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Then I see the price tags.
“No, no. Just a few work clothes.” I take the stack of jeans she’s insisted on, putting them back on the shelf. “I don’t want to take advantage.”
She grabs them back down from the shelf. “He said to get you some of everything and you know he’s not a man to say no to.”
“I’m starting to learn that,” I say with a laugh.
“You know something—I’ve never seen him bring a woman home before.” She softly bumps her hip against mine like we’re in on a secret. “You must be special.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I brush off the compliment. “Desperate, more like. I think your brother just feels sorry for me. Don’t go too crazy with the clothes. These things cost a fortune.”
“Please,” she says. “It’s Rock’s money we’re spending, and he’s got more than the good lord himself. I mean being a Rockwell is one thing, but tapping into the Bachman fortune on top of that?—”
I interject with the question that’s been on the forefront of my mind since meeting him. “How do you become a Bachman, anyway?”
She puts the jeans down on a bench and steers us toward the shoes. “If you’re a man, typically someone from the family has had eyes on you. They introduce you, get you involved, then if it’s your fate to be a Bachman man, you’ll go through a grueling initiation to make it so.”
I didn’t read any of that on Google. This sounds more like a mafia than a family.
“And the women?” I watch as she chooses carefully, going mostly with high heels. Guess I better learn to walk in them.
“The whole thing is a little dark ages, a little sexist, but if you’re a woman, the only way in is by marriage.” She piles a stack of soft cardigans into my arms, their colors ranging from black to pastel pink. “Oh, good. They’ve got the cashmere in stock. You can never have enough of these. The office is freezing. Cardigans keep you warm without ruining your outfit. They’re lifesavers.”
“And what am I?” I ask.
“Oh!” She eyes me, brow furrowed. “I don’t know. A little black dress?”
“No, not an article of clothing,” I laugh. “What am I in the Bachman world?”
“Sorry. Got lost there for a sec. Went a little too deep into the shopping spree world.” Flicking through a rack of dress skirts, she pulls out a few in my size, answering simply, “You’re a friendly.”
“What does that mean?”
She holds a skirt up to my waist, then gives it her nod of approval. “You’re like a cardigan. You are there to help out, but not steal the show. People deemed trustworthy enough to work for the family are considered Bachman friendlies.”
She continues, “And, if you read your NDA closely, you’ll know that you also consented to a deep dive on your background.”
“Here, let me.” A trio of saleswomen scurries over, taking all the items we chose and setting them to the side for us.
“Thanks. And don’t forget the jeans, please,” Claudia tells them. “They’re on the bench over there.”
I hand the stack of sweaters over to the youngest saleswoman. When she’s out of hearing range, I tell Claudia, “I didn’t look close enough to read the part about the background check, but I don’t have anything to hide.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” She offers me a soft smile. “And Bachman friendlies are paid well. Very well, as you’ll see when your first check hits your bank account, which, knowing Rockwell, it probably already has.”
“Gosh. You think?” I hold back the urge to grab my phone from my purse and check my bank balance on the app. And then jump up and down in place if there really is money in there. That seems a bit rude.
Claudia focuses on athleisure wear, insisting that I choose leggings and soft cropped hoodies and waffle-knit dolphin hem shorts. “I wish I could get Rock into something more casual. He’d look great in some gray sweatpants but of course, my brother can’t go anywhere unless he’s buttoned into a starched shirt. I swear, the more grays he gets, the more he looks like our grandpa.” She eyes me. “You’re young. Maybe you can convince him to update his look. Wait here. I’ll grab a few things to have delivered to him. See if you can at least get him to try them on.”
“I’m on it!” I wait for her to walk away, my curiosity getting the best of me. Slipping my phone from my pocket, I check my bank app. “Holy Toledo,” I whisper to myself, almost passing out at the number on the screen.
Is this for real?
Claudia returns. I quickly slip my phone back into my pocket. “Find anything good?”
“Yes. A pair of jeans—for the love of all that is good in this world, don’t let him iron a crease in the front of them before he wears them; a crewneck sweater—I don’t think even your cute little face will get him into an actual hoodie; and some jogger sweats with a long sleeve tee.”
I picture him in a more casual outfit, us walking hand in hand through the city, fresh lattes from Perkies in our free hand, wearing matching couture leisurewear.
