I’m about to respond when James appears behind me. “Tara, sweetheart, could you help me with something in the back before you go?”
Something in his tone makes my skin prickle. I catch Alfie straightening slightly, his fingers tensing around his glass.
“Actually, I need to finish closing,” I say.
“It’ll just take a minute.” James’ hand brushes my lower back as he passes, lingering just long enough to be deliberate. “Unless you’re too busy with your... friend.”
The way he says ‘friend’ carries weight. When I glance at Alfie, his expression is carefully blank, but I recognize that look. He’s holding himself very still, very controlled.
“She’s fine,” Alfie says. I glare at him; I hate it when he speaks for me.
“Whatever. I’ll handle closing.” James huffs. “You can head out now.”
He heads toward his office, but not before throwing one last look at Alfie.
We wait until his door closes to walk out. I stalk ahead of Alfie.
“Tara—” Alfie starts.
“Don’t.” I know that tone. “I can handle James.”
“I know you can.” His voice is careful, measured. “But he’s...”
“My harmless manager who sometimes tries too hard?” I stop outside the door. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Is he always so douchey?” His mouth sneers in disgust. James really isn’tthatbad. Yeah, it’s a little odd but I mean, I’m friendly with him so it’s not like I put him off. But I just don’t want a hostile work environment. I think I’d rather this than if I shut him down too hard and then he was equally hard on me.
“Alfie. I can handle it. It’s fine.”
He holds up his hands. “I respect your judgment. Just...” He chooses his words carefully. “Something about him feels off.”
“I know.” I soften slightly. “But I need to deal with this my way. Promise me you won’t get involved?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I promise. As long as he doesn’t hurt you.”
“Alfie.”
“That’s the best you’re getting, Tink.”
He slings an arm around me as we head to his car, and despite myself, I lean into his warmth. There’s no one around to pretend for, no audience to convince. Just us,walking in comfortable silence, both pretending this isn’t starting to feel real.
My phone buzzeswhile I’m getting ready for the donor dinner the next evening. I open an email from Mrs. Spencer with “gentle suggestions” about appropriate attire.
How on earth did she even get my email? This woman is seriously scary.
Plus, it’s not like the lilac dress I bought specifically for tonight might somehow embarrass her precious family name.
I’d almost backed out twice already. But Alfie needs me there - his mother has made that clear enough.
Basically, the subtext was: show up and play my part, or watch his funding disappear.
So here I am, trying to make my hair behave while remembering all the donor names Alfie told me about.
My hands shake slightly as I apply my lipstick. James’ words from last night echo in my head:“These rich types - they always choose their own kind in the end.”
“Shut up,” I tell my reflection. “This is different. He’s different.”
But the confidence in my voice sounds forced even to me. I want to believe it so bad. Standing here in this dress that cost more than my rent, trying to fit into his world... I'm not so sure.
