Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,86
saffron and fennel, and when I finished eating the muscles and scallops, I wanted to drink the remaining broth. Instead, I broke off chunks of bread and swabbed up the remainder.
“How did the Quarter Thief get into her office?” I asked.
“No one knows, but Michelle is on a rampage. She’s installed an extra lock on her door, and this was after she bought her own refrigerator to keep her food in her office.”
I chewed the last of my bread. “Do you think the Quarter Thief is actually just trying to drive her crazy?”
“That’s a solid theory, Martin,” he said. “I was thinking the same thing myself.”
“I’m not sure if I want to applaud them or not. That sort of evil genius deserves respect, and yet I’m afraid of crossing them.”
He laughed. “I’m going with respect. With any luck, they’ll drive her out, and her HR reign of terror will end.”
I studied him over my glass. “You know who it is, don’t you?”
He blinked, the picture of innocence.
“Tell me,” I demanded.
“You tell me first,” he said.
“But I don’t know who it is,” I said.
“Not that,” he said. “Tell me what happened tonight.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Why do you care?”
“I want to know if I need to go punch someone.”
“No, you don’t,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”
“Well, I know that, Martin,” he said. “Still, you’re my colleague—no, that’s not right anymore. You’re my friend.” He looked at me. There was a sincerity in his gaze when he said, “We’re friends. I don’t generally stand by when my friends get hurt.”
“I wasn’t hurt,” I said, oddly touched that he considered me a friend. I fingered my dangling earring.
“You’re fidgeting like you always do when you’re upset.”
Self-consciously I dropped my hand. How had he caught on to that? I didn’t think anyone else in my life knew that I fidgeted when I was anxious. Trying to lighten the moment, I smiled at him and repeated his previous words to me back to him. “So what you’re saying is you’ve noticed me.”
His gaze met mine with an unexpected intensity. “Yeah, I’ve noticed you.”
I glanced away, abruptly feeling overwarm, and it wasn’t the wine. “Truly, I’m not upset.”
He made a scoffing noise, which mercifully broke the tension between us.
Relieved, I looked back at him and added, “Fine, I might have been a little angry, but no tears were spilled in the making of this disaster of an evening.”
“Disaster? Okay, now you have to tell me what happened,” he said. “It’s simply cruel not to at this point.”
“Okay,” I said. I took a deep breath and then gave him the abridged version of the evening. I kept it as emotionless as possible, but it was hard to hide my disgust. “Can you believe he actually thought I’d fluff up some rich old man for him? So gross! Can I pick ’em or what?”
Knightley didn’t return my smile. Instead, he looked coldly furious. “I don’t suppose you have the address of this party?”
“No, why?”
“Because I feel a sudden need to go pummel a skeevy fashion designer.”
“Stop,” I said. “I don’t know what is going on with Jean Claude, but I left and I am fine. There is no pummeling required.”
“Chelsea.” He said my first name, and it caught me off guard. Had he ever called me that before? I couldn’t remember. I liked the way it sounded in his deep voice. “There is most definitely a beatdown required here, and quite possibly a crippling. This guy was trying to trade you like pork bellies to some noxious billionaire—”
“Pork bellies?” I interrupted. “That’s the commodity you’re comparing me to?”
“What?” he asked. He looked very earnest. “It’s bacon. That’s better than gold.”
I laughed, which I suspected was his intent. “I’d prefer gold.”
“Either way, it was a dick move, and he deserves to have a can of whoop ass unloaded on him.”
“Maybe,” I said. Still, I didn’t want to dwell on it. “Can we not talk about it anymore? It makes me feel stupid and icky.”
“There’s no need for you to feel that way. Him, on the other hand . . .” Jason scowled.
“Also, you’re supposed to tell me who you think the Quarter Thief is,” I said.
“Fair enough,” he said. “I think it’s Bill Listrum.”
“Bill?” I asked. “But he’s sixty-seven years old and the sweetest man alive. It can’t be him.”
“He also got passed over for the promotion Michelle got, and he’s been reporting to her for three years, which has to be unpleasant,” he