“Barrett,” I say with a smile. “Call me Barrett.”
***
I spoke of the devil earlier and… No. The man wandering near the reception desk in the lobby of the Garent Industries building doesn’t resemble the devil. This guy is timid and nervous.
He’s also lost.
“Hey,” I call out to him. “You’re Dale, aren’t you?”
He glances over at me, his shoulders straightening. “Dale Samuelson.”
He offers his full name along with a hand. I take it for a quick shake.
“Have we met?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
I don’t blame him for not being able to place me. His attention was on Isabella at Atlas 22 on Friday evening.
“Barrett Adler.” I pinch my brows together. “What brings you to Garent today?”
I know the answer to that question.
Dale’s gaze wanders past my shoulder to the bank of elevators behind me. His face lights up like a kid who is handed every toy he ever wanted. “I’m meeting someone. She works here.”
I hear the click of her approaching heels. The sound slows as she nears us.
“Bella,” he says her name with a smile. “You look beautiful.”
I resist the urge to turn and look for myself. I spent most of the day watching her as she sat at her desk.
I left two hours ago to take a meeting uptown. I expected to have a few minutes alone with her before she clocked out for the day, but time wasn’t on my side.
I smell the sweet sce
nt of her perfume as she walks next to me.
“Dale.” She moves to him, reaching out a hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Dale takes it as an invitation. He wraps his arms around her.
I watch her eyes close briefly. I shouldn’t give a shit if his touch does something to her.
“We should go,” Dale suggests, taking her hand in his. “I made a reservation for six at an Italian place in Brooklyn I think you’ll like. Donini’s. I hear they make great fettuccine.”
Her grandmother owns the restaurant that serves the best Italian food in the state. Taking her for pasta anywhere else is an insult.
Dale should have blocked out five minutes out of his day to research Isabella. I did last night.
She lets out a soft sigh. “Let’s go.”
I level my gaze on her. “Goodnight, Isabella.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Adjer.” She pauses before she adds, “I hope you enjoy your evening.”
I might if I called Minna, the redhead I had dinner with at Atlas 22 the other night. Our evening ended early when I ducked out after dessert with an excuse about a pressing business matter.
I slide my phone out of the inner pocket of my suit jacket. Scrolling through the unread text messages, I land on one sent by Minna an hour ago.
Minna: Let me show you around Manhattan. I’ll start the tour in my bedroom.