Delia Chevron didn’t know any designers named Fliss.
CHAPTER FOUR
“YOU CAN’T STEAL from clients, Felicity.” Her supervisor, Luz, was dark red beneath her normally light brown complexion.
“I didn’t steal,” Fliss argued weakly. “It was in the bin.”
But it had been wrong to take the invitation. She had known it was wrong when she’d taken it out of the bin. And when she’d stuck it in her handbag. She had been dead wrong to put it in her clutch and carry that wretched card to the art gallery.
She wanted to sink through the floor with humiliation and guilt that she’d ever even noticed the darned thing.
“You’ve cost me a good client.” Luz’s voice rang with anger. “You know I can’t keep you on.”
“I know,” Fliss mumbled, feeling sick.
For three days, she had thought she had gotten away with her futile attempt to advance herself. Photos of her with Saint had turned up online, but none had shown her face very well, so no one had recognized her.
Then, this morning, she’d been told to report here to Luz before starting her shift at a luxury flat in Chelsea. Fliss had known immediately that her dark deed had come to light. Her stomach had begun to churn.
“Did you really have sex with Saint Montgomery?” Luz hissed.
“What?” That knocked Fliss back in her chair. “Why do you think that?”
“Because he’s Saint Montgomery. You went to his hotel with him, then he tried to send you earrings through Delia Chevron. You left them in his room, I presume?” Luz elevated her brows with disdain.
“What? No.” She touched her earlobe, which was naked, but she had definitely come home with the hoops she’d worn to the gala. She was deeply confused. “I don’t know anything about any earrings. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Which is what Delia said. She pieced together that someone had attended the gala with an invitation addressed to her and had her team investigate how you came by it.”
“I didn’t pretend to be her,” Fliss rushed to assert. She had only implied she was Delia’s plus-one, then had been shuffled off to the side to wait for her. She didn’t explain that Saint was the one who had actually brought her into the gallery. “He hasn’t called you, has he? Did you give him my number?”
Luz glared outrage at her.
“I’m not saying you should,” Fliss mumbled. Where was astral traveling when you really needed it? She would give anything not to be inhabiting her body in this profoundly mortifying moment.
“I’m really disappointed in you, Felicity. I thought you were someone I could count on. Your final pay will go into your account overnight. I cannot give you a reference, but I wish you well in future.” Luz straightened a stack of papers that didn’t need straightening, signaling this discussion was over.
“I’m genuinely sorry, Luz.” Fliss rose. She was tongue-tied, unable to find anything more to say that wasn’t full out groveling.
Her only hope was that this incident wouldn’t follow her around like a bad smell, the way those awful rumors started by her old boyfriend had.
She went home and, since her workday had barely started, pulled up her CV on her ancient laptop. She was immediately disheartened. Scrubbing toilets was her top skill these days, but without a reference she wasn’t even fit for that. The fashion design route was even further out of reach.
She couldn’t waste time on berating herself, though. There would be ample time for that later. For now, she needed to make rent.
Perhaps she should go back to school. It was months until September, though.
Fliss looked around her room with its chipped sill and saggy bed and toilet down the hall. It wasn’t much, but it had enough space for her sewing machine and table, her form and a tall, cardboard wardrobe where she stored her finished creations.
She could sell those, she supposed, but that would be counterproductive to her aspirations. Plus, experience had taught her that she would be lucky to earn back the cost of the fabric, especially when she was in a hurry to sell. She rarely got enough to cover her many hours of labor.
As for the gown, she could barely look at it.
She was both appalled and elated when she thought about her night with Saint. Nearly everything about it had been perfect, from the way he’d swept her into the glamor of the gala, then taken her for such a fancy dinner. She’d felt like Cinderella. Maybe she hadn’t been fully on his level socially and financially, but she hadn’t felt as far away as this life put her.
And the sex. If that was what she’d been missing all this time, she had a newfound contempt for her old boyfriend for making her think sex was something you worked up the courage to offer someone. With Saint, there’d been surprisingly little awkwardness. She had reveled in sharing herself with him. He’d been equally generous with his body and kisses and skill.
When she’d awakened in that wide bed on those luxurious sheets, she’d been pleasantly sore all over, feeling as though she’d hiked to a challenging peak and was brimming with accomplishment. As though she’d won the lottery and could live her life on her own terms from now on.
The first knock of reality had arrived when she had discovered she was alone.
Saint had warned her that he’d had an early flight, so she had tried not to let his disappearance bother her, but it had felt a bit tawdry that he’d slipped away without saying goodbye. She’d splurged on a car share rather than a walk of shame on the tube. She had been home and emptying her clutch before she’d found the number he’d scrawled with Call me on the back of the invitation that bore Delia Chevron’s name.
Chagrin had wormed into her at that point, boring holes in her midsection. Fliss hadn’t lied to him about who she was. She hadn’t dropped Delia’s name to impress him, but his knowing that she’d possessed that card made her reluctant to text the number he’d given her. If she were a student at this point, she might have felt more confident in connecting with him again, but she was now an unemployed housekeeper and she didn’t have a good way to explain that card.
She peered into the nightstand drawer where she had left it, keeping his note like a war bride holding on to a love letter. Should she text and ask What is this about earrings?
Oh, God. He wasn’t trying to pay her, was he?
That felt tawdry. Sex work was fine for people who chose it, but she was ultrasensitive to how she was perceived sexually, especially when it was a wrong impression. Had he thought that was what her motive had been in going to that gala? Did he think she’d been trolling for a sugar daddy?
Fliss buried her face in her hands, ready to do anything to go back in time and not take that card!
Which would mean she wouldn’t have the memory of those few magical hours with him.
No. She dropped her hands from her face. Much as she regretted how things had turned out at work, she didn’t regret that night. Saint had helped her discover a passion she hadn’t known she could feel. It had been a wonderful experience and now it was over and that left her wistful, but fine. She would suffer the consequence of her impulsive theft of that card, find another job and never see him again. Her boring little life would go on.
She believed that right up until her phone rang the next day. It was a reporter for one of the tabloids.
