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The wink reminds me of Chase. Specifically, the last one he threw my way yesterday after his father had barged into his office. As much as I didn’t like meeting his father, I think the interruption was for the best. Things were getting too… intimate?
I pull my card out of the inside pocket of my soft-sided briefcase slung over my shoulder and pay, asking for the receipt. Being able to write off New York bagels for work is a definite perk of the job.
Again, I think of Chase.
Chase is not a perk.
“What was that, dear?” the lady at the cash register asks. Her brown hair is cut in a bob, with small streaks of gray woven through it. Her pleasant smile creases the corners of her eyes.
Great, I spoke my thoughts out loud again. “Oh, uh… nothing. Just, um, reminding myself of something.”
“You business gals, always going a mile a minute, never a rest.” She shakes her head, her bob swinging.
“And what do you think you are, Midge?” the man asks, handing me my bag of goods. “You’re a business lady, and thank god for it. Without you, I’d run this place into the ground.” He kisses her cheek.
“Oh, stop it, John.” Midge playfully pushes him away.
“Family business?” I ask.
“It’s been in my family for three generations.” John puffs his chest out proudly before deflating it fast. “Though it never turned a real profit until this one started working here.” He puts his arm around Midge. “Had to marry her to make sure she stuck around.”
Midge rolls her eyes. “Honestly. There were easier ways to turn a profit than marry me.”
“Yeah, but none with so many benefits.” He waggles his eyebrows at her, making her laugh. It’s obvious this is a timeworn argument, loving and playful.
“Here now, don’t let us keep you.” Midge hands me the receipt. “Come back soon!”
I nod. “I’m in New York for business, but I’ll be sure to come back.” I gesture to the bakery case. “Those black and white cookies are calling my name.”
John tries to give me one on the house, but I manage to resist. “Gotta keep me wanting more, right, Midge?”
She agrees with a smile and a nod, going back to playfully fending off her husband’s advances as the bell rings with my departure.
The cab ride to Moore’s is made more pleasant by the smell of warm carbs.
* * *
“Ma’am.”
I smirk at the security guard, a straitlaced, buttoned-up, suit-wearing guy (no mall cop uniforms for Moore’s). He is about as far from Texan as you can get in his shiny oxfords, but the ma’am gets me every time. Instead of arguing, though, I just nod back, determined to get these bagels to our scheduled conference room without any nipple-exposing incidents.
“Could you tell me where the security office is? My team and I have an appointment this morning with Mr. Moore. I need to sign in and get an elevator key. I’m Campbell King.”
He places a finger at his ear, like a CIA agent on assignment. I purse my lips in amusement. Moore’s has secret agent security but no social media plan? That’s just crazy.
Two women glide into Moore’s wearing more diamonds than Beyoncé and Rihanna at the Grammys. One has an Hermès Kelly bag on her arm, the other a Fendi Selleria. How do I know about these bags and their five-figure price tags? Personal dreams and professional research.
So maybe high-end security isn’t that crazy.
“This way, ma’am.”
“King. It’s Ms. King.”
“Yes, Ms. King.” He gestures forward. “This way.”
Tamping down my annoyance at having to be escorted, I follow the security guard’s well-fitted dress pants down the hall and past the restrooms to an Employee Only marked door. Security-man slides a key card next to the door and stands back to let me through.
Feeling slightly childish for thinking he’d been escorting me because I am a woman, not because there’s actual security protocol, I shuffle forward in my slingbacks.
