Page 7 of Protect Your Queen

I looked down at my suit, then back at him, confirming that this wasn’t a nightmare where I walked into my first day with no pants. My shoes were shined and matched my belt. The suit was black, the shirt was white. Was the tie the problem? I thought it was a bit fancy with the plaid-looking navy and white stripes, but it wasn’t garish or anything.

“What’s the problem here?” The mini-sadist, Lea, called from the other room.

“Darling,” Mr. Callum MacLachlan - or was it Baron MacLachlan? I had no idea what to call the man - looked over his shoulder. “Your compatriot is not done with his training.”

I heard a chair shuffle, and Lea appeared at her husband’s side. She took one look at me, and her head fell forward.

“Jesus,” she rolled her eyes, backhanding her husband on the chest. “You can close your mouth. It’s not that bad, you snob.”

Damn. Other than “you’re hired!” that was the nicest thing she’d ever said to me.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the central hall into an office. A wooden plank on the door had my name emblazoned on it, so I guessed it was my new home away from home. She slammed the door shut with a kick of her black leather boot and pushed me into the chair behind the desk. The seat rolled with the impact of my weight, and she started opening up the drawers, searching for… something.

“These fucking rich people,” she grumbled, until she found a piece of paper and pen. She slammed them in front of me. “Take notes.”

I pulled off the gold-colored cap from the fancy pen. “Caledonia Security” and the office phone number were laser-printed on the side.

“First, you need to change how you dress.” She took the seat across from me and crossed her legs, an ankle on her knee. “That outfit makes you look poor.”

I looked down at my black suit and inspected the tie.

“Huh?” I examined the lapels as if it said “Juicy Couture.”

“You bought it at the mall?” She raised a pencil-thin brow.

“Well, yeah, there was this tailor-”

“Yeah, you’ll need to stop that. The mall is for poor people.” She looked at the door as if she could see beyond it to the posh Europeans on the other side. “Working class, even white collar, is considered poor for our clients. You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb wearing those clothes. You’ll look less like our client’s entourage and more like a fan.”

What she was saying made perfect sense. It really did, when you took a look at the dignitaries that populated the client list. It still stung, though. I had picked out these clothes because I thought they looked good. It wasn’t like they were on the clearance rack.

“Write this down.” She listed off a ton of names. I vaguely knew they were designers, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. I just wrote them down anyway and was too scared to ask how to spell them.

“Your tie is too narrow. Your shoes need to be leather, not the plastic fake-gloss stuff. Shine them, old school, with polish and a rag. You match your outfit to the formality of the client, so get comfortable wearing $200 t-shirts.”

Had I been drinking water I would have spat it out my nose.

There was no way she said that. Either she misspokeormy hearing was starting to go. Being too close to one too many explosives could do that to a man.

“Say again?”

“You heard it right. Two. Hundred. Dollar. T-shirts.” She winced. For once, she looked apologetic. I was amazed, since I didn’t think that was in her repertoire of emotions. “Did you grow up in the suburbs?”

The question surprised me so much that the words took a second to register.

“I mean, yeah, I did.”

“It’s a rhetorical question. You’re like me.” She leaned forward, and brought both her feet to the ground. Her elbows rested on her knees. “We did a full background on you. Your parents moved into the neighborhood because it had a good public school system. It was a dual income household. You went to a prom and got your outfit from the mall. It probably looked a little bit like what you’re wearing now. You may have even splurged and gotten a limo with your date and a few friends…”

She was hitting the nail right on the head. Even though she said she had the same background, she was still a fucking baroness.

She may have gone to a mall once, but I had a hunch that she now employed personal shoppers that brought clothes to her mansion, or castle, or whatever. They probably even had models do a private catwalk.

Was that something rich people still did? I wasn’t sure. I had seen it in an old movie once. Maybe it was when my sister and I watchedGigi, starring Leslie Caron.

I hated how fuzzy my memories were getting.

I tuned back into what she was saying just in time to hear, “… but we play in a different stratosphere, and we have to change to match. Even me.”

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