Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,7
man, tucking my bag in the floorboard and bringing my feet in. He shut the door gently, then walked around to the driver’s side.
The large SUV felt small with just the two of us inside. I opened my compact and checked my lipstick, glancing up front to the driver. “How was your Christmas?”
“It was quiet.”
Well, that was a conversation starter. I had expected for him to politely return the question, giving me an opportunity to share my own story. Cammie, Benta, and I had failed in our attempt to play house. Our turkey had burned to a crisp on the outside, but was rare on the inside, my soufflé fell, and Benta’s try at haricots verts produced water-logged beans as limp as drunk dick. We’d ditched the food, and settled on the couch with a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates and two bottles of champagne. Adding Netflix to the mix, my first NYC Christmas had ended up being pretty damn awesome, my thoughts only flitting to my parents a handful of times. It had been nice, spending it with the girls. It felt so grownup, like we were finally adults, even if we had failed horribly in our cooking.
I fiddled with my necklace and tried another tactic. “How long have you worked for the Brantleys?”
“Three years.”
Talkative guy. Any more chattering and I’d need to put in earplugs. It was too bad. His voice had a layer of accent that made it absolutely delicious.
“Are they nice to work for?”
His eyes moved to the rearview mirror, our gaze connecting. He had a very direct stare, one that—once established—was hard to break. And his eyes … damn. A dark blue that picked up the lights from passing cars, causing a shimmer across their depths. “They’re fine.”
It was quiet. Three years. They’re fine. Hell, I’d worked for the Brantleys for six days, and I could fill up a thirty-minute drive with stories. This guy was really committed to the strong, silent vibe he was rocking. Or he had taken to heart the lengthy confidentiality agreement that Nicole had made me sign.
I gave up on conversation and leaned back against the seat, watching the city go by, Christmas tree lights out, a sea of white and rainbow at every turn. It was my favorite time of the year, the New York streets turned into festive art, all of the dirt and grime of the city hidden by a layer of snow. Nicole was celebrating New Year’s Eve at an animal charity event, one where she would parade Chanel around for the cocktail hour before passing her back to me. At 10 PM, a holiday fashion show was scheduled, and Chanel would make two appearances: first in a red gown, then in a diamond-studded collar and a dusting of silver glitter. How PETA was encouraging the ethical treatment of animals by subjecting poor Chanel to this, I didn’t know. But then again, I wasn’t getting paid to think.
The car stopped outside the Brantleys’ home, and I waited a few long seconds, expecting the Driver-Without-A-Name to get my door. When he stayed buckled in place, the vehicle settled into park, I sighed, opening the door myself and stepping out into the cold night air.
The wealthy of the city lived in a different bubble than the rest of us. One where there were no worries of minor problems, the majority of which were easily solved by money. One comprised of beautiful women, powerful men, the drug of success heavy in the air, punctuated with diamonds, caviar, and ego. For the first time, I was an outsider, the Brantleys’ car driving down the back alley of the hotel, a gorgeous old building recently remodeled, its stop short at the loading dock, a flurry of white-coated cooks unloading a catering truck.
“Here?” I asked, looking out the window, my heart sinking.
“Mrs. Brantley said to drop you off here. Use your service provider pass to get in.” The driver casually tossed the barbs out, unaware of how they stuck in my thin skin. Your service provider pass. My visions of elegantly mingling, a champagne flute in hand, counting down the seconds as the ball dropped, a handsome stranger dipping me backward for a kiss, disappeared. A honk sounded behind us, and the driver looked back at me, his eyebrows raised. “You gonna get out?”
I grabbed Chanel’s bag and shouldered it, holding her close to my chest, and opened the door, a second honk blaring, more aggressive than the first. “Jeez,” I muttered,