Chapter 11 - Scarlett
ELEVEN
SCARLETT
“So, Daisy, what are you in school for?”
I force a smile at my client’s boss across the table. “Hospitality,” I lie, deciding on a major that doesn’t usually get a lot of follow-up questions.
He smirks, giving me a judgmental once-over. “And what do you plan on doing with a hospitality degree? Party planning?”
I keep the smile plastered on my face. “Maybe. I haven’t really decided yet.”
I weather the look he gives me, a look that’s equal parts lecherous and condescending. He might not know I’m an escort, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have sex in his eyes. Even with my “boyfriend” sitting next to me.
I glance at my client, a forty-five-year-old balding businessman who’s trying to climb the corporate ladder by showing off his hot girlfriend to his shallow boss.
In a way, he’s one of my best clients, solely because I don’t have to touch him, but I do wish he’d man up just a little bit and at least look ashamed that his boss is a leering jerk.
He doesn’t look ashamed. He’s excited to have something his boss wants.
“Daisy throws great parties,” my client says. And the undertone is obvious when he adds, “She really knows how to have a fun time.”
The sound of their chuckles makes my skin crawl. You’d think I’d be used to men talking about me like this, but the truth is, you never get used to it. You simply get better at dealing with it.
I double check my smile before placing a hand on my client’s arm. “I can’t take all the credit. It’s almost impossible not to have a good time with Mark.”
Delight flashes in his eyes. And I can tell that the moment we leave this restaurant, he’s going to ask me if he can extend our booking with a visit to the hotel next door.
Waiting for that moment makes the rest of the lunch tense.
I have to be diligent about the attention I send him after that, because even though I need to sell my role well for this job, I also need to be careful that my inevitable rejection doesn’t offend him.
Bitter clients are the most dangerous clients.
I’m so focused on my client that I forget to worry about his boss. But the moment Mark excuses himself to the bathroom, my spine stiffens.
“So, Daisy,” he says, brushing a single finger over the back of my hand. “Is this thing with you and Mark…serious?”
I glance pointedly at the wedding ring on his finger and smile anyway.
“A girl can only hope,” I simper.
Something calculating flashes in his eyes that puts me on higher alert than I already am. “You know, I could’ve sworn I heard Mark asking one of our interns out on a date last week,” he says with faux innocence. “It can’t be that serious if he’s seeing other people, can it?”
I study him for a moment, wondering if all men are this obvious or if my job has just made me smarter.
Because he’s lying. Mark could barely stutter his way through asking for a date he was paying for, so there’s no way he’s hitting on women at the workplace that triples his insecurity every day.
Which means his boss is trying to sabotage his direct report in order to create an opening with me for himself.
I wave him off. “Oh, I’m sure he was just trying to help her with work. Mark and I agreed to be exclusive.”
The boss gives me a pitying look, then shakes his head as he leans back in his chair. Fine by me. I’ll take pity over creepy.
“I hope for your sake that you’re right. But if he ever does turn out to be…not the man you expected...” That perverse smile curls his lips once again. “I’m always happy to be a listening ear.”
I’m saved from having to come up with an answer—that isn’t vomiting all over his shoes—because Mark reappears beside our table.
“You two doing okay?” he asks with an uneasy glance between us.
I smile and reach for his hand. “We’re great. Just chatting. You ready to go?”
Mark nods and shifts his attention back to his boss, though that tension doesn’t dissipate. It seems Mark isn’t as clueless as he appears. “Thanks again for lunch. I’m going to walk Daisy out and then I’ll meet you back at the office?”
“Sounds good. Don’t be late for our team meeting.” He turns to me. “It was very nice to meet you, Daisy.” And he waits until Mark is reaching for my coat before he winks at me behind his back.
My skin is still crawling from the interaction as Mark leads me outside to catch a cab.
