XOXO
I’m taken aback enough that my breath catches. “That was at least three months ago.”
“Arietta, right?” She smiles. “I remember you because of your name. It’s unique, just like you.”
I take it as a compliment. “And you’re Chantelle.”
The nametag pinned to the front of her dress gave it away, but she still nods. “You’re right. Are we picking out something for a special occasion?”
“A date,” I answer quickly. “It’s a first date, but he probably won’t see it until a few dates later.”
Her brows perk. “Playing hard to get is how I landed my husband.”
I’m not playing. I may be hard to get, but that’s because I’m worth the wait.
“Follow me.” She starts across the showroom toward a display of lace bras. “I think I have something perfect for you.”
Chapter 8
Arietta
The sound of a rooster crowing startles me enough that I almost spill my coffee all over my lap.
I glance toward Mr. Calvetti’s office, but his gaze is stuck on the screen of his laptop.
If he heard the cock-a-doodle-do coming from my phone, he would have glanced in my direction.
I tell myself that as I switch my phone to silent before opening the email app.
I already know that the sound means Sinclair is writing to say good morning. She was still asleep when I left for work.
Stifling a laugh, I read the subject line before opening the email.
Subject: Lingerie for Lowell
Hey Arietta,
I’m awake!
Tell me that you bought new lingerie last night for your date with Lowell. Better yet, tell me that this date is going to happen soon.
The notes for this memoir I’m ghostwriting are the most exciting things in my life right now. Since I’m contractually obligated to keep the details to myself, let me just say that there is a 79-year-old woman in this city getting more action than either of us.
Her life story is so much better than mine – or yours!
You and Lowell need to hook up, and I need to hear about it.
Sinclair
“Miss Voss.”
My head pops up at the sound of Mr. Calvetti’s deep, rough voice.
Shit.
I look at his face since he’s standing next to my desk.
“What was that sound I heard?” He taps his ear as if I’m unaware of how hearing works.
“What sound?” I play dumb, which in itself is a dumb move because that never works with my boss.
He glances at my phone. “That sound coming from your phone.”
I drop my phone on my desk, screen side down. “It was a notification of an incoming email.”
Based on the fact that his brows are drawn together, I doubt my answer satisfied his curiosity.
“It sounded like a rooster,” he says. “Is that what it was?”
How the hell am I supposed to explain that my roommate grabbed my phone and set that sound to notify me of her incoming emails? Sinclair has a habit of whispering, “cock-a-doodle-do-me” whenever we see a guy with a noticeable bulge in his pants.
She giggles every time she does it, so I’ve never told her to stop because I love the sound of laughter.
The quickest and least painful way out of this is telling the truth, so I do. “Yes. It’s a rooster.”
“Why?”
What? Am I supposed to answer that question?
Do I come clean and tell him that Sinclair points out men with big packages before she tosses her catchphrase at me? Do I lie and say it’s a reminder of all the mornings I woke up on a farm even though I’ve never stepped foot on one?
Just as I’m about to open my mouth to allow a string of lies to fall out, the office phone rings.
I owe the person on the other end a big thank you.
Glancing up at Mr. Calvetti’s face, I answer the call. “Mr. Calvetti’s office. How may I help you?”
“Is he there?” A woman’s breathy voice floats over the line. “Please tell me he’s there.”
It’s Teagan. Again.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Calvetti is busy at the moment.”
“You’re serious?” Teagan grumbles. “How is he busy all the time? When he was here, he sure as hell made time for me. Put him on the line.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can.” She raises her voice a notch. “Just do it.”
My boss taps my shoulder. “Who is it?”
Nestling the phone’s receiver against my chest, I whisper, “I’ll handle it, sir.”
That’s enough of a hint to signal that I’m talking to a woman who wants more of whatever he was handing out in Virginia.
He takes a step back, nodding as he does.
My gaze falls from his face to his chest, and then it trails down, all the way to the front of his gray suit pants.
Cock-a-doodle-do-me. That’s a bulge. A very nice-sized bulge.
He turns and walks into his office, so I turn my attention back to the phone.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I say even though I gave her no indication I wasn’t listening to her rant about how she needs to speak to Mr. Calvetti.