That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (18 page)

"What they told me, or the real reason?"

He stopped taking notes and glanced at her.

She crossed her arms. "They
said
they needed to cut back on employees and chose to let me go because I was the last person hired."

"Makes sense."

"It does
not
." She leaned forward, hands on the table. "I was the highest-performing salesperson on the team. They fired me because they'd promised me a large incentive package if I reached a certain level within a certain period of time. I had one more deal to sign, which I was going to do last week, except that they fired me."

"Hm." He scribbled some things down.

She frowned at the paper. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing." He glanced up. "So you think they fired you to avoid paying the bonus?"

"
Yes
." Finally someone understood. "They admitted it to me."

Kevin raised his brows. "No they didn't."

"Yeah, they did. Their lawyer, Scott Cleary." Who looked much hotter than Kevin did when he was taking notes. She shifted in her seat and sipped her drink, because she didn't need to think about Scott, or how he'd look taking notes shirtless, sitting up in bed.

Because she hadn't spent any time imagining that. At all.

"Their
lawyer
said that?" Setting his pen down, Kevin gaped at her. "He isn't a very good lawyer."

For some reason, Kevin speaking poorly about Scott made her want to hit him. "You don't know that."

"He told you that you were fired to avoid giving you the incentive, right?"

She shrugged, not wanting to say it.

"That's a shitty lawyer." He looked her in the eye. "So what do you want to do? Sue them for unlawful termination?"

"I just want my bonus back."

"Okay." He tucked the pen and paper back in his coat pocket.

She blinked. "Okay?"

"Call and set up a meeting for later this week. You can coordinate with my assistant. I'll do some fact finding in the meantime so I'm ready."

She tried not to bristle at being told what to do. She'd just be grateful Kevin was willing to help her when he could have been a jerk about it. "I'll arrange it all."

"Good." He stood up. "Aren't you going to eat your cookie?"

She looked down at the oatmeal brick he'd bought her. Stifling her sigh, she wrapped it in a napkin and slipped it into her purse. "I'll have it later," she lied.

George had a date tonight. A date to tango.

The tool in her hand slipped, and she scraped her knuckles on the engine. "Damn it."

"Hey."

She looked up to find Alex in the doorway, cleaning a wrench. He frowned at her, pointing the tool at her face. "You know you have grease on your forehead, right?"

"I'm a mechanic, genius." Then she winced, shaking her hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to take my mood out on you."

He arched his brow but didn't comment. Instead he said, "I'll take over here. Go work on your Black Shadow."

"I don't have the part I need," she mumbled, feeling pouty.

"Yeah, you do." He shrugged at her inquiring look. "I saw the design on your desk, and I crafted a new tailpipe."

She gaped at him. "What?"

"Sorry I snooped." He didn't sound sorry at all. "Those alterations you made to the body were nice, so I went ahead and custom-built the first piece. I set it by the motorcycle. I'll finish this."

She dropped everything and went to check out what Alex had done.

It was beautiful—just like she'd seen it in her mind's eye. She picked up the tailpipe and turned it over in her hands. It was skillfully crafted, perfectly smooth and even in its curves. Lightweight. It felt right in her hands.

She looked at the motorcycle. Poppy would have been shaking his head and telling her not to do it.

But Poppy wasn't here, and this was her only recourse. "The existing piece is too battered to restore," she murmured as if he were listening. "It'd make the bike look dingy and old."

Not wanting to think about it, she began to disassemble the piece. She replaced it with the new one Alex had crafted and sat back to look at the lines.

Better, she decided. But it needed more in the back. Right now, the motorcycle looked like a chesty woman—she needed her backside rounded out to make her balanced.

Hopping up, George went to her office to grab a pen and paper. She pushed aside the shoes and the red dress, which she'd set out so she'd remember to take them home—she growled at the thought—to make room for herself. She was doodling how she was going to augment the Black Shadow when she heard someone knock on her window. "Excuse me. George?"

She glanced up to find Dolores's niece Michelle standing in the doorway. "Yeah?"

The woman edged in, hesitant. "I was having trouble with Dolores's car, and I remembered you said you worked on it."

"I'm a mechanic," she said, as if it wasn't obvious.

Michelle frowned, and then darted straight to the desk. "What were you thinking?" she asked, her voice high-pitched with horror.

George stepped back. Dolores had been eccentric, but she'd never shown any signs of insanity that might be hereditary. "What?"

"This." Reverently, she held the red dress up. "Do you know what this is?"

"A dress?" George asked. Was this a trick question?

