Page 23 of All the Drama from New York

She gave him a look which all but said her attorney would have a pink fit if she let him do any sort of manual tasks. “No. I’m fine. I carried these all the way from Broadway, so I think I can manage the last few meters. Just as long as you don’t get in the way.”

He caught the hint of a tease in her voice. That accent. It would be the death of him.

Ryan ventured a cautious question. “Is there someone else in your office? I mean you don’t even know my name, so aren’t you taking a bit of a risk in inviting me upstairs?”

She smiled at him and heat raced straight to his cheeks.

I really must have hit my head hard.

“No it’s just me here. But you don’t strike me as the creepy type. Besides, I’ve had elite level combat training. I’m fairly confident I could take you down with a quick kick punch combo. You’d be unconscious before you hit the floor.”

When she turned away from him, he could have sworn her shoulders shook with laugher.

“Which level are you on?” he asked.

“The sixth, which is really the fifth. You Americans count the ground as the first floor, which to my European brain makes no sense, but there you have it.”

She hurriedly pressed the button for the 6thfloor several more times. It was cute, watching her do it, as if that was going to help make the elevator arrive any faster.

“French?” he asked.

“Oui, but I have been here in New York for over four years,” she replied. She growled and bashed the elevator button once more. “And a lot of that of time has been spent waiting for this stupid elevator.”

Ryan laughed. “Yeah. I worked in a hotel in Chicago one summer, and the elevator often took forty minutes to reach the top floors. The number of guests who left bad reviews because of it.” He paused. “I’m Ryan, by the way.”

She looked surprised. “And I am thoughtless and rude. “Camille. Camille Royal. It’s a pleasure to meet you Ryan, though I wish it had been under less painful circumstances. How’s your head?”

A loud ding announced the arrival of the elevator. Ryan trailed Camille and her bags of fabric and broken brown paper parcels inside. He pointed at her packages. “Do you work for a fashion house?”

Her face lit up and she smiled. “Ryan, I am the fashion house. Does your girlfriend happen to shop at Saks Fifth Avenue?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever gone out with a woman who could afford to shop at Saks,” he replied, carefully avoiding the subject of his ongoing state of non-attachment. His love life had become a never ending drought.

“That’s a pity. Because if you did, then you would be able to tell her that you had met the creative talent behind Camille Royal Designs. Saks Fifth Avenue carries my full collection.” A smiling Camille juggled her parcels and by some miracle, managed to make a love heart sign with her hands. “And your girlfriend would then tell you that she adores all my amazing clothes.”

Her grin grew wider, and a wicked chuckle escaped. “C'est scandaleux! My mother would be horrified to hear me speak of my work in such a grand way.” She shrugged. “But this is New York City; and you Americans always say it pays to blow your own trumpet.”

“Because no one else will,” he replied.

And don’t I know it.

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor, and Camille stepped out into a small, elegant foyer. Ryan took in the luxurious space as he followed her. Cream walls were perfectly matched with a pale beige trim. The floor was polished concrete, which looked to be original.

When he glanced at her she offered a cheeky grin. “This building dates back to nineteen seventeen. It’s been a garment warehouse, a bridal emporium, and now it’s a series of private apartments and studios. And I love it.”

Camille must be doing really well if she could afford to rent a place like this in Manhattan. Ryan didn’t want to think how much the monthly lease would cost.

A darn sight more than what Liam and I are paying in East Orange.

A sharp pang of jealousy tested Ryan’s hold on his good humor. This woman was everything he wasn’t. She had a real career. She was a success.

While I’ve just got fired.

Across the foyer Camille tapped a keycard to a lock, then pushed open a heavy wooden door. Ryan hurried to hold it back for her while she took her bags and paper parcels inside. The least he could give her was his best manners. They didn’t cost anything.

On the other side of the door was a design studio. It was sparsely furnished, and the cream painted walls were bare. In the center of the room was situated two large glass topped desks facing one another. They both had laptops and monitors on them, along with piles of papers.

A long green couch, sofa thing which looked comfortable enough to sleep on sat in a corner over on the far right. Close to it was a large metal table on wheels. Ryan took in the neat row of six dress maker models on stands which were lined up along the opposite wall. They were a serious upgrade to the mannequins his mom had in her craft room at home.

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