Barely Yours (21 page)

In fact, it had been a similar instance of unexpected, out-of-character confidence that had landed me the job at Marianne’s consultancy in the first place. Last summer, my bachelor’s degree in Interior Design had got me as far as selling $400 throw pillows in Barneys, and Marianne came in to choose fabrics for a client’s curtains. I was only ever paid to chirp, “How may I help you today, madam?” but before I knew what I was saying I'd launched into an unplanned monologue on how to improve her color scheme and found myself on the receiving end of a business card, with instructions to call her sometime if I got bored of my cashier’s position. 

Which was how I ended up, just three weeks later, fetching her dry cleaning and organizing her diary for a living.

But now that I knew Marianne better, there was no question that this little interruption of mine would have pissed her off, royally.

We remained silent the whole way down in the elevator  — but I just knew that that there was no way she was going to let this slide. Whatever was in store for me sure wasn’t gonna be pleasant.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel weirdly pleased, too.

Pleased and flattered at just how much Blake had liked my ideas, even if Marianne had quickly claimed them as her own.

And as I heard his low sonorous voice, “I’ll be in touch,” echoing in my head, I remembered the heat of his hand and a silly old proverb my mother used to say flashed into my head:

Warm hands, cold heart.