Page 54 of Hooked
You are.
Tayla started her morning coffee before she started her makeup. She tried to go light since she’d kept her face on for too long the night before. She was a firm believer in giving your skin at least eight hours every night for it to breathe, but some days that just didn’t work out.
When she was finished with her makeup, she sat at the kitchen table and sorted through her schedule for the day.
A nine-thirty hair appointment and helping Emmie in the shop were the only things on her calendar. It was Saturday, after all. Most people didn’t do bookkeeping on Saturdays or Sundays, which meant she was free to help Emmie on the busiest day at INK.
She scrolled through her pictures from last night. She only had five.Five? How had she slacked off so bad? She should have been promoting the clutch she’d worn and the dress designer and shop. The escape room could have used a shout-out too. Had Jeremy taken any? Maybe. She’d have to ask.
She was slacking. All she had was a selfie they’d taken in the escape room, holding old-fashioned magnifying glasses up to their faces, and a few more pics of Jeremy being sexy in his bow tie.
“Nothing by the car,” she muttered. “Nothing in the restaurant.”
What had she been thinking?
She hadn’t been thinking about pictures or product placement or expanding her reach.
She’d been thinking about Jeremy Allen.
This was going to be a problem.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Twelve
The trainfrom Metlin left at one thirty on Wednesday. Tayla had packed three carefully chosen interview outfits to match any unpredictable weather and a few casual outfits for a weekend in the city. She’d show up in Richmond during rush hour, but she could take BART into the city and get off at the Embarcadero to find a car to her parents’ house.
If she was lucky, they’d both be at a social event and wouldn’t return until after she’d already hidden in her room. If Mena, the housekeeper, was in a sympathetic mood, she’d help Tayla.
If she was unlucky, her mom would be sitting drunk and sad in the garden and guilt her into staying more than one night.
Either way, her dad would be out, so he wasn’t an issue.
She stowed her bag in the overhead bin and grabbed a seat by the window before she put her headphones over her ears and closed her eyes. She’d chosen the east side of the train compartment so she didn’t bake, but she wished she could close her eyes and lie in the sun. She wanted to soak in the heat of the valley before she reached the Bay Area.
This time of year, it was just as likely to be cold and foggy as warm and sunny. Forecasts meant nothing there, hence the three outfits.
She dozed intermittently as the train worked its way north. The rocking motion always lulled her to sleep. People sat next to her and left. The slow shuffle of humanity moved on and off as they wound closer to San Francisco. Families and singles. Elderly couples and college kids. She changed trains in Martinez, finally heading west.
She owned a car, but it was impossible to park it in the city. When she lived in San Francisco, she’d shamelessly used her parents’ garage. They had room for three cars, after all, and she rarely used her car unless she wanted to take a weekend trip.
Since moving to Metlin, she used her small car more, but she still didn’t like driving in the city. She’d rather take the train.
She carried her bag from the platform in Richmond and looked for the Millbrae train platform, joining the few commuters heading her direction. The crowd of people in the station made her smile. She’d missed the energy and the pace.
The train into the city was uneventful, and she stepped off at the Embarcadero just as the sun was setting. She walked across the street and caught a cab.
“Russian Hill,” she said. “Francisco and Hyde.”
The cab driver gave her a low whistle, but Tayla kept her sunglasses on and ignored him. She wrapped a sweater jacket around her shoulders and watched the flow of traffic out the window. The cabbie immediately turned right and started working his way through the financial district until he reached the Transamerica building and pointed the cab northwest on the familiar flow of Columbus Avenue, heading toward what was—for better or worse—her childhood home.
Tayla turnedher key in the lock and entered her personal security code, which let her parents, the security company, and the household staff know she was in residence. As expected, by the time she walked from the street entrance to the foyer, Mena was there to greet her.
Mena Wright was a pale Englishwoman who was a professional household manager in the classical sense. Mena ran her parents’ home, had since Tayla was a child. She scheduled staff, arranged social events, appointments, meals, and everything else her parents might need. She was tall and rail thin with a regal bearing and impeccable grammar.
“Hey, Mena.”
“Miss Tayla, we didn’t realize you were coming for a visit.”