And I barely suppress a shiver when I hear, “So…any chance you’re free for an extension? I’ve got an hour to kill…”
It takes more than my usual willpower to squeeze his hand and lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “I would if I could, baby. Maybe another time?”
His face falls, but I must have been gentle enough because he nods and says, “Worth a shot. Thanks for today. You were a huge help with my boss.”
Your boss who would clearly stab you in the back any chance he gets—girlfriend or otherwise.
“Of course,” I say in a far-too-bubbly voice. “It was my pleasure.”
Once I’m in the cab, I have a choice. I can either go home and scrub the touch of Mark and the gaze of his boss off my body, or I can go to the gym to work off my frustration.
Today, I decide on a bubble bath.
But as soon as I get home, I realize I should’ve chosen the gym.
Because there’s an issue with my plumbing. Something must be going wrong in the building because my bathtub is backing up with brown water and throwing all dreams of a bath out the window.
I call the building’s maintenance man, trying not to tense at the fact that a strange man is about to be in my apartment. Which might be bizarre, considering what I do for a living, but it’s harder for me to justify being in close quarters with a man I haven’t heavily vetted.
When the maintenance man shows up an hour later, I try to adopt my work persona to cover my nerves. I open the door with a smile and welcome him in, immediately asking if he’d like a water.
“No, thank you, miss,” he says with a smile. I try to read what kind of smile it is. “I’ll just take a look at the bathroom. Is the bedroom suite this way?”
If he notices my hesitation, he doesn’t let on. But it takes me a second to gesture down the hallway to the bedroom.
He disappears into my bedroom without another word. I hate that he has to walk through my bedroom to get to the bathroom. But since I’m not willing to leave him alone, I follow him in, one hesitant step at a time.
He’s digging around in the tub when I finally walk in. He hears me come in and smiles, then jerks his chin at the too-big bubble bath collection I’ve started.
“I never could get into baths,” he says casually. “I always get bored in two minutes. But I do wish I could like them. They seem…relaxing.”
Is he flirting? What man talks to a woman about baths?
“They’re pretty nice,” I say absentmindedly. “Can—can you fix the plumbing?”
He sends me a curious glance but answers, “Yeah, I should be able to fix the issue. I should have the…” He digs around in his toolkit and pulls something out. “We had this happen a few weeks ago, unfortunately. Should only take me a few minutes.”
I give him a stiff nod and decide to give him some space. I only go so far as my bedroom, though, and even then, I end up pacing the entire time.
Fifteen minutes later, he comes out. “Well, it’s all fixed. No more faulty bathtubs for you. I’ll let the building owner know what happened and to keep an eye on it. But you should be good now.”
Twisting my hands in front of me, I send him a shaky smile.
“Great, thank you so much for coming out so quickly.” I glance around the room and toward the bathroom. And then, because one of the weird stipulations in my lease is having to front the cost for my own repairs, I ask, “How much do I owe you?”
He waves me off. “This one is on the house.”
I freeze. Please don’t say that. When men say that, they always expect something in return.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I rush to say. “Really, how much do I owe you?”
He frowns. “No, really. No charge. This was nothing.”
And maybe it’s because my nerves are already raw from my date earlier, but panic starts to swell. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that a strange man is standing in my bedroom, pressing to do me a favor.
Please just let me pay you. At least if there’s money involved, it’s a straightforward transaction.
I open my mouth to insist, but before I can say a word, he says, “I need to get going. I have another job to get to.” He smiles, and despite being wired, I automatically return a polite smile of my own.
“Hopefully, it doesn’t act up again, but if it does, call the maintenance number. We’ll get you sorted.”
“Will do.” It comes out as a squeak. “Th-thank you.”
Another glance I can’t read, but thankfully, he leaves right after. Once he closes the door behind him, I flip the deadbolt and collapse onto my couch with haggard breathing.
That should not have been as stressful as it was. At twenty-two years old, and after three years of living on my own, a regular service call like that shouldn’t be making me hyperventilate.
