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“You look after me, and I appreciate it. Take Len out for dinner.”
She shakes her head at me as I rush out of the shop, and I smile back at her.
I have half an hour before my appointment at Louise’s Boutique, and although I don’t believe Lance knows where I am, I’m also not an idiot. Because he sounded like he knew exactly where I was.
With time to kill, I hotfoot it to the cocktail bar across the street and snag a seat at the bar. I have a view of Izzy’s shop, but I’m also far enough back not to get spotted.
“What can I get for you?” the barman asks.
I order an espresso martini and watch as it’s made, occasionally glancing out of the window to check the street for Mr Asshole CFO.
The first cocktail gets drained within minutes, but it goes down well and is clearly needed. I feel on edge, with a little adrenaline rush, like a child hiding out.
When I left the Montwell yesterday, a couple of silly toys seemed like a great idea. It definitely made me feel better. Sat here now thinking about it, I’m not sure I’ve done anything so childish in years, and the only excuse I have is the fact it’s been nearly twelve weeks since I’ve been in the city.
Dad sleeps much of the day away now, which leaves me alone. So to hell with Lance’s opinion of me. It was fun to mess with the grumpy beast sitting in his big, serious executive chair while being all arrogant and hot.
The bartender places another espresso down, and I nod in thanks.
As I turn my head to look out into the street for the hundredth time in twenty minutes, I spot him at the entrance of Izzy’s shop.
“Crap,” I mutter to myself.
He pulls out his phone—his Nells bag thrown over his shoulder as if he has no concerns with anyone seeing—and then plasters it to his ear.
My phone starts to ring in my bag, and I shake my head, feeling dumb. I should’ve expected that.
I let it ring out and pick up my drink as I slide from the stool. As I inch toward the window, I use a huge succulent to hide behind. My phone starts to ring again, and I laugh into my drink, taking a sip as I watch him.
“Catch me if you can, motherfucker.”
After two cocktails, I’m feeling a little buzz. I want to think it’s because of the alcohol, but sneaking out of shops and running away from a guy I just purchased a penis enlarger for seems to have given me a huge rush of endorphins.
I slip inside Louise’s Boutique and breathe out a sigh of relief as I close the door behind me. The boutique is large, with three floors, each one getting a little fancier on each level. Casual, formal, best. For me, I’ll be between levels two and three today.
The shop assistants greet me with champagne which I decline, knowing it’s not a smart move on top of the espressos martinis I just drained.
We spend time searching for a dress or two-piece that will suit me and works for the gala. With over eight dresses to try on, I make my way to the private changing rooms and start to undress.
My phone starts to ring as I’m removing my bra, and I tut as I check the screen, expecting it to be him again.
“Izzy?” I bring the phone to my ear and answer. “What did I forget?”
“Don’t be mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“I gave him Louise’s address.”
I frown at myself in the mirrored wall. “You gave who Louise’s address?”
“The angry hot god! He totally talked me into it—or his eyes did, or that suit. I wasn’t going to tell him, and then he—”
“Izzy, you did not give that man the address.”
“I definitely did.”
I hear someone walking into my private room, and I move toward the divide.
