You Really Got Me (Rock Star Romance #1) (35 page)

“Which means?”

“Tonight.”

*   *   *

Violet wheeled her suitcase to the elevator, listening as Francesca filled her in on the day’s events.

“Cutler’s can’t seem to keep the ice cubes in stock,” Francesca said in her throaty voice. “Customers are raving about them.”

A gush of satisfaction flowed through her. Luckily for her, tea had become trendy, and people loved the idea of loose leaf. But the leaves lost their flavor pretty quickly, and some people didn’t like the messiness of an infuser, so she’d had the idea to freeze the leaves—wrapped in pretty pink mesh—in ice cubes. Dropping one ice cube in six ounces of boiling water made a perfect cup of tea.

She pushed the button for the elevator. Glancing down at her outfit, she wondered if the super short shorts and thigh-high boots made her look more like a hooker than a groupie.

“Other than that . . .” Violet could hear her friend shuffling through papers. “Other than that, we’ve got a new order from Barefoot Contessa for the tins. They’d like to try ten tins of each flavor.”

“Are you serious? Barefoot Contessa in East Hampton contacted us?”

The doors opened and she wheeled her suitcase inside, then pressed the button for the lobby.

“Yes. I got a call this afternoon.”

“Way to bury the lede.” Violet smiled. “Francesca, that’s huge. I can’t believe you didn’t call me as soon as you got off the phone with them. That’s fantastic. Oh, my God.”

“You were at Joe’s engagement party. Oh, and if it sells well, they might include us in their catalog.”

“Are you freaking kidding me? This is amazing. This could change our lives completely.” She could close her company, live on the farm full-time.

Well, if nobody contested her contract. Doubt worked its way back into her consciousness. She tried hard not to worry about things out of her control, but come on. Hard not to worry when all she had to prove ownership was a paper napkin contract. She’d fight, of course, but the more money she earned, the sooner she could own the land outright and put her fears to rest.

“Okay, anything you need me to do before I go?” Violet asked.

“You’ll need to transfer funds into the business account, but other than that we’re all set.”

“I can do that electronically once I’m in the car.”

“V, with all we’ve got going on, what about skipping this job? This is a great time for you to spend some time on the farm.”

Her heart practically flipped over. She would love nothing more than to spend the summer out there. They’d gotten a firm handle on the wildflower tea products and were ready to launch the soap. She’d planned on developing stationery and honey next. Oh, and potpourri. She’d have to remember that one
.
Easy, simple to package.

“That sounds amazing, but I need the money.”

“The sooner we get the products into the marketplace, the sooner you won’t need to take jobs.”

True. But she wanted to own the farm outright, so she needed the income. “You could ask Mimi to come out and help you. Just until she finds a job.” Francesca’s twenty-three-year-old daughter had recently completed her MBA at Columbia University and hadn’t found a job she wanted yet. “Would she like to work on the stationery this summer?”

“I think she’d love it more than anything. But you know she’s not going to give up her search for a corporate job. So, no, I don’t see her coming out here. Even if we both know it’s where her heart is.”

The elevator rocked to a stop. “Okay, I have to go.”

“So, you’re going to take the job?”

She had to. Ever since Jedediah Walker had died, Violet had waited for someone to show up and kick her off the land. She knew he had two adult children. One lived overseas—Tokyo, she thought. The other, in the city. Neither one had ever visited him on the farm in all the years she’d known him, so she clung to the possibility they simply didn’t care about the little bit of land at the tip of Long Island.

But another part of her knew better. They—or their lawyer—would show up—any day now—wanting to put it on the market. Would they accept her handwritten contract?

Even so, at the rate she was going in the lease-to-own plan they’d agreed on, it’d take twenty years to finally own the land. So any chance at earning a big chunk of cash . . . ? “Probably. I have to meet them first.”

The elevator doors parted.

“Okay, be in touch. Let me know how it goes.”

“Thanks, Francesca. Talk soon.” She tucked the phone into her leather messenger bag, hitched the laptop case higher on her shoulder, and reached for the handle of her luggage. Moving forward, she walked smack into the hard wall of a body. “Oh, my God, I’m
so
sorry.”

Randall stood before her, eyeing her oddly. He clearly didn’t recognize her.

“Randall?”

He cocked his head, gaze narrowing. Once recognition hit, his eyes widened comically. “Scarlet?”

Violet’s gaze shot to Louis, the doorman. He gave her a barely noticeable shake of his head and hint of a look that said
You’re in trouble now
.

Well, hell. Should she tell him her real name?

No, of course not. Then she’d have to explain why her boyfriend of three months had called her Scarlet. Oh, brother. She turned back to Randall. “What’re you doing here?”

And just like that his features shuttered, his eyes went dark. “You left so quickly, I was worried.” Gone was the earnest man she’d left in the restaurant.

“I have to work.”

“So you said.” He gave her a long look, and she hated that he was seeing her in this outfit. “On a Saturday night?”

She couldn’t even imagine what he was thinking about her, standing in her Upper East Side lobby, wearing thigh-high boots and super short shorts. Oh, dear God. How did she get out of this one?

“What kind of consulting do you do, exactly?”

She gave an uncomfortable laugh. Normally, she had an easy, professional answer for everything. But it was
Randall
. And an hour ago he’d surprised the heck out of her by wanting to date her. Now . . . God, now she stood before him in thigh-highs.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to explain, Randall. I’m heading to the airport.”

