That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (9 page)

Her stomach did another backflip.

"Dana?"

She looked up to find Nancy, the head of HR, standing in front of her. She wore a dull suit that looked like it was stolen from an accountant's closet, with her hair in the tightest bun ever. Dana reached up and rubbed her own head in sympathy.

"I'll take you back," Nancy said with a faint smile.

"Okay," she said brightly to make up for Nancy's stiffness. Wasn't someone in HR hired to relate to people?

It’s okay
, Dana repeated to herself. She'd be done with this, and that'd be that.

Except with every step, the feeling of foreboding increased, and when she saw they were headed to the center conference room instead of Nancy's office, she knew something was wrong.

She hated this conference room. It was like a fishbowl in the center of the office building. It was the most uncomfortable, sterile room ever. Whenever she'd been booked to have a meeting there, she'd always convinced everyone to go to a café outside of the office.

And if she hadn't known something was wrong before, she knew it when she saw the suit sitting in the office, head bent over his papers.

Legal, she decided instantly. After Kevin, she could spot a lawyer at a hundred paces.

Granted, this one looked really nice in his suit, but she probably thought that because he'd taken the jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Kevin would never have done that. Plus, this man had
Harry Potter
glasses. The twelve-year-old girl inside her had a thing for Harry Potter since the first movie. It was like meeting him in grown-up form.

Totally hot.

Where had he been all this time? She'd never seen him before. It wasn't the biggest company ever—she should have run into him at some point. But it was probably for the best, because then she might have been tempted to break her no-fraternizing rule. It wasn't difficult to imagine cornering him in a supply closet and asking him to show her his magic wand.

But why was he here now?

She needed to calm down; he was likely there to make sure all the T's and I's were crossed and dotted. As she sat down, she tried to joke. "Thank you all for coming to meet me here today."

He glanced up at her. He looked tidy with his crisp shirt and immaculate hair. From behind his glasses, he looked at her with sharp blue eyes.

She kept her back straight, even though she wanted to fix her hair and put on lipstick. Oh well—she'd never see him again anyway.

"We have your termination papers ready, as well as your last paycheck," Nancy said as she sat primly on a chair.

Dana stilled. "And my bonus, right?"

"I'll take over," the suit said, setting his pen down.

His pen was a Montblanc. She recognized it because Kevin had one, too. They probably handed them out after the Bar. "Who are you exactly?" she asked him.

"Scott Cleary, head of legal."

Nailed it. Not that she was happy about it.

He continued, gazing at her steadily. "I realize you are here with the intent of collecting the bonus you believe was awarded to you."

"Believe?" She sat up, alarm bells going off in her head. "I don't believe; I know. I
earned
that bonus."

"Technically, no, you didn't." He shuffled some papers. "The deal hasn't closed yet."

She felt like all of the blood was draining from her body. "But—but it was all set. I put everything in place, and the only thing left was the client signing it. Which they did this week."

"Actually, they haven't yet," Nancy said.

"What? Did something go wrong?" Dana glanced at Scott. The look on his face gave her the answer with sudden clarity, and she gasped. "You stalled the deal until after I signed my termination papers, so you could keep my bonus."

His expression was blank, and behind his lenses she saw regret. But then he said, "Since the deal hasn't been signed, it doesn't count."

"
Doesn't count
!" she exclaimed. Scooting to the edge of her seat, she pointed a finger at him. "And I didn't
leave
, I was fired. For no good reason except the company needed to save money."

Nancy cleared her throat. "I think if we—"

"If you think you can manage me, you're mistaken," she said. Then she faced Scott. "I
earned
that bonus. The only reason the contract isn't signed yet is because you want to keep my bonus."

Scott frowned. "I don't."

Whatever. She waved her hand. "It was promised to me when I started, and I'm not going to let you pat me on the head and send me off."

"What are you going to do?" Scott asked. "WL&W has deeper pockets than you do. If you take us to court, you'll lose simply based on the fact that you won't be able to afford the fight."

She glared at him. "I take back all the nice thoughts I had about you."

He faced her, looking at her like he was seeing her anew. "What nice thoughts?"

Nancy cleared her throat again. "Maybe we can just sign these papers and get on with our day."

"No, we can't." Dana stood up. "I'm not signing anything, not until I get the bonus owed to me."

Scott looked at her steadily. Then, without taking his gaze off her, he said, "Nancy, I'll talk to Dana. You can go ahead and get back to work."

