Honor

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

E vie

“What’s that saying about the suit making the man?” A blonde woman standing in front of me glances over her shoulder. “The man who wears those suits must be a special specimen.”

She’s referring to the three suits I’ve been lugging around Manhattan for the past twenty minutes. Sure, they’re custom-made and ordered directly from some big deal tailor in Italy, but they’re also heavy as hell.

I smile at the woman because it’s not her fault Mr. Hunt is just over six feet tall. At times like this, I wish he hovered around the five foot mark like me. It would make for a lighter load because there would be a lot less material.

“He’s something,” I say.

Her gaze wanders over my bare left hand. “Unless he didn’t spring for a ring, he’s not your husband or fiancé.”

I shudder at the thought. Literally. My entire body quakes at the mere suggestion of being married to my boss.

“He’s not either of those.” I shift the clear garment bag containing the suits from one arm to the other. “These belong to my boss.”

Her green eyes skim my face. “You’re not a fan?”

“In no way, shape, or form,” I tell her since she’ll never know Mr. Hunt’s name.

Nodding, she glances at the jeweler we’re both waiting to speak with.

I have business with the man because Mr. Hunt sent me a text message twenty seconds after I picked up his dry cleaning. I swear he put a tracking device in one of the jacket pockets.

The message was concise and got right to his point.

Mr. Hunt: My watch is ready for pick up. Do that before you deliver the dry cleaning to my home. I’ll send you the address of the jeweler.

Since I’m lugging around an extra few pounds in the form of his suits, it took me a minute to respond to him.

Silence is one of my boss’s pet peeves because he sent another text my way a minute later that wasn’t warranted.

Mr. Hunt: Confirm you’re alive, Miss Starling. If not, whoever sees this message first needs to deliver the suits in the phone owner’s possession to the Vidori Capital offices on Fifth Avenue.

I fired back a text laced with a pinch of attitude.

Evie: I’m fine, sir. Thanks for asking. I’ll pick up the watch as requested.

He easily won that round of our mild sparing by shooting me back a quick reply.

Mr. Hunt: I wasn’t asking. Guard the suits and the watch with your life.

“I’m Lottie.” The woman in front of me turns and takes the extra step of introducing herself. “Lottie Rushing.”

“Evie Starling,” I offer with a nod of my chin. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her gaze darts back to the counter where the jeweler is engaged in a conversation with a man. The clock is ticking closer to my noon deadline to get the suits to Mr. Hunt’s apartment, so I can only hope that Lottie will get her turn to talk to the jeweler soon and she’ll make it quick.

“Are you from New York?” she asks.

It’s a common question. I told my mom it was an icebreaker when she visited me three months ago, and two people asked her that very question when she was sightseeing in Times Square.

I wanted to join her, but Mr. Hunt wouldn’t give me the time off. I learned my lesson that day. Cleo told me to always file my requests for a personal day with Baden.

I wasn’t sure that advice was accurate, but my employment contract backed her up. There is indeed a clause on the third page about submitting a request for time off to any of the partners of the firm. That’s the move I’ll make the next time my mom is in Manhattan.

“Not originally,” I tell her. “You?”

“I was born and raised in California,” she says. “I moved here for the peace and quiet.”

“Didn’t we all?” I laugh.

She smiles brightly. “I needed a change, and Manhattan seemed like the place for me.”

“How’s it working out for you?” I ask because why not talk to someone when you’re stuck waiting?

“Better than I ever could have imagined. I found something here I didn’t know I was looking for.”

That piques my curiosity. “What did you find?”

She points toward the jeweler. “A fiancé.”

I glance his way again to find him with a pair of glasses perched on the edge of his nose while he peers over the frames at a bracelet in his hand. He reminds me of my grandpa, but I’m not one to rain on anyone’s parade, so if Lottie likes older men, good on her.

“He seems nice,” I say with a bright smile. “Congratulations to both of you.”

“Oh, God, no.” Her head falls back in laughter. “He’s a sweetheart, but it’s not him. I’m picking up my engagement ring. I had to get it sized down.”

Struck with embarrassment at my assumption, I let out a chuckle. “I’m sorry. I just thought…”

“That I really liked older guys?”

I nod. “Something like that.”

“My fiancé, Randall, is a bit older than me,” she confesses. “I’m talking five years, not fifty.”

Joy is radiating from her, so I tell her that, “I don’t know you, but you seem really happy.”

She locks eyes with me. “I am, Evie.”

The sound of a phone pinging sounds through the store. I wince in anticipation of Mr. Hunt telling me that he’s going to send out a search party for his prized suits and beloved watch.

That’s an exaggeration because a watch would never hold sentimental value to him. I’ve seen the beautiful wooden box with the glass lid in the walk-in closet in his bedroom that holds at least thirty high-end watches.

“That’s me,” Lottie says. “It’s Randall. He wants me to call him, so feel free to skip ahead of me.”

“Really?” I almost hug her since the customer who was with the jeweler is now bidding him farewell.

“Absolutely.” She adjusts the strap of the black leather bag she’s holding.

For late morning on a Tuesday, she’s dressed to kill.

Leather pants, a white button-down shirt tucked in just the right way, and a pair of red-soled high heels that grant her four extra inches in height all look spectacular on her.

“This will sound like it’s coming out of left field.” She shrugs a shoulder. “But, I’m all about taking a leap of faith. Would you be interested in grabbing a coffee one day soon? I don’t know a lot of people in the city…”

“Sure,” I interrupt because a person can never have too many friends, and since my current number is low, I’m all in on this. “Give me your number.”

She slowly calls it out to me.

I save it in my contact list next to her name. “I’ll text you this week.”

“Perfect.” A smile lights up her face. “Good luck with your boss.”

“Thanks,” I say in response, even though I’m going to need a hell of a lot more than luck since another phone just pinged an alert to an incoming text message, and this time, I know it’s mine.