13. Alba
THIRTEEN
ALBA
My first paycheck from Vaughn hit my account that Friday. I lay in bed and stared at my phone screen, heart thumping.
It was more money than I’d had in my account since I’d been excommunicated—and all I’d had to do was go to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants.
When I’d walked into the crowded dining room, I’d scanned the space as my muscles twitched like they were preparing to bolt—and been relieved to see no one familiar.
And then the door to the private dining room had opened, and there he was. Obviously uncomfortable, unbearably handsome.
I’d forced myself to stay professional. He was my ticket to a bit of stability, my second chance at independence. I wouldn’t ruin it by acting on base urges.
Now I climbed out of bed and stretched my neck from side to side, groaning at the ache in my spine. Maybe if I worked for Vaughn for long enough, I’d have enough money to go see a physiotherapist.
For the first time in months, I was able to roll out my yoga mat and stretch my body. I ate a leisurely breakfast, then headed to my favorite coffee shop for a treat.
Deena wasn’t there today, but I ordered at the counter and took a seat at the same sofa where we’d met. I got up when my coffee was ready, then settled against the cushions with a book. Minute by minute, my body relaxed.
It had been a little over a week since I’d marched into Vaughn’s office, wanting to leave him a rude note, and I’d had time to quit my one remaining job, complete all my errands, clean my apartment, and do some much-needed grooming.
My legs were shaved, my toes were painted, and my hair had been conditioned with an extra-hydrating mask.
My entire body was exfoliated, and I’d managed to actually complete a basic skincare routine every evening for a week.
I almost felt like myself again.
After turning a page on the romcom in my hand, I curled a leg under my opposite thigh and leaned forward to grab my mug. I took a sip of the vanilla latte and hummed. Delicious. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt calm and almost hopeful.
Then I heard my name. “Alba?”
All the tension that had melted out of me locked my muscles up once more. A woman glided toward me, all glossy dark hair and expensive clothes.
“Yvette,” I said, forcing a smile. “I didn’t know you drank the coffee here.”
“I don’t, normally, but I was across the road meeting with my financial advisors and was desperate for a cappuccino.
” Her eyes were sharp as they swept over me, and I regretted my choice to wear old jeans and my comfiest, rattiest sweater.
The designer clothes hanging in my closet still felt like someone else’s.
“It’s so good to see you. We missed you at Ryan’s this year.”
Ryan was a mutual friend who was famous for throwing extravagant, multi-day birthday parties. The location changed every year, from one exotic destination to another. Even if I’d been invited, I wouldn’t have had the money to go.
“I’m sure it was fabulous,” I said, standing to kiss the air on either side of her cheek. “How have you been?”
“Oh, I’m so over the winter. I was just thinking I need to get out of the city for the weekend, at least.”
“You still have that place in…Jamaica, was it?”
“Oh”—she waved a hand, laughing—“we sold that place last year. We’re looking at buying in the Bahamas, but you know, the hurricanes are getting worse…”
“Uh-huh.”
“How about you? I heard you were working… at a restaurant ?” She laughed, frowning, but interest sparked in her gaze.
“Who told you that?” I asked with a coy smile, forcing myself not to squirm.
At dinner with Vaughn, it had been so easy to put on the persona I used to wear all the time.
The poised, effortless, carefree woman whose chief worry was booking her next blowout at the salon.
It was harder now, in the face of a woman who delighted in spreading malicious gossip.
I knew she’d be on the phone before she left the café.
Then I thought of Vaughn’s discomfort—and the way he’d braced himself, straightened, and forced himself to pay attention—and I figured if he could push past it, so could I.
So, I smiled at Yvette. “It was fun,” I said breezily, waving a hand.
Her catty smile turned confused. “Fun,” she repeated, like she’d never heard of the word. Or maybe she’d never heard it in relation to actual work.
I smiled. “Very.”
“Your ex-fiancé seems to be doing well. I ran into him and his new woman. They’re madly in love.”
As far as daggers to the chest went, that one wasn’t subtle at all. My smile remained in place only because I had years of practice. “I’m so happy for the both of them.”
“And…what was his name…James?”
I tilted my head. Apparently news of my connection to James had gotten out. “What about him?”
“Are the two of you blissfully happy as well?”
“I haven’t seen him in over a year, so I can’t speak for him, but I’m doing well. Was that your name that was just called?”
