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“Maybe you should,” he counters.
We stay in limbo for a moment before I blow out a gusty laugh.
“You caught me.” I hold my free hand up like I’m confessing. “I fence stolen shoes as my side hustle.”
“No, you don’t. You’d have worn a more expensive pair today if that were true.” His eyes rake over me and I resist the urge to squirm under his blue inspection. “You’re not trying to pretend to be rich. You’re out of place in middle class, aren’t you? You belong in the upper echelons, yet you’re hiding in the suburbs.”
His assessment is scarily accurate. I cover with a laugh, but it doesn’t sound convincing. “Very funny. Much as I’d like to indulge your fantasy—”
“Would you?” he cuts me off to ask. The blood rushes to my face. Now I’m thinking about what his fantasy could be. A rogue, sinful wave of heat rolls through me. It’s not as unwelcome as it should be. He’s taking up half my cubicle, his eyes boring into mine. “You don’t belong here.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
My heart mule-kicks my chest. What does he know?
Maybe he figured out my real name is Vivian Steele. Maybe he spotted old courtroom footage or stumbled across a snippet of press from years ago. Despite my darker hair color and six years of maturity since, he could have recognized me. Damn me for running my mouth at the site yesterday. I should have laid low at the office.
I’m not ready to start over so soon. I want peace, and if a billionaire like Owen knows my real name and needs me in his pocket, this gemstone of information is the perfect bit of intelligence to keep me in line.
But I don’t kowtow to rich folk. Not any longer.
“I… I don’t know what you mean,” I stall. It took a lot of effort to reach this mediocre point of existence. A name change, legally, is a series of frustrating hoops and a lot of waiting. I don’t want to change my identification. I don’t want to move. Find a new apartment, a new job. A new friend, if Amber can be considered a friend. Fudge the truth about my patchy, and mostly fabricated, work record. Leave my life behind. Again.
My father took my life from me once. I’m not starting over.
“I think you do.” He takes the box, extracts one of the shoes and bends on one knee. While my mind reels, he gingerly lifts my foot, his calloused palms smoothing along my calf.
Unbidden, visions of the fantasy he alluded to burble to life. One where those palms touch more than my leg.
“I have an offer for you, Ms. Vandemark.”
Did he overemphasize my last name or am I paranoid? He removes one of my flats and slips on a Louboutin in its place. It’s as different as climbing into a shiny new Porsche when you’re used to driving a Camry. Or a rickshaw.
He takes the other shoe from the box and makes the swap as well.
“A perfect fit.” He presses his hands to his thick thighs and stands. He’s closer than before. We’re not quite chest to chest, but it wouldn’t take much to bring him there. God, he smells good. “That’s the shoe you belong in, Vivian.”
He tips my chin with his knuckle and I have the crazed thought he might kiss me. Which is insane. I don’t want him to kiss me. I decide I’ll drive my four-inch spiked heel into his toe if he kisses me.
“I have reservations for tomorrow night at seven thirty at Villa Moneta. Join me.”
I’m tempted to refuse, but I’m not sure what he knows, or what he might tell Daniel about me. I suspect Nate Owen could make my life hard if he wanted to. I came to Clear Ridge for an attempt at normal. Have I failed?
“Tomorrow it is,” I reply coolly, my mind a hectic scramble.
“I’ll send a car.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I argue.
“Very well. And, Vivian”—he pats my cubicle wall before he leaves—“wear the shoes.”
