temperature cools. Soft music plays from a small radio in the corner of the bathroom, and candlelight flickers against the walls.
I rest my foot on the side of the tub and smooth a velvety layer of shaving cream from my knee to my ankle. Water drips from the heel of my foot to the tile floor. The song transitions to something older with a beat, taking me back to the murky club I grew up in.
“Fetch me the razor in my bag, Lydia,” my mom had said. A cigarette hung from between her lips with an inch of ash on the tip. Cricket’s wavy blonde hair was split at the ends, and she had glitter smeared across her eyelids. She took the razor and swiped it over a spot on her knee. “That would have been embarrassing.”
She dropped the razor into a metal trash bin, adjusted her bra, and left me in the dressing room to watch as she left for the stage.
Warm baths, good razors, and nourishing shaving cream are taken for granted by most, but I know what it’s like to live without these privileges. Mom and I moved a lot—crashing with friends or boyfriends. We stayed in motels, and sometimes we’d sleep at the club. Cricket shaved my legs for the first time when I was eleven years old in an Oregon strip club’s bathroom with four other girls standing around. She used soap, water, and a single-bladed razor.
My skin was irritated for a week.
As an adult, my razor is gold-plated and has a strip of moisturizer across the top. It slides slowly and precisely over the curve of my knee, not missing anything. I shake it clean in the water before continuing, shaving every inch of skin until my legs are sleek.
My rituals are strict, and my intentions are deliberate. I won’t ever be the girl who shaves her legs in a public restroom or doesn’t know where she’s going to sleep at night again. My mother’s life served as a personal what not to do tutorial.
“Lydia, I was just thinking about you, sweetheart,” Inez says. Her voice echoes through the speakerphone.
I sit at my vanity after my bath before an expansive spread of designer makeup and hair products. White light reflects around my pupils and showcases every freckle across my nose. I cover them with concealer and roll my green eyes at Inez.
“You’re thinking about your payday,” I say with a smile.
“How are you?” she asks. She doesn’t say I’m wrong. “Is there anything I can help with?”
Sweeping blush across my cheekbones, I ask, “When will the car be here to pick me up?”
“In one hour. You’re scheduled for Talent’s last appointment of the evening. He’s on the top floor, and from what I’m told, the rest of the office should be relatively empty.”
“How did you manage that?” I ask.
Inez laughs. “Naomi assures me everything’s taken care of. You have nothing to worry about.”
My stomach drops, and I lower my gaze from my reflection to the phone. This situation keeps falling deeper and deeper out of my comfort zone. “That doesn’t make me feel better, Inez. Do you trust her, because I’m not sure I do?”
“Don’t concern yourself with anyone but Talent Ridge until tomorrow, Lydia. He’s our only concern.”
“I’m keeping my cut on this one,” I say.
“Of course, you are. I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she says. I knew I could get away with such a demand, because the money I’ll make from my appointment with Talent today is pennies compared to what she predicts to earn in the long run. “But you will call me after for a full report.”
I smirk. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”
Talent Ridge’s reputation precedes him. He’s Grand Haven royalty, crowned not only for his accomplishments and charity, but because he’s drop-dead gorgeous and single. I spent most of the night finding out what I could about the younger Ridge son online. The man’s rich and good-looking, but that’s not news to anyone. What I wanted to see is the type of girl he’s interested in.
He dates within his circle, seen out in public only with other wealthy heiresses. From what I gather, Talent doesn’t stay involved with one person for long. The internet wonders when he’s going to settle down, who it’ll be with, and if the death of his mother somehow left the poor man emotionally damaged and afraid of commitment.
The internet is stupid.
Talent is a twenty-eight-year-old millionaire with the entire world in the palm of his hand. Why would he choose to settle down with one woman when he can have them all?
Ending the call, I close my phone and power it down. Talking to Inez does nothing to soothe the pinprick of unease in the bottom of my stomach. It’s best if we cut communication until this job is done.
My appointments take place in an office setting, and since I’m supposed to be nothing more than a regular patient or client, my attire consists of pencil skirts and tops that cover the barely-there lace underneath. Inez assures me that Talent and I will be alone, so I need to pull out all the stops and be bold.
I finish my makeup with dark ruby lipstick before I curl my hair into loose waves that cascade down my back. Stepping out of my robe in front of my dresser, I open the top drawer where a forest green set of lace lingerie rests. The panties tie at the sides, and the top, a deep-V bralette, hugs my breasts and crosses in the back. The contrast is striking against my skin, and I admire my reflection in the mirror longer than normal.
The only traits I share with my mother are the shape of our smiles and the relentless appearance of uncertainty in our eyes. Thank God I don’t see the smile often.
I move away from the mirror before the look in my eyes turns the pinprick of hesitation in my stomach into a gash.
Having chosen a dress that follows the cut of my lingerie to ensure it remains a secret until I reveal it to Talent, I pick a heel to match and leave my room without looking at my reflection a second time.
Warm spring evening air moves through my hair, lifting it from my shoulders before sweeping across my back. My driver notices and his eyes follow the length of my curls to my waist. His attention continues around the curve of my bottom and down the expanse of my legs. I watch him as I step into the back of the car, and he closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of my perfume.
I close the door before he has a chance to memorize it, cracking his trance. He hurries around the front of the car and slides into the driver seat, blushing and rattled.
“You’re headed to the Ridge building downtown, right, Miss Smith?” he asks.
Locking my gaze out the window, I give this man nothing more to grasp on to and simply nod. He won’t know the sound of my voice or offered common courtesy because he made the mistake of taking a closer look at me. I close the glass partition between the front and back seats, hoping it’s enough to blur his mind’s eye.
“What are you doing, Lydia?” I whisper to myself as my apartment building disappears and we head toward the business district.