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"What speaks to me?"
"Your outfit. Why did you choose it?"
"It's comfortable."
"I do wish I could wear jeans." She taps her pencil skirt and shakes her head. "My ass looks fantastic, but can I run to catch the subway? Never." Her eyes pass over me again. Stop at my hair. "You're a musician?"
I don't call myself one. Not anymore. I haven't picked up my guitar in ages. I don't even sing along to the radio anymore.
Not since Mom died.
But I still live, eat, breathe music until it hurts and I have to stop.
"I play guitar," I say.
"And sing?"
I nod.
"You write songs?"
"I have."
"Is that what you want to do?"
"I don't know. I haven't had a lot of time for dreams recently." I still write songs sometimes. Lyrics. But they're too messy, too ugly.
No one wants my raw pain.
And I don't want to give it to anyone.
It's mine.
She makes this mm-hmm noise that's something between pity and sympathy. "What do you do for fun?"
"What's fun?"
"You're twenty-two."
"And you're so old?"
She smiles at the compliment. She looks around twenty-five, but between her boundless enthusiasm and her maternal demeanor, it's hard to place her age. "Mr. Hunt told me a little about your life."
I swallow hard. I don't like her knowing my business. But I have to get used to it. That comes with the tech mogul fiancé territory.
"I'm sorry," she says. "About your mother. I can't even imagine… if I lost my parents… I'm not sure I'd ever breathe again."
That's a good way of putting it.
"But you must blow off steam sometimes. Or you'd explode."
"I still go to shows. Go dancing."
"And your sister?"
"Yeah." My smile is involuntary. "We watch classic movies. Or reality TV. Or soccer. She plays."
"She's good?"
"Amazing."
"Is that enough? Or do you still feel… pent up?"
Sometimes. But I try not to think about it. And I don't want to talk to her about it.
Paloma seems nice, but she's not my friend. She's Ty's assistant.
"What does that have to do with clothes?" I ask.
"It's called conversation. Are you familiar?" She laughs. "You're a lot like Ty."
"How's that?"
"You don't suffer fools."
That is Ty to a T.
"I'm surprised he puts up with my enthusiasm."
"He needs a little enthusiasm."
She smiles. "He does." She looks me over again. "There's something about you… I can tell you have that in you."
"Enthusiasm?"
She nods. "A well of passion. One you only share with people you trust." She looks to a rack of black dresses. "You don't trust me. That's fine. But I have to imagine… you'll share it with him one day."
Maybe. Or maybe she's projecting.
"In any case, people are going to want to know your story," she says. "What will they say if you keep working at that awful bar?"
"What's wrong with being a waitress?"
"Nothing. But it's not you. And it's not…"
Fitting for someone of my new station. I know. That's in the contract too. I have to quit before my next shift.
"You want more. I can sense that. It's just there. Maybe it's your—"
"Resting bitch face?"
She laughs. "Dramatic features. You're very angular. And your haircut—"
"I like you so far, Paloma, but if you insult my haircut—"
"No." She smiles. "It's perfect for you. But it's not a low-effort style."
"So?"
"You blow dry it straight. You always wear winged eyeliner. Maybe you choose this outfit because it's comfortable, but you choose it intentionally too. Because you want to look a certain way."
"And what is that?"
Her eyes flit to my black boots. My jean-clad hips. My tight tank top. "You want to drive Mr. Hunt crazy."
"That's not really—"
"I organize Mr. Hunt's schedule. I schedule his dinners, send his gifts, cancel his morning appointments when he's indisposed. I'd know if you were seeing each other."
Oh.
"It's none of my business. I'm not going to pry. Even if I wanted to tell someone, the nondisclosure agreement I signed… I'd basically give up my firstborn." She looks me in the eyes. "Are you sleeping together?"
My cheeks flush. "Not now."
"But you have?"
"A few years ago. We spent the summer together."
She nods with recognition. "Of course. The girl from the bar. I've heard that story." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "You know how it is, working with rich men. You stay invisible. They forget you're there. You hear things."
I nod. "I pick up a lot. At the bar."
"Enough to go away for insider trading?"
"If I had the money for it."
She smiles. "You do now." She leads me into one of the mini-stores. "And people will talk. They'll see your ambition. If you don't have a story about what you're after, they'll think you're after his money."
"Is that so bad?"
"You want people calling you a gold digger?"
"Won't they? No matter what?"
Her frown drains the color from her face. "People will wonder why Ty is marrying you. If you stick with the down on your luck waitress story…"
They'll fill in the blanks. I'm marrying him for money. Or maybe because he knocked me up.