Giving him a warm smile, she stepped around him, continuing across the marble-floored lobby. “Maybe when I’m back in town we can grab a coffee and catch up.”

“Scarlet,” he said in such a commanding tone, she stopped to face him. “Can you please tell me where you’re going? I don’t understand.”

She flashed a look to Louis, but he just rocked back on his heels and pressed his lips together in an expression of,
Hey, don’t look at me
. “God. I hate what you’re thinking right now.” She blew out a breath. “I really am sorry, but I have to go.”

His nostrils flared, and she could see him fighting for self-control. “Go where, exactly?” He strode over to her, leaning down to her ear. “Please tell me right now what kind of consulting job requires you to dress like . . . like . . .”

“Like what? What do I look like?”

“Well, frankly, like a hooker.”

“I look like a hooker?” Oh, hell. She
had
gotten it wrong. Did she have time to change? She’d Googled groupies and had seen a lot of them in jeans. Plain—but tight—jeans. She turned to Louis for help.

The fifty-eight-year-old father of two tipped his head, giving a jerk, indicating she should come closer. “What’re you supposed to look like?” he asked quietly.

“A groupie.”

Mouth in a tight line, he assessed her thoughtfully. “The boots.”

“Too much? Okay.” Resting a hand on his desk for support, she pulled the boots off.

“Scarlet,” Randall snapped. “What the
hell
are you doing?”

“I don’t want to look like a hooker.”

“You . . . What are you talking about? What do you want to look like? None of this makes any sense.”

Ignoring him, she laid her suitcase on the floor and dug through it until she pulled out a pair of wedges. She held them up to the doorman, who nodded with confidence.

“Okay.” She slid her foot into the other sandal. “Great. Is my car here?”

“Waiting out front.”

She stuffed the thigh-highs into the suitcase, zipped it up, and gave Louis an appreciative smile. “Thanks so much.” Swinging the messenger bag over her head, she turned to Randall.

He looked a mixture of worried, angry, and confused. “Wait. Tell me what kind of job requires you to dress like that. Can you just give me that?”

“Give the kid a break,” Louis murmured.

He probably thought she’d been Joe’s
escort
for three months.
God
. How humiliating.

Louis relieved her of the suitcase, holding the door open for her, while Randall followed them out. It was fairly chilly for June, and she wished she’d brought a wrap. She’d only thought of summer and outdoor concerts.

Louis loaded the suitcase in the trunk as the driver set her laptop case and messenger bag on the backseat. Just before she slid in, Randall appeared at her side.

“I’m sorry for saying you’re dressed like a hooker. That was uncalled for.” Frustration pulled on his features. “I just . . . I don’t understand. Did you bail on the engagement party to go to a concert, is that it?”

“No, of course not. I really do have a job to get to. I wish I could explain it to you, I do. But it’s the nature of my work . . .” No, she couldn’t talk to him about client confidentiality. He might put the pieces together and figure out the truth. That would be devastating for Joe.

“Go on.”

“I don’t want to leave you with terrible thoughts, but there’s not much I can tell you. I really am dressed like this for a job.” She smiled, because she knew that comment made it sound like she
was
a hooker. “But trust me when I say I don’t do anything illegal, unethical, or immoral.”

“I know that. Of course I know that. I’m sorry.”

“No,
I’m
sorry, Randall.”

“Can we talk later?”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.” She moved to get into the car, but he reached for her.

“Wait. Just . . . wait.” He stood there confused. “I knew it didn’t make sense for you to be invited to his engagement party. That’s all kinds of fucked-up. And you just stood there, smiling, like you were proud of him or something.”

“I
am
happy for him. She’s the right woman for him.”

“I just don’t understand . . .
nothing
rattles you. The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve never shown an ounce of emotion.”

Way to hit a girl where she hurts.
“Joe and I had a nice time together, but it wasn’t a love affair. Not like what he has with Judy. I’m happy for him.”

“Is that what you want out of a relationship? Something
nice
?” He jammed a hand through his short, blond hair. “Do you remember that closing dinner? When you first started dating him? I was there, Scarlet, right behind you when he came out of the bathroom with another woman. You didn’t yell or cry or anything. You just handled it so calmly. You didn’t even look upset.”

Well, of course she’d been upset. But jumping into the drama with her coked-out clients accomplished nothing. Her handling of each situation built the foundation of trust, cultivated an attitude of willingness with them. “Joe and I worked out our issues.”

“Jesus, listen to you. Are you always this flat emotionally?”

He was really twisting the knife, wasn’t he? No, she wasn’t a passionate person—and she hated that about herself—but she certainly couldn’t show emotion on a
job
.

But she couldn’t explain any of this to him. “No, Randall, I’m not the most emotional person. So, maybe it’s best we don’t date, after all.”

He shook his head, looking frustrated. “But I want to get to the woman underneath.”

Oh. Oh, that was so nice. Okay, enough. She really couldn’t take any more of this. “I’m sorry, Randall. I have to go now.”

“Jesus, do you feel anything?
Is
there a woman underneath?”

And just like that she flashed back to the social worker talking to her grandma.

I’m afraid children without touch or nurturing lose the ability to form attachments for the rest of their lives.

She’ll likely never be able to trust or fully experience love.

I wish I could be more encouraging, but it’s unlikely she’ll ever have normal relationships.

Sadness weighed heavy on her heart. “I sure hope so. Good-bye, Randall.”