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I’ve yet to see anyone bring anything to King Grump himself, but that’s my “cover” if anyone questions why I’m up here: I’m bringing Alistair a coffee as a small token of appreciation for hiring me.
…Against his will, of course. But who’s counting?
I slip behind Katerina’s empty desk, deftly open the top drawer, and pull out the pink lanyard keychain with the two keys on it.
Annnd cue the Mission: Impossible soundtrack in my head again.
I pause for a second, glancing around and making sure no one’s watching before I use one of those keys to unlock and then quietly slip into Alistair’s office. I close the door behind me, feeling a thrill as I turn to survey the room I’m definitely not supposed to be in.
I have mixed feelings about being in here, and why. Even if Alistair is an asshole and a complete prick to me, I know that this is wrong. But then Massimo’s threat echoes in my head again. The recurring image of him shooting that girl on our living room floor makes me flinch, along with his promise.
The next time, it’ll be your sister…
I steel myself as my gaze lands on the locked filing cabinet. I walk over to it, and slip Katerina’s second spare key, which I heard her mention in the break room yesterday morning, into the lock.
Click.
I set the chai latte down on top of the cabinet and start with the bottommost of the three drawers. My heart races as my fingers flip through the files, trying to make sense of Alistair’s bizarre filing system. Ugh. It’s not alphabetical, that’s for sure. Though I doubt someone as detail-oriented and meticulous as he is has such important files locked away in no order at all.
Finding nothing on “Luca Carveli”, I close the bottom drawer and move to the one above it. Five minutes later, crouched down uncomfortably, frustration and panic take over as that one also results in nothing.
Shit.
Panicking, I slam the drawer closed as I start to rise to try the final drawer.
…Which is exactly when the cup of chai sitting on the top of the cabinet tips over, dumping half of its contents down the bottom of my blouse and all over my cream-colored skirt.
“Fuck!”
I grab the cup out of my lap and right it before it can empty onto the floor. I hiss in pain as the hot liquid stings my thighs, scrambling to my feet. My eyes dart around the room for something, anything, before they land on the door to Alistair’s ensuite private bathroom.
Bingo.
I bolt into it, closing the door before stripping off my skirt. I groan as I assess the damage. My black blouse is fine, but my skirt is a wreck, with a huge beige stain rapidly settling into it.
Quickly, I turn on the cold water and start soaking the skirt in Alistair’s lavish marble and brass sink. I use toilet paper to blot at the hem of my shirt, and then strip off my trashed, chai-sticky nylons. Mercifully, the red marks on my thighs from the hot liquid aren’t too bad.
My heart sinks when I pull the skirt out from under the cold water, though. The stain is mostly gone, but the whole thing is drenched, and I have like twenty minutes before Katerina gets back.
It’s not like I can walk out of Alistair’s office and back down into the pit with a soaking wet skirt without raising at least a couple of brows.
Merde.
I start blotting like crazy with a hand towel. Then I remember that Alistair frequently keeps a gym bag in his office. I pause, my mind concocting all sorts of solutions. What might be in there? A larger, fluffier towel, maybe? A hairdryer, if I’m luckier than I have any right to be?
I glance at my watch.
I’ve got time.
Barefoot and only half-dressed, I grab my soaking skirt and ruined nylons, yank open the door back to the office?—
And almost scream when I stop just short of plowing directly into Alistair’s firm chest.
“I—I?—”
“Hmm, well, let me know whenever you find the right words,” he growls. “I, however, have several.”
His eyes drop. I can feel my face burn as I scramble to yank the wet skirt in front of me to cover my bare legs and panties.
