Page 50 of By A Thread
He rolled his eyes and picked up a floral print dress. “Try to show Tracy Reese a modicum of respect.”
“Are you messing with me right now because I have to be honest. If you tell me these are all mine for free, and then you turn around and say ‘psych,’ I will cry and very possibly burn down your house.”
“Psych?” he repeated with disdain. “We’ll worry about your vocabulary later. For now, let’s focus on the more important. Your appearance.”
A laptop. A smartphone. And a new designer wardrobe.
“Is it Christmas? Did I somehow stumble onto the set ofOprah’s Favorite Things?” I asked, still afraid to get my hopes up.
“These are not presents. I am not a benevolent lady billionaire. These are tools to do your job. I can’t have you waltzing around Central Park photo shoots looking like fifty-percent-off day at the second-hand church sale.”
“Your words wound me, Linus,” I said, drooling over the pair of to-die-for caramel suede booties he pointed to.
I wanted to make out with them.
“I don’t care. I just can’t take this shapeless sweater thing for one more second. You’re making my forehead veins throb.”
“You don’t have forehead veins.”
“Thanks to BOTOX. Now don’t make my forehead veins pop through the botulism barrier. Go put on anything other than that outfit and grab one of the Burberry coats on your way out.”
“You don’t fool me,” I told him over the armload of fashion.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sniffed.
“You’re being nice and covering it up with charming mean.”
“Begone, Didn’t Wear It Better.”
“I’ll make you proud,” I promised as I headed in the direction of the closest restroom.
“I doubt that,” he called after me. “Change fast. You have twenty-three minutes for lunch and then dogs.”
* * *
I raceddown to the cafeteria with my lunch—beef fried rice from Mrs. Grosu—and threw myself into a chair next to Ruth.
“I have three minutes before I have to leave to go pick up four purebred Afghan hounds.”
“That sweater,” Gola said.
“Those boots,” Ruth breathed.
“I just told you I’m running a dog trafficking scheme, and you want to talk fashion?” I joked.
“Welcome toLabel,” Gola snickered. “I once had to wait five hours in an emergency department to pick up half a dozen sweaters that a bike messenger was carrying when he got hit by a cab. How’s life on the forty-third floor?”
“Colorful. Chaotic. We need to catch up,” I said as I ripped the lid off my meal. I didn’t have time to heat it up.
“Let’s grab drinks after work,” Ruth suggested.
“Can’t,” I said through a mouthful of rice. “Teaching a dance class tonight.”
“Where? We’ll come,” Gola said, perking up.
“It’s not ballet,” I warned them.
“Is it hip-hop?” Ruth wanted to know. “Can I wear leg warmers? Ilivefor any excuse to wear leg warmers.”
