Surrender to You (4 page)

I wasn't sure how long I sat on the porch. Maybe too long for the policeman who drove by twice. On his third lap around the block, he gave me the look. I didn't exactly look like I belonged.

I frowned the whole
damn
time and I was a bit overdressed.

Before I came, I had these expectations—the whole house would smell like breakfast. That was what I always imagined. Buttermilk pancakes and warm oatmeal for the first course—I always imagined my birth parents were rich, by the way—then another course of biscuits, bacon, and ham cut up in small bite-sized pieces.

But the house was empty, clearly uninhabited. I'd taken a cab to get here, but now that I didn't have anything to show for my trip, I began to walk. Might as well save my money.

According to my smartphone, I had a good five blocks to the nearest subway entrance. Not too bad.

I should've worn running shoes and some comfortable clothes, but I'd wanted to look nice. I'd pictured myself hugging my mom wearing my best bright blue coat. She'd compliment me on the Hermès heels I'd hiked here in.

My cellphone dinged.
Did you meet them?

I cringed from Tomas's text message. Why did he have to ask? After years of silence between us, our time together last night still made my skin tingle with pleasure. I even craved the burn on my backside.

Walking through the neighborhood was bittersweet. I passed a playground and immediately wondered what it would've been like if this school had been mine. Would I have played here with friends? Would the woman I was now be different? Not that I didn't love the lifelong friends I'd made in foster care, but in my fantasies, I imagined that there was something special about childhood friends who grew up knowing each other's parents. I was just another kid who sat around waiting to be adopted. Folks would come visit my foster home and I'd smile, trying to arrange my unruly curls and wipe away freckles that had no intention of hiding.

What got me every time was my mouth. Where others were quiet and soft-spoken, I was the bold girl who outright asked people where they lived and if they had a better place than the foster home.

This particular neighborhood with its single-story colonials and fenced-in yards wasn't perfect by any means. Signs of graffiti and overgrown grass peppered things here and there, but families had barbecue grills and swing sets, and probably celebrated birthdays and good times together.

What I wouldn't give to have experienced that kind of stuff.

By the time I managed to reach the subway entrance, my feet were killing me. The trip on the Silver Line back downtown was uneventful. Almost deathly silent.

What are you gonna do now, Carlie?

Good question. I had no leads and I had no plans to connect with Tomas again. Just seeing that empty house was hard enough. My whole body throbbed at the thought of seeing Tomas. The easy thing to do would be to text him back and tell him my parents weren't there, but that opened doors I didn't want opened. Tomas and I were like that. I could still taste the liquor on his lips, smell the spicy cologne on his chest. If I closed my eyes, I could feel his pulse thrumming against my fingertips. Feel the harsh grip of his hands on my hips while he thrust into me again and again.

My thighs clenched with need, and I bit my lower lip. Being with Tomas always complicated things.

What if you really make an effort this time?
I always asked myself.

I held back a laugh. We'd both tried that and failed. When two career-driven people are forced into a relationship and have no interest in being tied down, one of them will walk away—and most likely leave the other person bitter and closed off.

The month passed much faster than I had expected. Twenty-four hours before I had to exit stage left from my hotel, I took stock of what I had on my king-sized bed: fifteen pairs of shoes, ten designer dresses, enough lingerie to open a boutique, and two pairs of jeans. I
really
had my priorities straight. My fingers ran over the delicate lace of my dark red La Perla bras. Growing up, I couldn't afford lingerie like this. Time and time again, while looking for work around Manhattan, I'd pass stores and peer inside at the pretty clothes. I had no doubt that someday I'd get what I wanted. I just had to be willing to work ten times harder than everyone else.

Now I had to let this proof of my success go to keep searching. I still had a return ticket to London sitting in my purse, but I wasn't ready to cash that in yet. I'd sacrificed so much to come here—money, control of my business, everything I'd worked for was on hold. And I needed cash.

Let them go, Carlie,
I reminded myself.
They are just things.

I opened my Michael Kors carry-on bag and started stuffing dresses and shoes inside. I already had a few upscale resale shops in mind. Might as well tear off the Band-Aid and put on my big girl panties.

After a phone call to update the temp I'd hired to run my business in London, I ventured out. Three trips later, I had enough cash for a few weeks at an extended stay hotel for business travelers in north Boston. It wasn't the suite I'd been living in. I didn't have room service or a massive tub.

I guess at least I had a bathtub and I wasn't washing up in a gas station bathroom like back in the day.

Now that I had a new home, I didn't sit on my ass though. I checked many places, from the Suffolk County property records to the Veterans Benefits Administration. None of them had any information for Frank or Patricia Hall, either. Go figure.

As the days passed, my money supply slowly went down.
Which means it's time for me to hustle.

Compared to a few of my affluent customers in the U.K., I wasn't afraid of hard work. Matter of fact, I thrived on it. Asking my friends for help was out of the question, so I checked my sources to see if anyone in my network needed an assistant for a brief period of time. A few phone calls led to nothing.

“As much as I'd love to work with you, dear, I'd need you out in California,” one said. Or they'd say Seattle or New York City, or some other location that wasn't Boston. I was hungry for work, but I'd pushed off finding my parents for too long.

Now was the time.

So I did what anyone would do when they had run out of options. I went to a temp agency. I was usually the one finding work for other people, but sometimes you gotta go find the folks who need workers. I might wear Louboutin heels once in a while, but I was never above working as a cashier, an administrative assistant, or things like that. I'd met too many overprivileged brats with their attitudes stuck so far up their asses they wouldn't survive a nuclear winter if their butler ran away.

So I went to the temp center and the interview didn't exactly go as planned.

