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“If it’s black tie, the answer is no. I’m not going to be another Remington Blake and end up being the next front woman for #BlackbridgeSpecial.”
“It’s not black tie,” I assure her.
The elevator dings the arrival on our floor, and I hate that we’re not having dinner tonight. She asked earlier if room service was okay because her sister needed to chat about something personal going on with her family, hence, the joke about the wine and orgasm.
“You didn’t give me an answer, Leighton.” I brush my fingers down her arm, my eyes begging her for way more than just a yes or no about Saturday.
“It’s not a wedding?”
“Not a wedding.”
“Because I can’t handle some big family event.”
“Not a wedding,” I repeat.
“Fine.”
“Okay.”
“See you in the morning.”
“I’m sleeping in if you’re going to see Sandra Halen on your own.” I lean over, inches from kissing her, but pull back once I realize how close I came to fucking up. “Goodnight, Leighton.”
She nods, disappearing quickly into her room.
I don’t hear another peep from her for the rest of the night. I still come in my hand because of her.
Chapter 24
Leighton
If I had anyone to compare Sandra Halen to, I guess she’d be like Quinten Lake of BBS. If there’s a problem with the appearance of image, Sandra is the one to call. She’s poised perfection, smiling for the camera, but she’s also a bulldog, able to put someone in their place with a few sharp, well-educated words that leave many people standing with their jaws hanging open, wondering what just happened while she strides away on red-soled shoes.
My research told a different story. Gossip sites and digging through hashtags revealed that Sandra is a prima donna, a little crazed when she doesn’t get her way and a total bitch when she’s seriously inconvenienced. I took a lot of what I found online with a grain of salt because so many people online hide behind their keys, but I’m approaching this meeting today with unease in my gut. Maybe coming alone wasn’t such a good idea. If I ever needed a flirty man, this is probably the best one to bring Gaige to. The research also depicted Sandra as a cougar. In her late fifties, the woman has been married four times, and it’s reported that she’s on the prowl for number five.
The lobby of her organization is glamorous sparkling gold and accented with turquoise. I expect nothing else from a southern woman with style. The slender man at the front desk gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as I approach.
“May I help you?” He blinks up at me, and the redness around his tired eyes is the first indication that things aren’t rosy in his world.
“Good morning, Dustin,” I say after looking at the nametag pinned to his chest. “I’m Leighton Redmond. I have an appointment with Ms. Halen.”
He cringes, looking over his shoulder at a semi-open door.
“My apologies, Ms. Redmond. She—p-we’re running a little behind this—”
“David!” The screeched voice comes from the office behind him.
Embarrassed, I look back down at his nametag, but I had the correct name.
He looks even more embarrassed, but also on the verge of tears, or more tears, because although it’s only ten in the morning, I have a feeling that this poor man has already shed a few.
“David!”
“Please excuse me for a moment.”
Dustin takes a long calming breath, the air shuddering through his nose before slowly releasing from his mouth as he stands. He gives me another smile and walks into the office, closing the door behind him. She screams at him so loudly, there was really no point in pulling it closed, but I understand not wanting to have witnesses to such things.
I should immediately walk out and leave. There is absolutely no way in hell I’d ever work with this woman.
But I don’t turn around and leave.
I pull a slip of paper out of my purse, making a mental note to order business cards and wait for poor Dustin to return to his desk. He’s shaking, tears tracking down his cheeks. His lower lip wobbles as he takes his seat. He tries to smile, but the man just can’t manage it. My eyes sting in misery for him, but crying doesn’t solve his problems.
“I need your personal cell phone number,” I say and shove the slip of paper across the low counter toward him.
He shakes his head. “I apologize for being unprofessional, Ms. Redmond.”
“Dustin, I need your number. You’re going to get a phone call from another local business, from a boss that will respect you, treat you better, and will never make you cry at work. Trust me?”
His eyes search mine, and I can tell this man has been beaten down so much by the woman in that office he doesn’t know if he can trust me or not. Eventually, he caves, writing his number down.
