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“Blossom,” he said as she stepped in. “Stay.”
“No.”
He moved so the doors couldn’t shut.
“What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.
“I’m not letting you go until you agree to work for me again.”
“Why would I do that? You fired me! For doing what your sister wanted.”
“And I was wrong.”
“And you . . . wait, what? You were what?” she asked, gaping at him.
“I was wrong,” he told her. “And I want you to stay. Please.”
“P-please? You said please. You never say please.”
Do not give in. Do not cave.
“Yes. So will you?”
She bit her lip. “Firing me wasn’t very nice.”
Great. Now she sounded like she was five and had just told her friend she was mean for stealing her doll.
“You’re right. It wasn’t.”
“You can be grouchy.”
“I can be,” he agreed.
“And bossy.”
“You’re right.”
This conversation wasn’t getting any better.
“How can I make it up to you?” he asked. “What if I gave you two dollars more an hour?”
Fudge knuckles. She hated that she was so easy to buy. But . . . that would really help her out.
“All right. And I don’t want to ever have to use Estelle again.”
“Deal.” He held out his hand. And against her better judgment, she shook it.
Do not react. Do not.
“Deal.”
8
Faith glanced up as the elevator doors opened. She smiled as an older, thin woman stepped out, wearing a light coat that had seen better days. Her lank, dull hair was pulled back into a severe bun.
Two young boys clung to her hands. They looked to be around four and three.
“Hello, can I help you?”
