23. Chapter Twenty-Three— Carlotta
Chapter Twenty-Three— Carlotta
Pressing my gloss slicken lips together to repress a laugh, I double check my boss and snitching co-workers aren’t around, before I quickly thumb out a reply.
Me: Yes, sir *salute emoji* … but wouldn’t a skirt be more accessible?
Cass’s reply is instant.
Cass: Don’t fucking tempt me, Princess. You at work?
Me: Unfortunately.
Cass: Call me when you get off
Typing…
“Carlotta,” my boss barks, causing me jump out of my heels and drop my phone mid-message into the depths of the cubby hole beneath the checkout desk. “This gentleman here, is looking for a suit. Can you help him?”
I nod without much choice.
My eyes flick to the tall gentleman towering above my stern boss, even as I hear my cell vibrate with a text message. His hands, as big as fucking dinner plates, hang down at his sides.
I take in his leisurely appearance—light-washed jeans and a navy tee, paired with a pair of off brand sneakers—before I meet his eyes.
He’s already looking at me with a smile about his thin lips.
Something about his smile makes my skin crawl; the whisps of hair on the back of my neck standing up of their own accord.
My boss raises her gray brows at me or at least tries to with the amount of Botox in her forehead, in a silent warning.
It’s simply muscle memory and the fear of being fired on the very spot, which has me stretching my lips back into a polite smile, vehemently ignoring the waxy, faux feel of it across my features.
“Of course. Right this way, sir.”
I note slight dilation of his pupils at my words, before he gestures for me to lead the way.
With no other choice, I walk towards the luxury men’s section, the click clack of my heels against the tiled floor grating my ears, while the heated stare on my ass serves to make me shiver with disgust and irritation.
“Here we are.” I spin in a half circle, putting my back, and my ass, to the rack of new season peacoats, so he can no longer burn his eyes into my precious flesh. “What is it exactly you’re looking for?”
“A full suit,” he answers gruffly, gaze dipping down to my breasts and back again. “I’m not exactly sure what size so I might need to be… measured up. That won’t be a problem, will it?”
I swallow down the bile building at the back of my throat.
“Of course not. We have an expertly trained tailor who can take care of that for you. If you’d like to just head through that curtain up there” —I tip my head to gesture to the silk curtain behind which Fransisco is probably stitching fabrics together— “and he can get you measured up. What color are you thinking of wearing and I can pick out a few bits I think will go. Tie? Bowtie? The—”
“You don’t do the measuring yourself, sweetness?”
I shake my head, gritting my teeth at my own words. “I’m not trained in measuring, unfortunately, sir.”
His blue eyes flash with visible annoyance and then in the next moment regains his composure as if nothing had ever happened.
“Leg 36. Waist 30.”
“Oh—okay,” I knit my brows together as I turn to locate his size in a pair of tailored pants. What the ever-living hell is going on? “I’ll get those sizes picked out for you. Any color preference?”
“Black,” he spits.
Pulse fluttering at the base of my throat, I pull three different suit jacket styles from the rack, looping them over the crook of my forearm. I yank a handful of ties and two bowties from the wall, crushing the material in a tight fist as I stalk to the fitting room.
“Take as long as you need, Mr…”
“Ardello.”
“Mr. Ardello,” I repeat, desperately wishing I was anywhere but here right now. “My name is Carlotta. If you’d just like to give me a shout when—”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I know what your name is,” he clarifies with a glimpse of his teeth. The way he’s grinning at me is almost sharklike, as if he’s waiting for the perfect moment to strike and sink those teeth into me.
God, I need to calm down and get a grip.
Ever since the night in the basement, my imagination has been in overdrive. Each morning on my commute to work, I feel as if I’m being followed, eyes tracking my every step. I’m on edge each day, wondering if one of Rome’s minions is going to show up and fucking harass me.
Between my reoccurring nightmares about Cristiano and now the mental replay of that night, my sleep is practically non-existent—leaving me groggy and my brain vulnerable to play tricks on itself.
Like now, for example. I need to take a breather. Other than being a little creepy, there isn’t anything wrong with the man in front of me. He’s just a client, like everybody else, even if he is a little bit sleazy.
“How do you know my—”
“I heard your boss call for you, remember?”
“Oh.” I push a fake laugh from my throat. “Of course. Sorry, it’s been a long day. I’ll hang these up in the room and I’ll get you a complimentary drink. What would you like? Wine? Water? Beer?”
“Vodka. Neat. On the rocks.”
I smile. “Coming right up.”
