“Ibuprofen?” I was stuck on her phrase “kitten wear” until I glanced down at the shirt I’d been given and began to laugh. Hard.
That minx must’ve shown me the back of the shirt, because the front had a fairly large cartoon cat giving the world the finger.
It was probably the best shirt I’d ever seen.
“This isn’t my shirt. Well, it wasn’t before, now it is, because Jesus, isn’t that a kick?”
“And the glasses?” Sabrina let them dangle from one finger, clearly unimpressed.
“A man needs sun protection.”
She sighed and handed them back to me before pivoting on her heel. “Let me show you to my office.”
We traveled down a series of hallways then rode a gilded lift to a whisper-quiet hall carpeted in dove gray. My shoe flapped as I walked down the hall, catching Sabrina’s eye. My duct tape fix-it job had ripped away during my fight with the skater rejects. She gave another small sigh and gestured for me to enter the one office with an open door.
I stepped inside and the world opened up before me.
The damn place seemed to be half glass. I didn’t know how anyone could work with a view like this. I certainly wouldn’t be able to. Though my idea of a day’s toil involved singing for my supper. Literally, since I was famished.
But even with the view, I noticed a small bar cart with bagels, cream cheese, and lox, and fell on it like a wolf.
When I came back to myself, I’d demolished two loaded bagels and sloshed through two cups of the most delicious orange juice I’d tasted in the whole of my life.
“Better now?”
I shrugged and wiped a hand over my mouth. The back of my neck was hot, and not just from my sunburn.
I’d always been like this. There had never been enough to eat at home so whenever I saw a buffet of any sort, I tended to turn into a crazed beast. Even now, if Sabrina hadn’t been observing me with her hawk eyes, I would’ve gone back for another bagel and tucked one in my pocket for later.
You never knew when you’d be hungry again.
“Take a seat.” She gestured to the pair of them in front of her polished circular desk, her tone surprisingly gentle.
As soon as I sat, she pounced.
“Now I know why you have that heroin-chic look going on. It’s not due to drug use. Is it?”
“Heroin what?” I shook my head. “No. My only true vice is alcohol. And Red Vines.”
She arched a brow as if I’d named some exotic designer opiate.
“Licorice. Quite good, too.” I rubbed a hand over my brow. I was sweating despite the air con. I’d probably never get used to it. “I do enjoy a spliff now and then.”
“Anything harder?”
“I’ve tried some things. Nothing stuck. I’m not an idiot.”
“No, but you are starving yourself. You could use another good twenty pounds, half of that muscle.”
“I have plenty of those.” Defiantly, I hauled up my shirt. “Earned a few whistles on the beach.”
She seemed unimpressed. “You’re a very handsome man. You know that. That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement.” She reached for her phone. “I’m going to call in a designer who works with Ripper Records. We’re going to get you a new wardrobe.”
I frowned. “Meaning what? This shirt is borrowed, like I said.”
“Meaning my first idea for you was to class you up. Add a little edge, but lean heavily on the classics. Gucci, Prada, Calvin Klein.” She ticked them off on her fingers.
“My idea of classics is more like Keats and Yates.”