Page 32 of Dirty Boss

My fingers drummed against the edge of the desk. I stared at the blinking cursor, and then wrote, “Etiquette coaching. Style advice. Image consulting. Any other skills required to not make a fool of myself at the Noble Foundation Gala.”

That was basically it. I needed Alba to teach me how to act so I would seem like I belonged in the rooms where real money was made. It made me feel slightly sick to think about it, but I had no choice. If I wanted to grow my company and provide for my daughter, I had to play the game.

I stuck the paltry job description on company letterhead, added some conditions: that she’d train me in preparation for Arlo’s soirée, and that she’d be available to coach me on any other events and meetings, as required.

I sent it to Alba. Ten seconds later, she replied: “Sure. $500/hour. Four-hour minimum. All expenses reimbursed.”

I couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of me. She had promised me that asking her to name her price was dangerous, and I knew now that I could take her at her word. I liked that about her. There was no pretense, no fakeness.

Thousands in outgoings to an image consultant wouldn’t look good on the company books when Arlo’s team started scouring them. Besides, this wasn’t strictly related to the construction business. I’d have to pay her from my personal fortune. Easy enough.

I answered with one word: “Done,” and then I left the office and headed home.

The next timeI saw Alba was the following week. Charlotte was still at her mother’s house, so I booked a private room at a five-star restaurant for Wednesday evening, as per Alba’s instructions. As I checked my watch, I mentally calculated how much this dinner would cost me.

And I smiled.

It wasn’t money itself—or spending it—that bothered me; it was the subterfuge that did. My father promising the world, then going to my mother, hat in hand, to tell her he’d spent all their savings. He’d rocketed us from lobster and steak to instability in a blink. I’d spent my childhood bathed in anxiety and started working as soon as I was able. Then I kept working, and working, and working. I wasn’t sure I knew how to do much else.

Alba was the opposite of my father. She had set clear expectations, and she was going to deliver a service. It was clear-cut and direct. I liked that she knew her worth.

The private dining room was warmly lit, with sconces dotting the walls around the table, plush, comfortable chairs, and double wooden doors through which I’d entered. The table was draped in crisp white linen, and my place setting had multiple utensils, a side plate, and two wine glasses. I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table with one hand while I rested my chin on the palm of the other.

Then the door opened.

“This way, ma’am,” the waiter said in a deferential tone.

“Thank you,” came Alba’s voice a moment before she appeared in the doorway.

My mouth went dry.

She wore a dark burgundy dress that skimmed her body and moved like water. It was cut high on her neck and had long sleeves. She wore a gold necklace and thin bracelets on top of the fabric, the metal shimmering in the buttery light spilling from the sconces.

The dress highlighted the willowy, curvy shape of her. Her legs were bare, and she wore simple black heels.

It was the first time I’d seen her with her hair down. Blond waves fell down to her chest, framing that face that had plagued my dreams for days.

Suddenly, I was standing, though I had no recollection of getting to my feet. I gulped, blinking rapidly, and said, “Alba.”

She smiled, her lips shining with some subtle makeup. “Good evening,” she said, and nodded to the waiter as he pulled the chair out for her. She timed it perfectly to sit as he tucked her chair, like she’d done it a thousand times before.

This was a different woman from the snarky, opinionated waitress and the furious cleaner. I’d never met this one before. A niggle of disquiet went through me. Was she as real as she’d seemed, or had it all been a lie?

“Who are you?”

Alba arched a brow, a grin teasing at the corners of her lips. “You know who I am.”

“I don’t think I do.”

She took the menu that the waiter handed her, her eyes still steady on mine.

I’d never seen someone so beautiful. It dazzled me to look at her. She moved differently here than she did when she was at work. There was subtle tension in her body, but she didn’t lookuncomfortable, as if the very way she held herself put walls up around her. It made me want to lean in and break them down.

She ordered wine and thanked the waiter, then turned back to me when he stepped out after having cleared one of the two wine glasses from each of our place settings. Her eyes were sharp. She was unbelievably beautiful. I couldn’t breathe properly.

“You stood when I entered. That was good.”

“Right.” My voice was a croak. I still hadn’t recovered.