Spinning on my heel, I make a beeline for the pint-sized refrigerator hid at the back of the stock room.
I hurry to throw two boulders of ice into the glass, followed by a healthy splash of Russian imported vodka and get back out onto the shop floor before my boss reprimands me for ‘neglecting a client.’
I swear she makes up the rules of the job as she goes along.
Crossing the carpeted flooring of the dressing room, which muffles the noise of my company mandated heels, I raise my fist to knock on the wooden privacy screen and call out, only for my voice to die in the back of my throat.
“Practically alone,” I hear Mr. Ardello say. “It was easy as fuck to get inside. Yeah, yeah, I know…”
My fingers spasm around the cold glass in my clutch, my heart fluttering nervously in my chest.
“I’ll text you. I need to go before she comes back.”
She.
A sticky, stuttered breath spills from my lips.
I take a step back and then another, unceremoniously dumping the glass of vodka on the gaudy gold coffee table and hightailing it away.
Pressing my palm to my sternum in an attempt to calm my racing heart, I weave through the racks of designer clothing, smiling blandly at a customer here and there until I find a familiar face.
“Amber, can you take over my client really quick, I need—”
She doesn’t even glance my way. “No.”
“Why not?” I snap.
“Because I’m busy.”
I look at where she’s rearranging the metal hangers to be exactly one inch apart. “Fine. Do you know where Marissa is?”
“On her lunch.”
“Please, Amber. I—”
“Carlotta!” My boss appears as if from nowhere, suddenly hovering over Amber’s shoulder. One look at her pinched face and the direction in which she’s pointing an acrylic red talon tells me everything I need to know. “Fitting room. Now!”
With my tail between my wobbly legs, I nod once before I retrace my steps back to Mr. Ardello.
I find him sipping his drink, cocooned within the confines of a heavily padded armchair, his left leg balancing on his right knee.
“Apologies.” I clasp my hands together at my waist, hoping for faux innocence. “I had to make a quick stop to the restroom. I see you found your drink. Is everything to your liking?”
Mr. Ardello dips his chin in agreement, his eyes never leaving mine. “Indeed. Although I must say, the service here could do with a little… improving.” His lids hood over, lips curling up into a grin as his words hang between us, dripping with innuendo.
Blinking, I force my tongue and mouth to move, rolling over the rehearsed phrase we’re taught to say if somebody has a complaint of any kind. “If you have any issues, please feel free to talk to my boss. Here at MacVelly’s we’re always looking at ways we can improve our customer experience.”
Tipping back his glass, Mr. Ardello swallows back the rest of his vodka in a large gulp without even the slightest wince at the burn.
He rises fluidly to his full height, grabbing a hold of the black and white suit with matching bowtie draped over the back of the stuffed armchair and then stalks forward, roughly shoving the empty glass into my chest. I catch it just before it falls to the ground, peering up at his in sheer shock.
What the fuck is going on?
“Ring me up for the suit, won’t you, sweetness?”
My neck feels like a bobblehead sitting on a car dashboard—having no choice but to nod in agreement.
Is it possible I misheard him in the dressing room?
I’m so paranoid lately; thinking myself involved in situations until my rational mind kicks in, reminding me that I’m being silly. The world doesn’t revolve around me. Ninety nine percent of the goings on have nothing to do with me.
But this?
My fingers shake as I scan the suit, trousers, and bowtie. It takes me a couple of tries to grab a hold of the thin edge of starch white tissue paper we wrap all purchases in, but I manage, shoving the dress clothes into a labelled bag as quick as I can.
I reel off the total, steeling my core when I finally glance up at him. “Will that be cash or card today, sir?”
“Card.”
He swipes his glossy, black Amex through the card machine without barely a glance at the total, purposefully grazing his thick fingertips with my slender ones as he makes a grab for the rope handles of his shopping bag.
“Thank you for your custom.” I force myself to smile; well aware of the multiple HD cameras dotted around the shop floor, watching me right now. “We hope to see you—”
“Are you single, sugar?”
I swallow thickly, pushing down the ball of bile lodging itself in my throat.
“No, I have a… boyfriend.”
Cassiel’s cheeky grinning face flashes through my mind. I really hope he won’t mind me using him as my scapegoat.
“That’s a shame…” Thick fingers drum on the checkout desk countertop. “Does he know how to take care of a sweet thing like you?”
God. I just need to get him out of here.
“Mhmm,” I hum, pretending to be interested in the touchscreen pad in front of me and hoping to God he can’t see the tremble wracking my hands.