Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,20
against the wall and picturing his face. Blue-collar had never been my thing, too many millionaires in this city to bother with anything else. Then again, my tastes seemed to be changing. I might have to dip my toe into that pool once or twice. Just to taste that poison. Just to have it on my skin.
18. Hunger Fried My Brain
I could feel him in the house. When Clarke moved from his study to the living room, a phone to his ear, his laptop settling on the coffee table, his build hunched forward, I watched. When he stepped out on the balcony, his hand running through his hair, the door left open, the breeze brought in his scent.
My new favorite distraction: trying to understand the man. Three months of working for Nicole had proved that she was cray cray and not in a good way. She must be amazing in bed. Or he needed her condom money. Or maybe Raging Bitch was his flavor of aphrodisiac.
I sat at the dining room table and stared at Nicole’s list, one she had emailed that morning, including things like schedule wax and find replacement knob for our dresser in bedroom. I was so glad I gave the extra effort and made NYU’s dean’s list. So glad I learned Mandarin. When it came time to screw in that replacement knob I’d be sure to curse my situation using it.
“You busy?” Clarke’s question startled me, my jump causing my pen to fly across the table, a long ink mark left on one of Nicole’s linen napkins. I grimaced.
“Sorry.” He wiped his hands on a paper towel, balling it in his fist.
“It’s fine. I’m sorry.” I reached out, across the table, half up in my seat, and grabbed the pen. I felt air on my back, my sweater rising too high and I flushed, sitting back in my seat. “No. I’m not busy.” Or should I be busy? My mind warred over the correct answer, seeing as I was on the clock.
“I’m getting hungry. There’s a Cuban place down a few blocks…”
I nodded. “La Nina’s. I know it.” Vic and I had eaten there, the restaurant small, lighting low, atmosphere romantic. My cheeks flushed at the invitation, then my brain kicked into overdrive. Dinner with Nicole’s husband? Probably a bad idea.
“Great. Got something to write with? I’ll tell you what I want.” He eyed the pen in my hand and seemed to be waiting for something.
Oh. He wanted me to pick him up food. Duh. Of course he did. I was suddenly mortified, hoping that my idiotic thought process hadn’t shown, my hands fumbling at my notepad, pulling out a fresh page of paper, my mouth curving into a professional smile as I looked up at him. Thank God I hadn’t told him off, given him a lecture on boundaries.
He looked at me oddly. I swallowed hard and tried to speak casually, my voice coming out a little raspy. “What would you like?”
“Arroz con pollo. Extra plantains. And some pineapple soda.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a wad of cash, pulling some twenties and holding them out. “And whatever you’d like.”
“Oh, I have a date,” I babbled. “We’re going to eat. Dinner, I mean. We have reservations.” My mouth wouldn’t stop moving, my brain feeding it information too slowly, my panicked attempt to shut up only causing more words. “We’re very happy.”
Yes. Me and my imaginary boyfriend are positively ecstatic.
His eyebrows half-hitched, and his odd look deepened. “That’s great to hear, Chloe.” He said the words slowly, the way you might speak to a small child. I didn’t blame him. I sounded ridiculous. My attempt to cover up my confusion at his non-invitation had only pushed me further into the pathetic pool, my risk of drowning imminent. And turning down free food? I immediately regretted every part of the slip.
I took the cash and stood, my hand grabbing at his order, desperate to get away.
Funny that after four months of working, I still hadn’t processed my role as The Help. I still saw myself on some sort of equal platitude with Clarke, where my mind would jump to a dinner invite rather than an order of food. I was out the door and four blocks down the street, wheezing against a streetlamp, before I realized I should have had Dante drive me.
I was so focused on my own life, my own issues, that I forgot everything else. I wasn’t thinking that Nicole Brantley,