The Singles (3 page)

As I drove from the seaside Marina del Rey apartment in my leased Mini Cooper, I continued to tell myself that.

*

U
p until a week and a half ago, I hadn't stepped foot in Los Angeles since I was sixteen—when I hopped a Greyhound bus from Vegas with the intent of meeting with my stepmother. My parents had divorced when I was seven, and the moment everything was finalized my tall, dark-eyed mother had promptly departed the city with me in tow.  She was a model, which was how she met my father, and at first, we moved wherever her work took her—New York, Miami, Chicago, but never back to Los Angeles. By the time I was thirteen, I'd lived in more places than most people visited in their lifetime, but I welcomed it. 

Mom and I had been a team, and it hadn't mattered where we lived.

Sin City was our final move. It had come a couple months before my fifteenth birthday, but we would have ended up in a new city if my mom hadn’t died a year later. It was one of those wrong place at the wrong time tragedies I always read about but didn’t think would happen to us—she’d forgotten her credit cards at home and when she went into the convenience store to pay for gas, she walked into a robbery that had already turned deadly.

She was killed. And so was that team of ours that was my world.

With my mother's entire family in Ukraine, and relatively unknown to me, I’d stuck around the apartment we'd shared in North Vegas and prayed the state wouldn't catch wind of me living alone. The idea of being tossed into the foster care system for two years scared the shit out of me, but I successfully avoided it. Since my mother’s death, the only time I had left Sin City, I'd returned almost immediately—nearly too broke to put food in my refrigerator and still reeling from my meeting with Margaret's attorney.

But here I was. In Los Angeles, of all places.

And even though I’d lived in Vegas far longer than anywhere else, as the early October heat beat down on the open sunroof, I realized that L.A. still
felt
like home.

Which wasn't a good thing.

There was too much attachment associated with that word.
Home
.

"Stupid, stupid girl," I scolded myself over the Black Stone Cherry song pulsing quietly through my tiny car.

Curling my fingers firmly around the black steering wheel, I turned the candy apple red Mini Cooper into the ground floor of the five-story parking garage attached to Emerson & Taylor, stopping for the attendant on duty. After gaining entrance with the temporary pass I received from human resources last week, I drove to the first free space I could find—a spot on the bottom floor, squeezed between a dented Nissan Juke and a glossy yellow Corvette. As I exited the car, my body trembled like a leaf inside the high-waist beige pencil skirt and tucked-in white blouse I'd confidently donned earlier this morning.

God, I was in over my head.

It was one thing to let Pen hack Emerson & Taylor's security system and get me far enough into the hiring process that they absolutely had to call me in for the job, but it was an entirely different matter to present false identification to the human resources department that would corroborate my new identity.

And yet, I was seconds away from prancing my ass into that building to do just that. No wonder Pen had driven here from Vegas. She probably wanted to make sure I wouldn't have a nervous breakdown that would implicate us both.

I pressed the lock button on the circular key fob with so much force I was surprised it didn't jam. "When this is all over, I'm so getting her that new laptop she won't shut up about." Squaring my shoulders, I dropped my keys into my secondhand black Prada bag and followed the white arrows on the concrete floor.

This is going to be simple
, I promised myself as I stepped inside the elevator and punched the starred button.
I just have to be smart.

"Hey, do you mind?" a slightly accented, feminine voice yelled out, and I reached my hand out to keep the elevator doors from shutting. Several seconds later, a woman no taller than my five-foot-four rushed inside, her caramel skin flushed. She was balancing two drink carriers and a neon pink box emanating a delicious aroma that did a number on my empty stomach.

Tilting her head back, she shook her bouncy, jet-black curls out and rested in the corner of the elevator to catch her breath. "You're a lifesaver," she thanked me as the doors silently closed and we started to move up to the lobby. "I didn't remember it was my turn to bring coffee until twenty minutes ago when I was already at my desk."

“So you rushed out to get them?”

“Like an idiot,” she laughed, tapping one of her feet, which were clad in strappy, red patent leather wedged sandals. “Nearly twisted my ankle running around in these things.”

