by Cat Carmine
Then again, the way his eyes trail up my legs, over my chest … maybe he does.
I tug on the hem of the blazer, feeling nervous under the intensity of his gaze.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” I ask, licking my lips. I don’t mean it to sound seductive, I swear, but there’s a huskiness to my voice that catches me by surprise.
Thankfully, Mr. Cartwright doesn’t seem to notice.
“Yes,” he says quickly, leaning forward. “I have another special errand for you today.”
Oh, great. More dry cleaning? “Of course. Anything at all.”
This time, his eyebrows raise, just a hair. “It’s my mother’s birthday on Thursday. I’ll need you to get her a gift.”
“Great. What would you like me to get?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s what I need you to figure out.”
“But …” I lick my lips. “I’ve never met your mother. What does she like?”
“I don’t know. Motherly things.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Men. “Okay … so maybe a scarf? Or a nice throw?”
He shakes his head. “No. She has a million of those.”
“A piece of jewelry?”
He raises his eyebrows fully now. “She’s a part of the Cartwright Diamonds family. Don’t you think she probably has more jewelry than she could wear in a lifetime?”
I barely suppress a strangled scream. “Okay, how about a nice bottle of something? Maybe some gourmet chocolates?”
He waves off my comments. “Too impersonal. This is her sixtieth birthday, Blake, and she’s a very special woman.”
If she’s so special, why aren’t you buying her gift yourself? Thank God I manage to keep that thought to myself. “Some … soaps? Candles?” I say, instead. I’m grasping at straws here, but Mr. Cartwright shakes his head.
“She’s very sensitive to fragrances.” He’s already turning back to his laptop. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
By the way he says it, I know he means I’m effectively dismissed. I turn and walk out of his office, sinking down into the chair at my own desk and rubbing my throbbing temples.
Okay. I can do this. I just have to find a gift for a woman I’ve never met. A woman who has too many scarves, blankets, and pieces of jewelry, who hates fragrances, and is too good for wine and chocolate. Piece of fucking cake.
With a sigh, I grab my phone and purse.
“I’m going to be out for the rest of the day,” I inform Kath, who’s sitting at the reception desk, clacking away on an intense-looking ergonomic keyboard. I think she can tell by the defeated sound of my voice that I’m off on a Logan-errand, because she smiles sympathetically.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, already knowing I’m going to need it.
I walk around Barneys for the fourth time, hoping and praying that this will be the time that inspiration finally strikes and I figure out the perfect gift for Mr. Cartwright’s mother. I already spent two hours at Williams Sonoma, thinking that maybe I’d get something for the kitchen, but I found myself second guessing everything I picked up. Would Logan find it insulting to give his mother something to cook with? They probably have people who do that for them anyway, right?
After Williams Sonoma, I hit the Celine store, thinking of their famous luggage totes, but I kept worrying that maybe she already had one. Now I’m at Barneys, and the only thing that seems even remotely like a possibility is a pair of deerskin gloves. They’re absolutely beautiful, and the black leather is probably the softest I’ve ever come across — and if that wasn’t enough, they’re even lined with cashmere. I’d picked them up, thinking I’d finally found the one, but now as I wander around the store, I keep wondering if gloves are just another thing that Logan’s going to say she has a million of already.
How do you shop for a woman you’ve never met? Especially one who’s rich as sin and already owns everything?
When my phone rings and I see Emma’s name on the display, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve been avoiding her calls since I started this job, but now I’m happy to hear from her. If anyone knows how to pick out the perfect gift, it’ll be Emma.
“Blakey! I’m so glad you answered!” she squeals when I press the phone to my ear. “I’ve been getting your voicemail every time I call.”
“I know, sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“With the new job, right? I want to hear all about it! Are you at lunch now? Are you free to talk?”
“Sort of,” I say, and then tell her about the fruitless errand Logan has me out running.
Emma listens thoughtfully as I talk, which is something that she’s excellent at. It’s no coincidence that she used to be an advice columnist and now writes best-selling self-help books. She’s got an uncanny knack for getting to the heart of the problem.
“You’re going about this all wrong,” she says, after I’ve finished my story and the five minutes of ranting that followed it.
“Oh? What should I be doing? I’m all ears, Em, seriously. I need help.”
“It needs to be special,” she says. “People that wealthy already have everything, for one thing. I learned that from being around Tyler’s family. Plus, she’s his mom. She doesn’t want the money — she wants to know that he put thought and heart into something.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t. It’s all my thought. My heart.”
“And it’s your job to make it look like it was his.”
“Well … I still don’t know what to do.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “I hate this.”
Emma laughs, but there’s a cautious edge to it. “Are you sure this job is right for you, Blake? I was talking to Tyler about it, and he says Logan Cartwright is … really intense. He’s gone through ten assistants in a single year.”
I bristle at her comment. “Of course, it’s right for me. I got hired, didn’t I?”
