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“I don’t take care of her,” I said swiftly. “And that’s none of your business.” I cleared my throat, reminded of Gerard’s words and all the trouble living with Claire caused. Reaching up, I stroked my neck, already suffocated from the scent of imaginary cigarettes. Alex’s eyes shifted, fixated on my hand.
“Hmmm…” he hummed.
“Hmm, what?”
“Now you’re uncomfortable.”
“No, I’m not.” I pulled my hands back to my side. He grinned, and for the first time, it seemed like a genuine reaction to my stubborn dispute. The way his eyes creased, kissed by the sun, smooth, yet rugged, had the appearance of age but none of its timely wear. If I had to guess, he was much older than me, perhaps ten years the difference of Parker and me.
“If you say so…” he said unconvinced, “you’re here for an interview, and that’s what I’m giving you.” He stared passed me, observing for any oncoming traffic, or possibly the sign of people. “Why were you late?”
“Half the Upper East Side is blocked,” I sighed, “another movie, another headache.”
He laughed, and the sound of his deep rasp tightened my chest. “Apologies are in order,” he replied, “and be glad. I don't do that often.”
His laugh irked me, realizing the gravity of his confession, “Wait, you mean… it’syourmovie?”
“Most of them are…”
“Well, you're the reason I was late, the reason I took my heels off and ran through the dirty streets of New York.” My lip twitched in disgust, feeling the grime between my toes. “And why aren’t you there? Entire streets are blocked, and yet you’re here at a small boutique?”
“They shoot when I’m ready.” He replied calmly. “And I’ll be ready, once this is taken care of first.”
“Well, you being late caused me to be late.” I shrugged, “It’s unprofessional.”
“Maybe… but it’s my choice, and I have so few already, except for one, of course,” he paused, “the one I’m making right now.”
I stepped backward, reaching my hand behind me to steady myself against a parking meter. I felt as though I could fall at any moment, clutching my oversized tote between my knees. He moved in closer, studying me once more. “And what would that be?” I asked.
“You.” He stated, so matter of fact.
I laughed. “What about me?”
“I have some upcoming events that require a stylist. I came here by word of mouth, and here you were. So now you’re my stylist.” I laughed again. He couldn’t be serious, not like this, but I could tell in the way his eyes narrowed, he wasn’t joking at all.
“Do you do this often?” I asked, completely suspicious of his words. He was too smooth, too confident, completely unhesitant.
“Do what exactly?”
“Ask girls to be your stylist?” I shrugged, “Don’t you already have a team of people? This just seems odd. Like some pick up line.” I cleared my throat, asserting my position. But why would he be hitting on me? I looked like I just escaped a fire and ran a marathon.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He scoffed, leaning closer, the faint rise of cherry scent lifted from his skin and into my nose. “If I wanted topickyou up, I’d merely lift you in my arms and take you.” The way his voice rolled, appeared both foreign and alluring. I felt as if I could buckle, my body both stiff and loose. “This is a serious job,” he added, “with serious expectations. I don’t do charity. I see what I want, and I take it.” His eyes peered down at the bag of unused business cards I held the day before. He plucked them from my purse, “This is you?” He asked, nodding at the bag.
“That’s me,” was all I could say, as Alex bit into the plastic, the white fang of his tooth pulled a seam to access a card. He held it up, reading my name aloud with a smirk.
“Gemma. Rose. Harrison.” He growled, his eyes met mine once more, “Piedra preciosa.”The unfamiliar words buzzed like a drug in my veins, his voice far too intoxicating for me to make sense of.
“What did you just say?” I stammered as his eyes looked up at an oncoming crowd. He flashed a quick but stressful grin, slipping his glasses back onto his face.
“Don’t be shy. Soon everyone will know your name.” He tucked the card into his pocket, leaving me no chance to inquire further as hordes of people took notice of the apparent star, Mr. Alex Rivers.
CHAPTER 3
“She’ll need Tabasco.” Parker warned the waitress as she placed our food on the table.
“And he’ll need more half and half.” I added, ripping two pink packets of sugar for his freshly filled coffee.
Breakfast at Bennes’ was the culmination of every simple pleasure that a diner could have. If it wasn’t the sizzle of a fried egg, or the chatter of revolving guests, then it was the charm of anointed Christmas lights that hung above our tiny booth. These were the things that caused Parker and me to return like a habit, and I loved it, especially since it was something we shared together.
