More Than Sorry

9: He Helps the Girls

"He's used up all his chances," Andie growls.

"But look how nice he dressed up." Yvette's waving at my jeans and black t-shirt like they're worth looking at. "He'll be a distracting bit of eye candy for all our ladies today. Just check out his ass in those jeans."

My eyes go wide, my face on fire. "Y-you can't say stuff like that... E-Eden..."

Yvette laughs. "Oh, sweetie, Eden has talked plenty about your ass. Our clients know all about you."

When I flick a glance at Andie, she makes a gagging face. Yvette can't stop laughing. Oh, hell. Nerves get the better of me, and I push my glasses up even though they haven't slipped down at all. Maybe this is a big mistake. I have a sinking feeling these women are going to eat me alive.

Andie's still not sold. She turns back to me. "So, if I agree to this stupid idea, are you planning on sitting around all day and being a pain in my ass? In case you didn't notice, that position's already been filled."

Yvette cackles.

"I don't want to get in your way," I say. "I can be useful. I'll help out any way you want."

"Any way I want, huh?" Andie grins.

She looks evil as hell, and my stomach drops through my boots. Yeah, this is definitely a big mistake.

Andie doesn't waste a second putting me to work. She barks orders all morning. There's a lot of preparation before the appointments even start. Deliveries to unpack. Stocking everything. Tidying. Fixing cushions so they are just so. I ask a lot of questions, but Andie's surprisingly patient. Tough but fair.

More staff start trickling in around nine o'clock. I thought Eden and Andie did all the hair stuff. I never realized how many other people keep this place running. My head is spinning. I can barely keep track of everyone's names.

There are two girls—Bridgette and Vera—that work around the basins and giggle every time I look in their direction. Jerry is a stylist like Eden and Andie, but he tells me he specializes in something called blowouts. Whenever he finishes with a client, we all have to ooh and aah and say how fabulous they look. It's not fake, though. His ladies all end up with manes of huge, wavy hair. They look like they could be in a shampoo commercial or something.

Maddison is supposed to run around waiting on everyone, fuss over them, bring them drinks, tidy up and keep everything restocked.

Supposed to.

She's currently perched on the stool at the front reception, tapping away on her phone because Andie decided I'm the person to do all those jobs today. I think I'm doing okay. I was an instant pro with the coffee machine, and everything's always restocked and ready. I only broke one glass. Everyone seems happy—even Andie.

And then there's Yvette. And... well... I still don't really understand what Yvette does. She flitters around chatting with the clients, always laughing and keeping everyone's spirits up. Sometimes, she answers the phone. Most of the time, she disappears to who-knows-where before she randomly pops back up somewhere.

I'm sorting the robes for dry cleaning when I hear Yvette's silver heels click along the wood floor of the laundry room and stop beside me.

Guess she's popped back up.

"So," Yvette drawls. "A little birdie tells me you'll be gracing the Worley corporate box with your presence tonight."

I can't help the smirk when I tease, "Is that little birdie your daddy?"

Yvette's long black eyelashes narrow into a straight line. "Watch it, lawyer boy."

"Relax, relax. I'm taking your secret identity to the grave. But yeah... I'll be at the match tonight."

"You taking a date?" Yvette runs her finger along the top of the washing machine, a coy smile playing on her lips.

"Of course not." My stomach twists, uneasy. Yvette's acting so weird. "Are you fishing for an invite?"

"I'd rather shove a hot curling iron in my eye than spend a night with a bunch of lawyers pretending to like football. Kinda thought you might be the same?"

"You're not wrong. I don't want to go. It was strongly recommended to me that I need to be there tonight. Apparently, I need to start being more visible at bullshit functions."

"Who told you that? Mike Gardener?" Yvette sneers as she says my boss's name. "Hell is too good for that bastard."

My hands freeze on the pile of towels I was about to scoop into the washing machine. Yvette's words surprise me, but I'm careful to keep my face neutral. "You're not wrong about that either," I eventually say.

Yvette lets out a hollow laugh. "Don't think for a second that man will stop taking his pound of flesh from you just because you make partner, Zach."

"Believe me. I don't. I have a feeling he'll be taking a pound of flesh from me even when I'm dead."

"He will. He'll sell you a golden dream, but don't ever be stupid enough to believe a single word out of his mouth. Everything he says is a lie."

A cold prickle runs up my spine. I've never heard Yvette speak like this. She's usually all sparkles and rainbows—like Eden. My eyes dart over her face. Something's not right. Her features are so severe, everything's drawn down, and there's a flash of emotion in her eyes. It's only for a second, but I see it. Fear.

"Yvette, are you okay—"

She waves a hand at me to brush me off. And then it's like the whole conversation never happened. The transformation is instant. Her eyes are bright and cheerful, and a big smile spreads back across her face.

"Well, enjoy the football tonight!" Yvette chirps. "Or maybe you'll get lucky and Andie will kill you first."

And then she's cackling again as she disappears back to who-knows-where.