Haze(4)

"You need to call him now." I tap the fingers of my left hand on her knee. "He's not a good fit for us."

"He's a perfect fit." Her bottom lip juts out in a pout. "Gabriel, I've already made the announcement. How would it look if I didn't give him the job?"

I push out a quick puff of air from between my lips, tempted to tell her that the position is already filled by one of the most creative designers in the world today. That would fall on her deaf, and now frustrated, ears. "If you can't handle it, Mother, I can. Give me the word and I'll make this disappear before the official announcement sees the light of day."

"Do it," she says as she smooths her hands over the fabric of her navy blue slacks. "Fix it the way you always do."





CHAPTER THREE


Isla




I nervously fumble with my smartphone as I sit in the reception area at Foster Enterprises. Cicely had stuck to her plan for us to bring each and every lace garter slip that was packed in the box she ripped open, to Mr. Foster's office with us.

We'd shoved the overstuffed Liore bags into the trunk of a taxi outside the store. I briefly argued the point that the tennis shoes that were already occupying the cramped space smelled like a dead body, but Cicely was too amped up on adrenaline to even acknowledge that I was along for the ride.

We've sat here for almost thirty minutes now and Cicely has used at least twenty-nine of those to quietly rehearse what sounds like a late night infomercial about the undeniable alluring qualities of the over-priced garter slips we brought along with us.

If she'd bothered to ask my opinion, which she hasn't, I would have told her to bring one and that if honesty is what Mr. Foster wants, a critique about the quality of the materials and the location of the hooks for fastening would be first on my list.

"Do you like working at the boutique?"

My gaze jumps from the addictive game I'm playing on my smartphone to the face of the woman who greeted us when we stepped off the elevator and approached Mr. Foster's office. The space is large and airy. The furnishings are exquisite and the walls are painted light grey.

The only spot of brightness is the woman behind the desk, Sophia. She has a slight southern drawl that reminds me of my third grade teacher. She's pretty, but in a muted, unassuming, way.

I glance towards Cicely who is still in full-on preparation mode. I will the doors of Mr. Foster's office to open but they don't. Engaging in idle talk about a job I may no longer have, isn't helping with my increasing anxiety. If I'm fired, I want to know so I can start looking for something else to fill in my time until my future really begins.

"It's a wonderful place to work," I try to sound as sincere as I can. "Do you like working here?"

There's a slight pause as her eyes flit across the room towards the closed doors. I see the hesitation in her expression before I hear it in her words. "I'm very lucky that I have this position."

I should push and ask for more but the details of why there's a hint of disgruntled dissatisfaction in her tone doesn't matter to me. I'll likely be off the Foster Enterprises payroll within the hour and I'll never set eyes on her again.

I clear my throat with the intention of saying something trivial about the weather and the cool breeze that took over the city this afternoon but I'm stalled when the doors to Mr. Foster's office burst open.

Cicely and I turn in unison to see a beautiful woman dressed in dark pants and a white blouse walk through the double doors towards us. As she turns back briefly, her rich brown hair brushes her shoulders.

From where I'm sitting, I can't see the person she reaches for but I know it has to be him. It takes just a few seconds for her to confirm that in a hushed tone. "You've always been my favorite, Gabriel. You will always be my favorite."

A deep chuckle fills the room as he steps forward, into view, to scoop her hand into his. As he raises it to his lips, he looks down into her face. "Asher is your favorite, Mother. We all know that he is."

She shakes her head briefly before she reaches up to touch her lips to his cheek.

"Mr. Foster." Cicely ignores any sense of decency and interrupts the tender moment by jumping to her feet. Her hands run over the skirt of the simple brown dress she's wearing. "We were here early, sir. You said we should be here at four o'clock. We were here by three fifty. I just want you to know that."

With her words, his eyes leave his mom's face and dart to Cicely and then settle on me, lingering there until his mom taps his chest. "Do I want to know what this is about? What are these two doing with all those Liore shopping bags? Is this some kind of clothing drive? Do they work at a shelter?"

I push back the urge to laugh at the suggestion that we're collecting expensive lingerie to clothe the city's least fortunate. As much as the comment amuses me, it maddens Cicely. "I'm the manager of the Liore boutique, Ma'am. You're Gianna Foster, aren't you?"

The hand that Cicely extends hangs in the air for several seconds before Gianna tentatively grabs hold of it with her own. "I'm Gianna Foster. What are you doing here? If you manage the store, you should be there, no?"

Yes, Mrs. Foster, she should. Instead, she's on a crusade to defend ugly ass garter slips and I'm along for the ride.