Page 23 of Fractured Heart

“Roonie, are you alright?” The guy in question calls from the other side of the door.

“I’m fine,” I call back. It’s not like there’s any way I can flood this room, too.

“Do the clothes fit?” he presses.

“Huh?”

“The clothes Charles got you. Do they fit?”

“Oh!” I look down at the pink bag of clothes. “Just give me a minute.”

I cross the room to shut the blinds and dump the contents of the bag on the boardroom table. The clothes Charles got are an exact replica of the outfit I was wearing earlier, only better; and by better, I mean more expensive.

The pink sweater is so soft it could only be cashmere and the distressed blue jeans look designer. There’s also a pink lace panty and bra set, which looks a lot sexier—and a lot less comfortable—than anything I’ve ever worn.

I pull everything on. The lace is a bit itchy and the jeans much tighter than I’m used to, but everything fits perfectly. How did Charles even know my size? Either he has amazing eye measurement skills, or he looked through my clothes. I flush at the thought of him handling my bra and panties, of his huge hands picking them up off the bathroom floor and his long fingers checking for tags.

Then, I remember something else. My clothes! I left Mom’s necklace in my old jeans and the cleaners are in there right now. They might have already thrown them out, and if they haven’t, they might do so at any second.

With a panicked cry, I rush out of the room and race to the bathroom.

“Roonie?” Charles shouts after me.

“What’s going on?” Tate cries. “Roonie? Is everything okay?”

I hear two sets of footsteps splashing after me, but I ignore them. If anything happened to Mom’s necklace…

I skid to a stop when I reach the bathroom. The tub is drained and sparkling. Most of the floor has been scrubbed and the woman with the vacuum is sucking up the remaining water while two of the others are going at it with mops.

I look around wildly but there’s no sign of my old clothes—just a large, black garbage bag that one of the cleaners is holding.

“Have you seen my jeans?” I cry, lunging toward him and yanking the garbage bag out of his hands. Dirty water dribbles over the side, but I don’t care. I open it wide and prepare to reach inside when Charles pulls it out of my hands.

“You’re going to ruin your sweater,” he grumbles and thrusts a large hand into the soggy, disgusting bag. Bravely, he pushes aside a mix of filthy rags. He continues to rummage through the contests, and then he pulls out my old jeans.

“Thank you, Charles.” I grab the jeans from him. I retrieve a very soggy twenty-dollar bill, and then, more importantly, my necklace.

“What’s that?” Tate asks, stepping closer to look at the four jagged pieces.

“It was my mother’s,” I whisper. “It used to be a necklace, but now…”

“I’m sorry,” Tate says gently as I stuff the pieces in my new, and much tighter, jean pocket.

“Thanks.” I smile at him and turn to Charles. “And thank you for rescuing this for me, Charles. And for the clothes.”

Charles grunts in acknowledgment and then, to my surprise, Tate frowns.

Chapter 13

The three of us are just heading back to the living room when there’s a loud knock on the front door. Tate opens it, and a man wearing a burgundy Chez Caviar vest and matching bow tie holds up a large cardboard box. It’s the exact same shade as his outfit, and I can’t decide if I should laugh or be impressed.

“We didn’t order that,” Tate tells him. He starts to slam the door in the man’s face, but Charles grabs it with one strong hand, stopping him.

“Actually, we did,” he says to the stunned-looking delivery man. He pulls out some bills from his shorts pocket, exchanges them for the box that presumably holds our food, and thanks him.

As the man turns to leave, the elevator dings and a tall, skinny older gentleman in a black Pizza al Volo blazer walks up. Charles smirks and slams the door right in his face.

“Very mature of you,” Tate grumbles and opens the door.