I frowned. "Need some help?"

Lowering her head, she stared me down with dark, almost black, eyes. She blinked a couple times before moving her head to either side and releasing a throaty laugh that oozed sensuality. "You
must
be new." I lifted both eyebrows, and she added, "Helpfulness is dead around here."

"It's my first day," I admitted. "I'm on my way up to HR now."

She snorted. "Figures."  As she held the box out to me, I stepped closer to take it. "Stay golden, okay? This place will suck the life out of you," she advised.

Smiling at the reference to one of the books my mother and I had shared a mutual love for, I followed behind her as she departed the elevator car and stepped into the open lobby.

I had vague memories of coming to this place as a child, but I remembered being just as stunned by it then, too. With its gleaming black granite flooring, tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, and three-tier chandeliers hanging strategically overhead, the main floor of Emerson & Taylor was a carefully orchestrated medley of modern sophistication.

On the lobby walls, there were photos of Emerson & Taylor models from throughout the years, and I knew that if I turned to my left, I’d come face-to-face with a massive picture of my mother.

In spite of the severe black and white camera setting, her personality had shined through, thanks to her smooched lips and the flirtatious wink of her brown eyes. She was younger than me in the photo, with her dark hair in waves around her strikingly symmetrical face as she displayed a slinky white sundress. I’d first noticed the picture when I came in here a week and a half ago, and it had taken everything out of me not to walk right up to it and stare.

"It can be a tad overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it." My companion broke through my thoughts, and I twisted to see the centerpiece of the fountain in the middle of the lobby, a massive marble replica of Emerson & Taylor's circular logo.

"Good to know." We stopped behind the line at the security check-in, and I looked in her direction. "I'm”—I sucked in a little breath before I followed through with the lie—“Lizzie Connelly, by the way"

"Stella Marchand."

When I first started escorting, I'd worked at an agency with a woman who had the same surname, and my smiled deepened as I finally placed her accent. "Trinidad?"

Dark eyes widening in surprise, she nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Lived there until I was four, then we moved to Brooklyn. And then I came ...
here
." She paused when it was her turn to check in, setting the coffee on top of the C-shaped desk to dig around in her Burberry satchel. Producing a rectangular badge, she handed it to the uniformed security officer on duty. He was an older, balding man—and entirely different than the guard who was on shift when I was in the office two weeks ago. After he checked her ID, Stella smiled sweetly.

"Carl, do me a favor and check her in as a guest. Lizzie Connelly."

Carl scanned his eyes over me, his scrutiny enough to make me dip my eyes to the floor. "I actually have an appointment with Dora in HR this morning," I announced. "I'm Mrs. Emerson's new assistant." Before he could ask for it, I reached inside my own purse to withdraw my false ID, not missing the little noise Stella made in the back of her throat. Handing Carl my license, I shot her a questioning look to which she mouthed, “
Later
.”

After adding my name to his digital log, Carl returned my ID and stared pointedly at Stella. "You know I'm supposed to call HR down to escort her if—"

She cut him off with a swift shake of her head. "Relax, I promise she'll get there without making a fuss." Plucking a coffee from one of the cup holders, she slid the offering in front of the guard with a wink. "Go on, take it. Three creams and sugars, just how you like it."

Releasing a sound of submission, he motioned for us to pass through. "You sure as hell know the way to my heart."

Stella threw her head back and laughed, then carefully scooped up the rest of the coffee. "See you later, Carl."

"Thanks," I said, catching up beside her in the wide hall. There were three elevators on either side, and after looking up to examine their current positions, Stella opted for the cars on the right. "I've got to admit, I felt like I was back in sixth grade when I had to be escorted around when I met with Dora last week."

"You drink?"

That was random. My shoulders crept up as we shuffled through the open elevator doors along with a few other people. "Occasionally. I'm guessing this has something to do with—"

Her smile taut, her eyes darted to the other occupants of the elevator. "We'll have to do drinks one night." Stepping out onto the fourth floor, she jerked her head for me to follow her. "The stories I could tell you."