I jump when my phone pings with a message. It’s Amara’s notification sound, and I know what’s in the text before I even check it.
Amara: Date number three with Mr. UFC tonight. I’d say check in with me afterwards, but it looks like things have been going well.
The reminder of my date with Nico brings a wave of relief. I try to tell myself it’s only because it’ll be the first male interaction today where I know exactly what I’m getting out of it, but I’m not as convincing as I should be. I know it’s because it’s Nico I’m meeting.
Looking toward my bedroom, I debate taking that bubble bath to scrub the nerves from my skin. But I can’t get the sight of that guy in my bathroom out of my head, so that effectively scraps that idea. I’ll probably have to bleach the entire bathroom before I can use the tub again.
I glance toward my treadmill.
Guess I’m sweating it out instead.
Five hours later, I’m knocking on Nico’s hotel room door.
The moment it swings open, every ounce of tension leaves my body.
“Hi,” I whisper, almost shyly.
His smile is sweet and genuine and better than I deserve.
“Hey, Red.”
He steps aside and gestures me in. It occurs to me that he never touches me when I walk by him. Actually, he doesn’t touch me until I initiate it.
“How are you?” I ask, pulling off my thin cardigan. I’m wearing a thin blue dress, more casual than usual for a client. But when I spin and see a look of awe cross Nico’s face, I know I made the right call.
“Uh, good,” he says, his gaze snapping back to my face. “Good. How are you?”
I sink onto the couch with a smile. “I’m great.”
I’m not even lying.
“Did you train today?” I ask him.
He nods and takes a seat on the chair beside the couch. “I got two sessions in today. So if I seem a little tired, that’s why.”
“We could’ve postponed,” I offer. Though I hate the idea. “You shouldn’t have to be tired when you see me.”
His lip quirks. “Red, I’m always tired. And besides, I didn’t want to go another week without seeing you.”
Why does my stomach flutter at that when, coming from any other client, it would turn me off?
“Would it help if I gave you a massage?” I ask. Partly because it’s an obvious way to flirt, but also because I’d really like to touch him.
He shakes his head with a smile. “Honestly, I’d rather give you a massage. You look tense. Is everything…okay?”
It should alarm me that he can see me so well. But instead of shaking him off with a lie, I find myself telling the truth.
“It’s better now.”
He seems to believe me because after a moment, he smiles. Then he relaxes back into the cushions with a yawn and says, “It sounds like both of us could use a more relaxing night.”
He has no idea how right he is.
“What does relaxing look like for you?” I ask.
“Depends,” Nico says with a shrug. “After a fight it means devouring all the food and rotting on the couch for a few days. But on an average rest day during the week, it could mean grabbing a drink with my brothers, or going to the movies with a teammate.” He turns toward me. “What about for you?”
“I like bubble baths,” is the first thing that pops into my mind. I feel my cheeks heat at the confession, but Nico only smiles with amusement. “Sometimes I’ll watch reality TV to destress and turn my mind off.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks. I nod too eagerly. “I got really into watching Dancing With The Stars recently,” he whispers.
A laugh bursts out of me at the image of Nico being riveted by celebrities dancing. The thought is adorable.
“Have you seen the latest episode?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. I’m caught up except for that one.”
I only hesitate for a moment before asking, “Do you want to watch it?”
He seems surprised but excited about the idea. “Hell yeah.”
I watch as he stands and moves over to the couch I’m sitting on, the one that has the best view of the TV.
He keeps a respectful distance between us, but I manage to move a few inches closer when I shift into a more comfortable position.
If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it, but I think I see his mouth twitch.
“Have you seen it?” he asks as he turns it on.
I shake my head, but I’m lying. I don’t want to say anything that will make him change the channel.
And as the familiar intro starts to play, I relax for the first time all day. All week, maybe. I don’t know what it is about Nico, but…
A few minutes later, I’m fast asleep on his shoulder.