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“What do you mean?”
“Coming to me to find something slutty, you know I’ve got good taste.” She winks. “We’ll go after our shift.”
“Perfect. I’ll go over to Clyde’s apartment after we’re done so I can tell him the good news. I called him after Freddy fired him and he was still so positive about it all, but I could hear it in his voice, he was heartbroken.”
The next four hours fly by. I toss my apron in the dirty bin and say goodbye to my coworkers as Matilda and I walk toward the exit.
“I know the perfect place to find you a dress that’s slutty, yes, but in a very sophisticated, classy way.”
“Is there such a thing?” I give her a skeptical look and she pretends to gasp.
“Rude, don’t question my abi—” Her hand darts out and stops me in my tracks as we exit the coffee shop.
“What?” I look up at her, my eyes then following her gaze to across the street where an expensive-looking black sedan is parked. It’s not the car that has her mouth hanging open; it’s the fact that Mr. TGIF is leaning against it, staring at me.
“Oh my God,” she says over and over in a hushed tone. He pushes off the car, closing the distance between us as he crosses the street.
“Good afternoon.” His deep voice sounds even sexier when it’s directed solely at me. His eyes are hidden behind tortoise Wayfarer Classics; a single lock of his dirty-blond hair that’s usually perfectly styled has fallen over one corner of his sunglasses. His navy suit fits like a glove, like it was made for him. I recall my conversation with Clyde about his father who was a tailor. Now I realize why they cost so much. The man is definitely wearing the suit in this situation, not the other way around. His broad chest looks accentuated, his thighs filling out the pants perfectly.
“Say something,” Matilda whispers, nudging me. “You look insane.”
“Afternoon,” I repeat back to him hurriedly, completely unaware how long I stood lost in thought.
“Did I catch you at an okay time? I had hoped to discuss something with you.”
“Yes,” Matilda answers for me, shoving me toward him before I can protest. “She was just saying she had no plans.”
I look back at her, my eyes wide. What the hell?
“Great. Would you mind coming with me?” He holds out his hand, gesturing toward his car.
This is crazy, he’s a complete stranger. An extremely hot and very built-looking stranger but still… I feel another shove against my lower back from Matilda.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” She waves at me and I turn to face her so that he can’t see my face. I flash her my what the hell is going on look, hoping she sticks around, but it’s not working. “Have a great night, you two.” She emphasizes the word night even though it’s just after one p.m.
“Shall we?” I smile, resting my hand in the crook of his elbow as he leads me toward his car. He opens the back door and motions for me to slide in. After closing the door and walking around to the other side, he gets in and the driver pulls into traffic.
“Oh.” I look in the opposite direction. “I actually live back that way.” I thumb over my shoulder.
“We’re not going to your place, Stella.” He slowly pulls his eyes from looking straight ahead to looking right at me. It feels like the breath has been sucked from my lungs being this close to him. He takes up space, his legs spread wide and stretched out in the back seat of the car. His woodsy cologne permeates the small space that I’m now very acutely aware of. “We’re going to mine.”
Instead of coming to my senses like a normal person and asking him to drop me off so I can grab a cab home, I reassure myself that a man who looks like him, drives a car like this, and wears suits that expensive wouldn’t risk it all for some silly little nobody… Then again, these are exactly the kind of rich people that get away with stuff like that.
“How’d you know my name?”
He lifts his hand, a smirk forming at one corner of his mouth as he slowly leans toward me and touches my name tag.
“Oh.” My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Right.”
“It was also written on the coffee sleeve along with your number.” He’s turned his gaze back forward, one of his massive hands resting on his thigh. A gold ring encrusted with rubies sits on his pinky finger, a Rolex just a few inches up on his wrist. This is exactly the kind of man who should be wearing a pinky ring and weirdly, it looks good.
“I-I didn’t write that,” I say in a half-hushed tone.
“I know.” I continue looking at him, but his eyes stay forward, fine lines crinkling at the corners. “That’s why I didn’t call. If you had wanted me to call you”—he looks over at me again—“you’d have given me your number, wouldn’t you?”
I nod, unsure what exactly I’m agreeing to but something about this man, his presence has me so off-kilter, so giddy, and yet scared that I feel completely unlike myself.
We sit the rest of the ride in silence. He remains focused on his phone while my hands nearly tear through my purse strap as I nervously knot it over and over again in my lap. I watch out the window as we drive farther north, just outside the city, until the car slows in front of a large gate that opens up automatically. The driveway curves through trees, rounding a corner and coming to a clearing where a massive, almost gothic-looking Victorian mansion sits far back on a lush green lawn that is very clearly professionally manicured.
