Sophie (The Boss 8)

“Of course, you do,” Mom said, intentionally stressing the reasonableness in her tone. “Not necessarily feelings that should influence the situation, but you’re allowed to feel them.”

I shrugged. “I guess it never occurred to me to have feelings beyond ‘awww!’ and…nope. Don’t think I have any.”

“That’s fair. And good. I was worried that you might freak out since you have that strict ’no children’ policy.” Mom and I had been around that particular busted-ass Ferris wheel many times. She wasn’t slick.

“Are you actually concerned about my relationship and family, or are you trying to get me to admit that I changed my mind about having kids?” I folded my arms over my chest and waited for her answer.

And then felt immediately shitty at her genuinely hurt expression. “Honey, I am concerned. Because I know you haven’t changed your mind. I want to make sure you’re not being roped into something that you don’t want. Because when that happens…”

“I run away.” Not an unfair accusation; I’d met Neil when I’d been running away. When he’d nearly died, I’d considered not even seeing him at the hospital. My biggest fear about the wedding had been that I would bolt for some reason and leave Neil standing at the altar, which had been foolish since we hadn’t even had an altar.

“I get where you’re coming from.” I flicked through a few hangers, not even glancing at the sizes on the top I had no intention of buying. “I know that I can be flakey. But in all the situations where flaking could hurt people? I made the right choice. When I flaked out on the magazine, I quit before my laziness tanked the whole place and fucked up my friend’s life–”

“Language, we are in a public place!” Mom hissed.

I lifted my chin and said, loud enough for a nearby sales associate to hear, “So? If they don’t like my language, I’ll just buy the store, and then I can talk however I want.”

The salesperson approached with a broad, friendly smile. “Good afternoon! Is there anything you’d like assistance with?”

Mom gave me a proud smirk and pounced. “Our feet are tired. Could you bring us some chairs? Thank you.”

“And champagne?” I asked, just to be ridiculous.

“I’m sure we can arrange that, Ms. Scaife.” She nodded to both of us and darted off.

“Ms. Scaife?” Mom raised an eyebrow. “I thought she just saw your expensive purse.”

“I’m in here sometimes.” I walked away, dancing my fingertips across the top of a rack.

“Can you use your shopping addiction to get them to bring us some not ugly clothes?” Amal grimaced. “She’s auditioning for a drama school, not a Golden Girls drag tribute.”

“If we don’t find anything here, we can pick up Molly and head over to SoHo. But all the audition tips say not to look too edgy or contemporary,” I reminded her.

“That’s adorable.” She shook her head and smiled to herself, and it only felt a little condescending.

“But you’re going to keep looking until I finish my champagne,” Mom added.

“Here she comes, I think.” I caught glimpses of blond hair passing a mirror. Then, the woman stopped, her eyes met mine, and I realized she wasn’t the salesperson at all.

It was the au pair from outside Olivia’s school. The same one who’d turned and walked the other way when I’d spotted her in the restaurant.

“Mom, watch the girls,” I said, and before she could ask why I took off running.

So did the woman.

“Security!” I shouted, trying to keep up in my too-high Alexander McQueen stilettos. “Stop her! Stop her; she’s shoplifting!”

I felt so dirty pulling out that trick. I wasn’t a snitch. But maybe it wasn’t snitching if the person wasn’t committing a crime.

Two men in finely tailored suits intercepted her. They wore name badges declaring themselves security.

“Don’t touch me!” She held up her hands and dropped her purse. “I’m not shoplifting. You can search me.”

“She’s not. Sorry.” I never took my eyes off her, ready to give chase at the slightest twitch. Fury had turned me into a merciless predator. Or maybe fear had turned me into cornered prey. Either way, I could sense the danger in letting her get away. “But she’s been following me. I’d like you to call the police.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” One of the security guards reached for her arm. “Come with us, please.”

“I’m not a stalker,” the woman protested with slumped shoulders. “You don’t have to call the police.”

“If you’re not a stalker, why did you know who I was when I was outside the school? Why were you at Le Bernardin a few weeks ago? And why are you here now?” I demanded. “I don’t know a lot of Long Island au pairs that can afford Bergdorf’s.”

“It’s just Bergdorf Goodman, ma’am. It isn’t possessive,” one of the guards interjected.

“Thanks for the grammar lesson in branding,” I snapped. “Go call the cops!”