"It's a date," I blurted, even though I’d made a goal not to become attached to any of my co-workers during my time at Emerson & Taylor. I would use them for information, but that was it. Already, I could tell Stella was someone I’d honestly enjoy being around. The thought of becoming genuinely close to anyone who knew me as
Lizzie
terrified me just as much as thinking of Los Angeles as
home
.

And yet, I was still chomping at the bit to hear those stories Stella alluded to. "You're paying,” I told her.

“You got it." She deposited the coffee on the desk of a woman who was in the middle of a call, and I followed suit with the box of pastries. Grabbing something from the corner of the desk, Stella crooked her finger at me. "Come on, I'll take you to HR."

She waited until we were back inside the elevator, on our way down to the second floor, to hand me what she grabbed from the desk—a matte silver business card boasting Emerson & Taylor's logo with Stella's name and job title,
Marketing Manager
, along with her extension and email address. "You
could
call Claire, the receptionist downstairs, and she'd put you right through, but this makes it easier."

"Thank you for making me feel less like the new kid. I mean that, Stella.”

The doors slid open, and she sashayed into the human resources lobby—a smaller, less luxurious, carpeted version of the main lobby downstairs. Her glossy lips were curled into a grin when she gazed back at me. "We were all new once, baby. Plus, I think it's only fair to prepare you for the crazy mess that's Emerson & Taylor." She flashed her dark eyes to the short row of black leather armchairs. "I'll let them know you're here, but Dora's usually quick if she’s already expecting you.”

I sat in the seat closest to Dora’s office and watched as Stella leaned over the receptionist's desk. Although I tried, I couldn't make out a word of what they were saying. The only thing I—and probably the rest of this floor—could hear was all the commotion drifting from behind the HR director's closed door. It was incredibly loud and definitely belonged to a woman and a man.

When I heard the female forcefully say, "Get out of my office, Oliver," shock flared through me.

Oliver
?

It couldn’t be.

I tried to convince myself that it could be another Oliver, but the odds were certainly not in my favor. The door crept open, each inch seeming to take a lifetime. Even though he was still turned toward her, I had a clear view of his back. Sure, it was completely covered by a crisp, white shirt, but the tight muscles beneath the impeccable stitches sent my imagination into overdrive. He had one of those backs—the type women could picture dragging their fingernails down. A little too unabashedly, I allowed my eyes to wander over the rest of his towering form.

Medium-length, light brown bed hair, an ass that competed with his toned back, and long legs inside tailored black dress pants.

Curiosity would be my undoing, I was sure of it.

"Next time, Isadora," Oliver began in a husky voice that held a note of laughter. "Don't ask me down here if you're just going to—"

"I won’t because you don’t even work here," Dora growled from inside her office. "So get the fuck out!"

"God, the professionalism..." His broad shoulders shaking, he turned around and entered the lobby, looking both devilishly gorgeous and completely relaxed in spite of his obvious argument with Dora. When he noticed Stella and the HR receptionist gaping at him, he stopped short.

And then, he smirked. It was a cocky, deliciously sexy turn of his lips that had me gripping my bag to my chest like it would ward him off from casting his spell on me. Smiles like Oliver's...they were dangerous—they were the ones that shattered the resolve of even the most cautious, and I clearly wasn’t cautious.

"Good morning," he drawled, inclining his head politely. Noticing me, he tipped his head once more in my direction. When he lifted his chin and our eyes locked, a flash of lightning struck me full force—a current to my heart that stole the breath right from the flames consuming my body.

Blue eyes.

Somehow, the media hadn’t done his eyes—cornflower blue fringed with sooty black lashes—justice. They were set in an oval face, bisected with a slightly crooked nose, and rivaled only by lips that were—I hated to admit—distractingly pouty.

It was a face that, paired with his godlike physique and ADHD dating habits, had magazines and entertainment networks calling him "
The Bad Boy Next Door."