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I stand firm. I try to be crisp and efficient, channeling the perfect servant. “Yes. Right away.”
I take the bag and head out, wondering if he’ll ask me to sort his paper clips, next. As I reach the door, he calls back, “When you come back, I have more tasks for you.”
I’m sure he does.
As I’m walking past Vicki, she says in utter confusion, “A service usually comes and picks those up.”
“Not this week, apparently,” I mumble, heading out. If Caleb wants to run me off with trivial errands, let him try.
Twenty minutes later,I return with his coffee and a latte for me, since I have a feeling I’m going to need it. I’m just wondering if I should curtsy when I present him with his precious coffee when I hear female laughter erupting from his office.
Flirtatious laughter.
It’s not Vicki. It’s…
My stomach sinks when I peer in the partially open door and see a pair of shapely legs in dark stockings, crossing and uncrossing sexily.
Then I hear Caleb’s voice. I know that tone, because it’s low and lilting and playful, the same tone he used with me.
Gripping his coffee, I stand two feet in front of the door, frozen in my spot. What the…?
“Juliet. Are you out there?” he suddenly calls.
Darn. Busted.
Plastering an appeasing smile on my face, I step inside, trying to ignore the beautiful nightmare sitting across from him. And she is beautiful—long blonde hair, body-hugging, professional dress, a face that launches ships. One glance and my stomach twists with jealousy.
Has he already moved on, so soon?
I barely have the energy to cross the room and set his coffee on his desk.
He’s not looking at me. His eyes are fastened on her, even though he’s speaking to me. “Grab a pad and pen. I need you to take notes.”
“Yes, sir.”
I go out. At my desk, I fan my face, but I know I’m all red. I return a second later, pushing that smile back up. I sit at the open chair and prepare to write.
“This is Jacqueline Flynn,” he says to me, as if he’s annoyed that he even has to explain it. “She’s a journalist with NY Business Today. She’s doing a feature on Sterling Cross and is here to ask some questions. Please continue.”
A journalist? I exhale in relief.
I notice he doesn’t bother introducing me. The woman is so interested in Caleb, she doesn’t give me a second glance anyway. “I’ve had an opportunity to glance at your latest collection, and it’s really mind-blowing. Tell me, what was the inspiration for the Petal Collection?”
The Petal Collection. I catch on the name because the gorgeous necklace Caleb had me wear must’ve been from that collection. Yes, the necklace was mind-blowing, but what was even more mind-blowing is that I’m sure that the first time I wore it, there was an inscription underneath that said Petal. But the second time I wore it, at the gala, it was gone. The necklace had been switched for an imitation, and
I never got a chance to find out what it was all about.
I jolt out of my thoughts and realize Caleb’s been going on about his grandmother, and how the pieces are inspired by those she loved to wear, but I missed a huge chunk of the conversation. Shoot.
I scribble insp- grandma just as Jacqueline moves onto the next question. “You’ve been at the helm of Sterling Cross for five years now—”
“Six.”
“Six, since the untimely death of your parents and the Cross family in a plane crash. You’ve built the business modestly since then.”
“That’s right. Unlike other brands, we don’t want to be available at every department store. We’re exclusive, and plan to stay that way. Therefore, our business model has always been slow, solid growth.”
It’s only when he glances at me that I realize I haven’t been writing any of this down.