“Yes, at Tyler’s recommendation…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. Add my sister to the list of people who don’t think I’m cut out for this. “Let me guess — you think I should just go back to Connecticut and work at the flower shop forever, right? You and Rori can hack it here in New York, but I clearly can’t.”
Emma lets out an exasperated breath. “That’s not what I meant at all, Blake. I’m crazy happy you’re in the city. Rori and I both are. This isn’t about you; it’s about him.”
I don’t answer right away, just run my fingers along some gauzy pink scarves. No scarves, I remind myself.
“Are you mad at me?” Emma asks, after a moment of silence.
“No,” I say grudgingly. Because even though I’d never admit this to Emma or anyone else, a part of me wonders if I do have what it takes. You can take the girl out of Connecticut, but you can’t take the Connecticut out of the girl, and all that. “I should get going.”
“Oh, don’t be upset, Blake. You’ll figure it out. Now, the real reason I called — dinner this weekend?”
I chat with Emma for a few more minutes as I loop Barneys for a fifth time, earning a suspicious glare from the wispy blonde sales clerk roaming the women’s accessories section. Eventually, Emma has to hang up, and I’m left alone with my herculean task. Clearly, I need some kind of super powers to pull this off. Logan isn’t going to be happy with anything I bring back, this I already know. I can just feel it in my gut. He wouldn’t be happy if I brought back the stars themselves.
I stop dead in my tracks. The stars …
Something hums in the back of my mind. An idea. Something that just might be special and personal enough.
I grab my phone and key in a search and sure enough, I find what I’m looking for right away. A grin splits my face. Eat your heart out, Logan Cartwright, because I just nailed this one.
I hurry towards the doors, anxious to get back to the office. I’m already mentally cataloguing what I’ll need — some really nice paper, maybe a frame ….
I’m pushing my way through the big doors and out onto Madison Avenue when a hand grabs my shoulder.
I’m spun around roughly. I find myself staring into the hard green eyes of a security guard.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.” His voice is deep, and his tone makes it clear that, despite his choice in words, this isn’t a request.
“I don’t think so,” I retort. “I have to get back to work.”
His grip on my shoulder tightens. “I don’t think so.”
“And why not?”
“Because you’ve just been caught shoplifting, that’s why. Now come on.”
“Shoplifting? What are you talking about?”
Except as soon as the words are out of my mouth, the realization hits me. The gloves. I’m still holding the stupid gloves.
I stare down at the soft leather, clutched in my now sweaty palms. My security guard pal stares down at them, too, and then back at me. The way he’s looking at me is so disdainful, as if I’m nothing but a common criminal.
“No, you don’t understand,” I plead. “I didn’t mean to take them. I just got distracted…”
“That’s what they all say,” he sighs, and then he marches me roughly through the store. I have no choice but to go with him, my heart sinking the entire time.
“Where are you taking me?” My dread increases with every step.
“To our security offices.”
I let out a breath. Okay. I can still fix this. I just have to explain to him what happened, that it was only a simple misunderstanding.
“At least until the police arrive,” he adds, and my stomach bottoms out.
Seven
After I send Blake off, I try to keep myself busy, which luckily isn’t hard. I return a couple of phone calls, catch up on some emails, and finally review the vendor contracts from the last six months, the ones I’d been trying desperately to get Georgia to pull together. At least Blake had managed to get me the right files.
No matter what I do, no matter how I try to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied, Blake flits continually through my thoughts. Through my veins.
I’d had no intention initially of getting her to shop for my mother’s birthday gift. I was planning to do it myself after work tonight. But I needed something that would keep her out of the office for as long as possible. The more time she spends here, the more time I spend being able to hear her and see her and feel her out there, flitting around the office or clacking away at the keyboard, the worse this gets for me.
And it’s already bad.
Really bad.
Because Blake Holloway has been performing a non-stop pornographic video in my head since the day she waltzed into my office with her muffin and her syrupy sweet coffee and her exquisitely kissable lips. I can’t keep the thoughts at bay, no matter how hard I try to push them out. That blonde bombshell has wedged herself in, and now she’s like a craving I can’t shake. Substitutes won’t do. I want the real thing. I want Blake.
And I can’t have her. I know that. Ed’s warning echoes through my mind every time I even think of crossing the line with her.
But why does she have to make it so fucking difficult? I thought last week’s flouncy little dresses were bad, but this week she’s got some sexy librarian thing going on. What man wouldn’t want to yank that fat bun out of her hair, wouldn’t want to rip at the buttons of that tight little white shirt? Jesus. I’m not made of stone here.
That’s why I’d sent her out of the office. Again. Because I figured that if I can’t see her, if she isn’t in the same room as me, I could relax. But her scent still lingers — vanilla and something that smells sweet and flowery and … pink. I know pink’s not a smell, but it’s what Blake makes me think of.
That smell, and the lustful thoughts that come with it, are not making it easy for me to concentrate on work.
When my phone rings, I’m grateful for another opportunity to take my mind off my new assistant. I snatch up the receiver and bark out a greeting. Then stop long enough to listen to the caller on the other end.