Yvette glanced at the counter, where the barista placed a steaming drink. She turned back to me with a razor-sharp smile. “Nice to run into you. We should catch up sometime.”
“Absolutely,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t call me and I wouldn’t call her, and we’d both be happier for it.
As she walked away, her designer shoes clip-clopping on the café’s tiled flooring, I turned back to my book. The words scrambled on the page, my attention on the sound of her heels as it moved toward the door. When she was gone, I blew out a breath and slumped on the sofa.
I’d been wrong last week, when I thought I was ready to grovel my way back into the family fold. I missed my clothing, my driver, my ready-made food, my cleaner, my beautiful penthouse apartment. I missed all the things that had made life easy.
But I didn’t miss that . The fake niceness, the subtle and not-so-subtle jabs, the constant put-downs and one-upmanship.
None of the people in Yvette’s and Ryan’s social circle had spoken to me when I was thrown out of my family. None of them so much as sent me a text message. They weren’t my friends. I knew that now.
And I knew that I didn’t want to go back to that world, even if it meant doing it tough for a while longer.
My coffee was cold, I couldn’t focus on my book, and it was about time I started getting ready for my next session with Vaughn.
I could thank Yvette for one thing: she was the perfect reminder of what was at stake if I messed things up with my new boss.
I’d rented out a small dance studio in preparation for our session. Dressed in leggings and a loose tee, I leaned against the wall of mirrors and scrolled through my music app for something appropriate.
It was dark out, with the lights in the studio reflecting against the glass and blocking the view of the outside. The minutes trickled by, and I wondered if Vaughn would call to cancel, if he’d tell me he’d changed his mind.
At least I’d get paid, I thought. At least I had a tiny cushion in my bank account. Not enough to last more than a couple of weeks, but enough to get me to my next job.
Worry gnawed at my stomach. Yvette’s face loomed at the back of my mind. How many more old acquaintances would I have to face? Maybe I should’ve moved out of the city.
And then he was there, filling out the doorway, his blue eyes snapping to mine. He scanned the room briefly, as if to check that I hadn’t laid any traps in the corners, then crossed to where I stood. He smelled of the cold and a hint of his cologne.
“Alba.”
“Vaughn.” I fought the smile that tried to curl my lips. “You look nervous.”
“I haven’t danced since middle school Phys Ed class,” he admitted.
“I’ll go easy on you,” I promised, and my heart jumped at the spark in his eyes.
“Not sure I want you to.”
Dangerous—he was dangerous. I ducked my chin and put my phone next to my bag, leaving the music off for now. “Get comfortable. We’ll start with a waltz,” I told him, and gestured to the middle of the room.
I tried not to stare at him, but the studio was full of reflective surfaces. The darkened windows, the wall of mirrors—they all conspired to make me ogle.
He shifted those big shoulders and let his jacket drop off, his back to me, his front reflected in the mirror.
His hair and beard were groomed to perfection, his body shifting and tugging the fabric of his shirt tight across his back and arms as he laid the jacket down next to my bag.
Then he turned toward me, but his eyes were on the cufflinks he unhooked and tucked into a pocket, then on the work of rolling up his sleeves.
I’d never seen his forearms before, and I found myself unable to look away. They were thick and corded with muscle, veins popping out as he moved those big hands. Obscene.
There was heat swirling all through me, coalescing down below my navel and tingling down to my extremities. I swallowed convulsively, angling my body away so I could gather myself.
I was providing a professional service, and ogling was not part of the job description.
That was just a perk, I thought, then braced myself and turned to face him. He was done with his sleeves and he spread his arms out toward me, open and waiting.
“Over here,” I said, “arms like this.”
I demonstrated the position, and Vaughn approached. His belt buckle gleamed, his shoes shone, and his pants did nothing to hide the strong thighs they covered.
This would’ve been easier when he’d looked like a bum who’d raided a smaller man’s closet.
I lifted my chin and stepped into the frame of his arms, one hand nestled against his palm, the other resting on his shoulder.
Through the fabric of his shirt, I felt the hard muscle of his shoulder shifting, and then his hand was just below my waist, fingers dangerously close to the waistband of my underwear.
“Hand higher, about mid-back,” I said, arching a brow, “unless this is you trying to cop a feel.”