Once at King’s Cross Station, I tossed the Alfa Romeo’s keys into a trash bin midstride and sauntered into a waiting vehicle, reuniting with my London-based driver, Thierry.
“Where is Miss Bennett?” I settled in the back seat of the Range Rover SV Carmel, plucking my leather gloves off, one finger at a time.
I’d discarded the mask earlier in an open wheat field.
Thierry frowned at his watch, his eyes swinging to the rearview mirror, where our gazes clashed.
“It’s one in the morning, sir,” he pointed out in a French accent.
“Did I ask for the time?” My brow quirked in mocking amusement.
“No.” He cleared his throat, shrinking into his leather seat. “Miss Bennett, I believe, is in Chelsea. It’s her birthday today.”
Was it now?
“The first night she’s had off since the Taylor Swift concert in September,” he rambled on, his voice drenched in pleading.
Ah yes. My assistant was mentally fourteen and consequently a “Swiftie.”
This in itself was a good enough reason for me to fire her.
“Where in Chelsea?”
“The Swan and the Wine.”
“Off we go then.”
Thierry pressed his lips together, the wordnothreatening to tear from between them.
I eyeballed him through the mirror, challenging him to defy me.
Some people avoided confrontation. I actively sought it.
“I think,” he began, his soft tenor ridiculous for a sixty-year-old, six-foot-three man in a tailored suit. “You should allow her the night off, if I may suggest so, sir.”
“You may not,” I informed him flatly. “Now floor it.”
Thirty minutes later, Thierry parked outside the Swan and the Wine, killing the engine. He drew in a breath, burying his face in his hands.
He was fond of Miss Bennett. Most people were, for an unfathomable reason.
My gaze dragged to the back window, settling on the trendy pub.
The Georgian building was painted burgundy, the pub’s name in bold, golden lettering over a black background. Pots overflowing with colorful flowers adorned the windowsills and arches of the wooden doors.
Through the wide, wood-paned window, I found the subject of my irritation, occupying a table in the corner of the tavern, wearing a pink Birthday Girl sash over her sensible, pale blue tweed dress.
By her side was a man I presumed was her boyfriend, Ashley, along with football sensation Kieran Carmichael, one of my business partners, Row Casablancas, and his hot-mess wife, Cal. Emphasis on the mess.
There was no amount of wipes in the world to clean her verbal diarrhea.
I knew Cal and Gia were close. Kieran was friends with Row, so he was likely invited by proxy.
Theoretically, Ishouldhave been offended for not being invited. After all, Gia had met Cal, Row, and Kieran through me.
However, I couldn’t muster anything other than mild relief. I’d take drowning Irish mobsters in historical pools any day of the week over pretending my assistant’s birthday was something worth celebrating.
Alongside them sat three women I presumed were Gia’s London friends.