“So I see on your resume you own a concierge company in the United Kingdom. How nice.” The lady behind the desk, who appeared to be about fifteen going on sixteen, tried to sound like she knew what she was doing.

I nodded and smiled. You should always smile. “Miss Fields, I can do anything from event planning to management of finances or errands for clients.”

“I see.” Miss Fields's bright orange cardigan made me squint a bit as she adjusted her red and green glasses. “We don't have anything in event planning, but we've had a position that keeps reopening that might fit your needs.”

Reopening?
That was never good.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She shrugged as if it was nothing. “Oh, the last temp said something about her boss being
crazy,
but I see this as a great opportunity to jump in as an assistant to someone who oversees fifty employees.”

I kept nodding.
And smiling.

She continued, “With a resume like yours, you seem like that someone who'd tackle the job with ease. You know, take the bull by the horns.”

Of course.
The bull by the horns.

“I'll see if I can get you an interview and we'll go from there,” she chirped.

Three hours later, I had a phone call and an address. Now that was fast. I had to catch the bus now since I wasn't downtown anymore and taxis were out of my budget, but the trip was nice.

With a spring in my step, and my last pair of Louboutins on, I bounded up to the building. Only to freeze in my tracks.

I was right outside a recent construction: the Goodfellow Tower Hotel.

On any other day, I would've marched right in there so I could kick some ass at the interview, but like a fool I imitated a tree on the front steps.

You need cash, Carlie. Have you ever let a man get in the way of your hustle?

Never,
I told myself firmly.

I took a step forward.

What if you see him?

I wanted to smack the shit out of myself for thinking that.

If you see him, you ignore him.
We had one night together. We got a quick screw out of our system and he was doing his thing and I was doing mine.
Like we always do.

I was closer to the building this time. With each step, I told myself I wasn't going to fold like I had in the past.

For all I knew, he was probably out of the country. He was an international hotelier and, at that moment, he was probably living it up with some snow bunnies on a slope in Switzerland. Tomas rarely hung around after we hooked up.

I'd never been here before, but if the hotel looked this amazing on the outside, the inside had to be gorgeous. Three massive letters in gold,
GTH
, sat in a fountain in the front. All of it was a testament to Tomas's wealth. You couldn't be a businessman without knowing the Goodfellows.

And I had an interview here.

After speaking with someone at the concierge desk, I took the elevator up to the second floor. As the doors snapped shut, my heart fluttered. Would I run into him?

I was filled with relief when I reached a quiet floor filled with dark-blue cubicles and modern desks. Plants peppered the corners. This was just another hotel business floor for management. I left the elevator and walked up to the reception desk.

“Are you Carlie?” the receptionist asked softly.

“That's me.”

“You must be the new victim. I'm Stephanie.”

Hint number two that this place was gonna swallow me whole.

“Welcome to the Goodfellow Tower Hotel,” Stephanie said. “Let me take you to Roland Butts. He's the chef concierge and oversees the customer relations department for our premier clientele.”

“Is that my supervisor's name?”

“Yep, and I wouldn't get it wrong if I were you,” she whispered.
“Ever.”

Stephanie led me down the corridor between the desks toward a closed-off office. The only one in the room. The leather chair for Mr. Butts's assistant sat empty and the desk had a layer of dust thick enough to resemble a blanket of snow. Not a good sign.

The door to his office was closed, so Stephanie knocked softly on the door. I barely heard a mumble from within and then the receptionist entered with me on her heels.

While the desk outside this room appeared abandoned, this room was well lived in. From one side of the narrow room to the next, the walls were covered with built-in bookcases. None of the books were casual reading materials, either. A quick glance revealed cookbooks, protocols for foreign countries, even books on basket weaving in the Maldives. My gaze flicked to the tall, bearded man sitting behind the immaculate desk. He wore a perfectly pressed navy blazer, along with an Hermès handkerchief tucked into the pocket. The guy sat straight enough to make me question my posture.

“Would you like a fresh coffee, Mr. Butts?” Stephanie asked softly.

He glanced up from his Mac computer. His perfectly manicured short fingernails were typing away. “I could've used a refill
ten minutes
ago. I got my own.”

Stephanie's smile faltered.

I stepped forward and extended my hand to end the awkward moment. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

Instead of shaking my hand, he said, “Thank you, Miss Gaines. You may leave now.”

He turned to me the moment she hightailed it out of there. “I think we should make things clear from the get-go so that there aren't any misunderstandings.”

I tried to keep looking at his face, but the way his hands hovered over the keyboard as if he was in the middle of a thought and planned to continue typing unnerved me. Wasn't I here for an interview?

Mr. Butts continued, “I expect perfection. I work with exclusive clientele and every single person who was hired to assist me was unable to tell their rear end from their mouth.”

Nice. He wasn't a bullshitter. Now this was an employer I could get behind.

He typed again for a moment, clicked the enter key, and then dabbed some lotion on his hands. Without looking, he placed the silver bottle in the
exact
spot he'd picked it up from.

This guy was no joke.

Since this was such a high-end hotel, I expected Mr. Butts to be extremely professional, but then again, if I oversaw a place like this, I wouldn't have any room for burnt ends. It had been a while since I'd worked in a hotel, but the quality of the staff was all in the hands of the management. Piss-poor management equated staff reading their cellphones instead of handling customer problems.

He stood and I waited until he moved toward the door. “Just because you've worked in both the U.S. and the U.K. doesn't mean you'd know how I expect things to be done at the Goodfellow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm not your
sir,
” he said crisply.

I was taught to respect my elders. Apparently, being a few years older than me had gone to his head.

“My apologies, Mr. Butts.”

He opened his door and I swiftly followed.
We're moving, people
. “On your resume, I noticed you're not fluent in any foreign languages.”