Page 23 of Be With Me
I clenched my hands at my sides. Shame clawed at me. I brushed past him and retreated behind the safety of my desk. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but it was something. “My business is none of your business.”
He settled back into his chair, all relaxed confidence, while I busied myself with opening my laptop. The fact that he’d seen me in that moment of vulnerability—and knew just how screwed I was—was a bitter pill to swallow. I hadn’t even told my friends the full extent of my business problems. It was too embarrassing. Too raw.
“Dress me for this dinner, and I’ll get your name out there.”
“No.”
“The theme is Moon Signs and Merengues.”
My pulse skipped.
If there was one thing New York loved, it was a ridiculous theme. I’d styled at least ten absurdly themed parties every year for the past three years.
And I loved it. Okay? Ilovedit. It allowed me to get creative. It allowed me to take risks.
“Normally, I don’t bother dressing up for these things. But this year, I feel like giving it a try.”
Slowly, my gaze slid back to him. He’d look good in midnight-blue with his lightly tanned complexion. Maybe if?—
Stop. Just stop.
I slammed my laptop closed. It was out of the question. A disaster waiting to happen. “My answer is still no.”
Romolo’s brow arched. “Do you know what a feature in The Golden Circle monthly newsletter could do for you?”
A lot.
The Golden Circle’s members were some of the most fashionable people in the city—socialites, artists, cultural icons… They graced the pages of glossy magazines, got photographed every time they stepped outside, and were watched by everyone else who wished to be like them.
A roster full of them would be a dream.
“Are you the owner of The Golden Circle?” I asked.
His brow furrowed. “No.”
“Then why should I believe you have the kind of sway needed to get someone of your choosing into their heavily curated newsletter?” I clipped out, annoyed at myself for even engaging with this delusion.
“Heavily curated by my cousin, Caterina Ferraro. A glowing recommendation from me would be all it takes.”
Anger was starting to bubble up inside of me. He was dangling a shiny, golden ticket in front of me—the answer to my problems.
But it didn’t matter.
I couldn’t do it.
As he said, I was the enemy. He was my enemy too.
“What would you get out of this, Romolo?” I demanded.
He didn’t answer. He just smiled. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell me his real motives, but I knew they wouldn’t spell anything good for me.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “There are plenty of other stylists in this city who could do exactly what you’re asking for.”
“I don’t want them. I wantyou.”
The way he said it—low, firm—made the air in my lungs feel thin.
I shook my head. “It’s not going to happen.” Yes, I wanted to save my business. But not like this.