"It's a Dahlia Marks design." She glared at George. "You don't disrespect Dahlia."

"Oo-kay." She looked up, wondering if Alex was close enough to come help if this chick snapped.

"I don't think you understand, so I'm going to tell you." Michelle stepped closer. "This dress will transform you. It'll make you a queen. However you came by it, it was meant to be, even if it doesn't really seem your style."

George made a face, thinking of Siobhan.

Michelle shook her head. "Don't even go there."

George blinked. "Have you been hanging out with Esme?"

"I don't have to be a psychic to know this dress is going to fit perfectly," Michelle declared, draping it carefully across the desk as though it were precious. "That's my expert opinion."

"You're an expert on this brand?"

"I'm an expert on all clothing. I used to be a designer." She wilted a little in sadness. "But now I'm in real estate."

"Does that make sense?"

"It does if you're my Aunt Marjorie. So?"

George shook her head. "So . . . ?"

"Can you take a look at Dolores's car? I need it since I have to take buyers all over to show houses," she said, sounding miserable.

The car was in perfect condition for being so old. Dolores just hadn't driven it enough. "It probably just needs a jump. I'll come over tomorrow."

"Great. I appreciate it," Michelle said, drooping in relief. Hesitating, she bit her lip as though not sure what to say. "Do you have an idea of how much it'll cost?"

The worry etched around her mouth told George how strapped she was, and that soft part of her chest that she hated pinged. "Listen, maybe we can trade something," she heard herself murmur.

Michelle's head popped up. "Trade?"

It killed her, but she couldn't keep herself from saying, "Yeah. Barter. Instead of paying me, you could just give me something."

"Give you something," Michelle repeated. Then she smiled wide. "I can do that."

George shrugged and ducked her head. She used to do it for Dolores, too, because the old woman was on a fixed income. It wasn't a big deal.

"Thank you," Michelle said. She turned to leave but then stopped. "That dress really is going to be sexy on you, despite your misgivings. Whoever you wear it for won't be able to resist you."

That
was supposed to make her feel good? George scowled after the woman, wondering who pissed her off more: Michelle for pointing that out, or her mother for sending her the cursed dress.

She stuck her tongue out at it. She was positive she saw it slither.

"Alex!" she called, taking the dress and shoes. She decided not to change out of her overalls—she needed the extra protection. She went to his station. "I'm going home."

He glanced at the time. "It's only two."

"So?" She glared at him, daring him to say anything. "Can you close up?"

"Yeah. You okay?"

"Perfect."

He eyed the sea of red in her arms, and a knowing look spread across his face. "Date tonight, huh?"

She glared at him. "Don't make me hit you."

He arched his brow.

She gave him one last glare. Then she paused, shifting the shoebox in her arms. "The tailpipe you customized is perfect."

He nodded. "I just went off your design."

"Why aren't you doing body work?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I'm waiting for the right opportunity."

"You aren't looking for another gig, are you?" she asked with a frown.

"I was kind of hoping you'd think about changing the focus here."

"Me?" She looked around the shop. "What focus?"

"To a custom shop." He leaned against a worktable, watching for her reaction. "Your motorcycle would be a great advertisement. I think we'd get more work than we could handle, and it'd be more interesting than changing oil."

She couldn't argue that. "But that's not what we do."

"Not yet," he said with a lift of his brow.

She pursed her lips, resistant to the idea even as she was intrigued by it.

"Think about it." He pushed off the table. "Have fun tonight, but not too much fun."

She felt her face flush. "I'm not that kind of girl," she heard herself say, and that horrified her even more.

"What kind of girl are you?"

She scowled. "What kind of girl do
you
think I am?"

"A nice one, who deserves to have fun." He gazed at her steadily. "One who deserves to have someone look at her like she's the sun and moon all in one."

She stepped back, one breath away from hyperventilating. "It's just a casual date."

"Not if you wear that dress." He winked at her and ducked his head back into his work.

She stared down at the dress. She should burn it. But she picked it up to take home, because she was obviously a masochist. She stuffed it in her backpack, despite what Michelle would think.

The neon PSYCHIC sign caught her attention, mocking her as she left. She made a face at it, and then she walked faster to get away before Esme poked her head out the window and saw her. She didn't need any more harassment.

Four blocks away, she relaxed, knowing she'd made it. She was about to cross the street when she heard a sunny voice call out. "George!"

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. She waved over her shoulder and walked faster. "Don't have time, Esme."

She thought she was in the clear when, suddenly, she heard shoes slapping the pavement.

Esme ran next to her, red-faced and out of breath, but she still looked happy and bright.