My hands clench into fists as I listen. “She did what?” I bellow. The man on the other end of the line starts to explain, but I’ve already dropped the phone and am halfway across the office before he can finish.
Ten minutes later, I’m striding through the glass doors of the Barneys on Madison Avenue. Bentley Charles, the head of the store’s security and loss prevention department, is waiting there for me.
“Mr. Cartwright,” he says in surprise. His neck colors. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I assumed you’d send someone down to deal with this.”
I shake my head, already striding through the store and forcing him to keep up with me. “No. The girl you picked up is my personal assistant. I’ll deal with this myself. Where is she?”
I don’t mention the fact that I have to see her for myself. There are about thirty different emotions coursing through my body right now — anger, disbelief, and even maybe a tiny bit of something like awe.
“We’re detaining her downstairs,” he says, scrambling to keep up with my long strides. “We didn’t want to release her until you arrived, in case there was a mistake.”
I shake my head. I want to believe there was indeed a mistake, but right now, I don’t know what to think. Bentley had called me after he’d glimpsed Blake’s security badge. I knew him from some of our early merchandising meetings — Cartwright Diamonds had a huge display here at the store, and you don’t dump millions of dollars of inventory into a retail store without having a good understanding of their loss prevention strategies.
Bentley subtly moves ahead of me and leads me through the store to the lower basement where no one ever goes. No one besides store employees, that is. And of course … alleged shoplifters. Jesus Christ.
I still can’t figure out what the fuck went wrong. I had sent Blake out to do a simple errand. Okay, maybe not so simple. My mother is impossible to buy for, even if you know her as well as I do. I’m sure Blake was cursing my name while she tried to pick out a gift. But how do you go from there to getting arrested for shoplifting from Barneys?
I push my hands through my thick hair in irritation. “Tell me again what happened.”
Bentley shakes his head. “I’m not entirely sure. One of my guys picked her up. Guess she was leaving the store with a pair of gloves in her hands.”
“It has to be a mistake.” I admit I don’t know Muffin Girl all that well, but I definitely hadn’t pegged her as the sticky fingers type.
“Could be.” He shrugs. “That’s why I called you. She was waving her credit card around — one of your company cards — swearing that she was here on business and trying to pay for the gloves. But we have a policy to notify police about any suspected shoplifters. So that’s what my guys did.”
Fuck. “The police are here?”
“Not yet.” His voice is low, and I appreciate the discretion as we walk through the store. “I wanted to give you a chance to sort things out. It’s also possible the credit card was stolen, and you’ll want to press charges of your own.”
Well, hell. That idea hadn’t even occurred to me. I clench my fists as we ride the elevators down. Maybe it’s not even Blake down there. Maybe she got mugged while she was out, and now she’s lying in an alley somewhere …
My heart thuds an angry, frantic rhythm. Just what the hell am I going to find down there?
But it turns out that what I find is … basically what you’d expect. It’s Blake in there, alright, and she’s got one hand cuffed to a chair. But instead of sitting, as I’m sure the security guard intended, she’s standing in front of him, using her free hand to scroll through her phone.
“I’m a good person,” she’s saying to him. “Look.”
She holds her phone up to his face, forcing him to look at the screen. How she’s able to force him to do anything when she’s the one currently restrained is beyond me. I chalk it up to whatever force it was that made me
hire her in the first place, against my better judgement.
“Look,” she says again. The guard looks extremely uncomfortable, attempting to avert his eyes from the screen. “That’s me and my sisters volunteering at a community garden. My sister’s on the board of directors, you know. And look, this is me with my parents at their twenty-fifth anniversary party. I come from a good family. Look how wholesome we are! Do those look like the parents of a shoplifter?”
She stares at him imploringly, waiting for him to answer. He’s a big, beefy guy, at least six feet and probably edging up on three hundred pounds, but in front of Blake, he seems to cower like a cartoon chipmunk.
Part of me wants to just stand there and watch the show, because I’m pretty sure that given another ten minutes, Blake would be waltzing out the door all on her own. But the sight of her in those handcuffs is doing something funny to my lungs. Not to mention my dick. Definitely my dick.
“What’s going on here?” My bellow startles both Blake and the security guard. For the first time, Blake actually looks panicked. Not of the predicament she’s in, but of … me. Her lips part and her tongue darts out nervously, and that definitely does something to my dick, too.
“Logan,” she says, then, “Fuck. I mean, Mr. Cartwright. I’m so sorry. I can explain everything. This is just a huge misunderstanding.” She glares at the security guard, who actually looks chagrined. Chipmunk.
“You can explain later,” I tell her. “Let’s go.”
She holds up her arm limply, demonstrating to me that she’s currently still chained to the chair. As if I need reminding.
“Let her go,” I tell the security guard. He frowns at me, but then he sees the icy glare Blake is giving him. The beefy man fumbles with the key, but he unlocks the handcuffs, freeing Blake.