Nancy paused, looking between the two of them. But then she stood up. "I'll be in my office should you need me."

Dana waited until Nancy was gone to square off with Scott. "Look, this is bullshit—"

"I know it is." He pushed everything away and focused on her. "Normally I don't say this, but for some reason I'm going to come clean with you. They offer that bonus as an incentive they never expect to pay out."

She blinked. "What?"

"It's a sweetheart deal that they use as a carrot on a stick. A shiny lure to get new salespeople to perform." He tapped his pen against the table. "No one ever achieves it."

"Until me," she said, finally understanding.

He nodded. "Until you."

"They were never going to pay it out." She looked at him for confirmation.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Look, I can get them to give you a little something in recompense—"

"Like throwing a dog a bone?" she asked.

He looked her in the eye. "You're no dog, and I'm just trying—"

"Don't bother." She stood up. "I can take this to a lawyer and sue."

He shook his head tiredly. "I never said anything. It'd be your word against mine. A disgruntled ex-employee versus a lawyer."

She gasped. "You're like if Harry Potter went evil. I take back every thought I had of you being hot."

He blinked. "You think I'm hot?"

"Like Satan." She narrowed her eyes, reconsidering. "No, more like one of his minions."

"Hmm."

"One of his lesser minions," she amended, picking up her bag.

Scott stood. "So you're saying if I asked you out for a drink, you'd likely show up just to throw it in my face?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Giving him the evil eye, she said, "I'll be back."

"
Hasta la vista
, baby," he said as she stormed out.

The muralist Sebastian sent finally showed up, days after his projected arrival, late in the afternoon on a wave of Giorgio Armani cologne and flamboyant color. How she could have confused Remy Savage and this man, George had no idea.

Fabio—she couldn't think of his name without a mental smirk—held his hands up in a frame as he studied the exterior of the garage. "I see what needs to be done here."

"Awesome." She folded her arms and looked, too, but she had no idea what he was seeing. "What is it?"

"Something old-school," he said instantly, nodding. "A little bit of pinup mixed with modern sensibilities."

A niggle of concern bit at her belly. "I'm not the pinup type."

"Don't worry. I've got this." He patted her arm.

She had the feeling he'd have patted her head if he could have reached it. Unfortunately for him, she was a foot taller than he was. "You think you can do a preliminary sketch for me?" she asked.

"I don't work that way." He waved his hand. "I
create
. The vision explodes from my fingertips."

"As long as the exploding vision doesn't look like puke," she murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing." She looked at him. "I have a deadline. My grand opening is coming up, so this needs to be done quickly."

"No worries." He smiled at her. "I'm going to go home and let my juices flow, and then I'll start painting."

She winced. She really didn't want to know anything about his flowing juices. "That sounds spiffy," she said with as much feeling as she could muster.

"My crew will come set up the scaffolding and the building tarp this evening."

"Building tarp?"

"To protect my work as I create, from the elements as well as prying eyes," he said as if she were five years old. He shook a finger at her. "No peeking until I'm ready."

Her unease ratcheted up another couple levels. "But—"

"It's going to be divine," he cut her off. He puckered his fingers and kissed the tips. "And then you'll sing my name from the rooftops."

Before she could blink, he flicked his hand and sashayed away. She watched the sway of his hips and wondered what she'd just agreed to.

Trust Sebastian,
she thought. She nodded. Sebastian had her back; he'd never steer her wrong. If he said Fabio—smirk—was the shit, then the guy really was.

She strode into the garage to work while she waited for the new furniture to arrive. Just the furniture—not Remy Savage.

Nor would she check the doorway every two seconds to see if he was there, watching her with his wounded eyes and asking her to tango.

George went into her office and changed the music to '80s hair bands.
Take that, Remy Savage
.

Then the day went bad. The delivery company called: the shipment was delayed. And then the new Nespresso machine Sebastian had given her wouldn't work even though he assured her it was easy. The music annoyed the hell out of her, and the part she needed for her Black Shadow was held up somewhere in transit.

At the peak of her frustration, a customer came in to pick up his car and was a total jerk. But still there was no Remy Savage.

"Just as well," she muttered as she filed paperwork in her office. Men were assholes. Or at least one particular tall, dark, and gorgeous one was.

"I'm headed home, 'kay?" Alex's voice said from the divide between her office and the work bay.

She grunted, not wanting to say
Good,
or
Buzz off already
, which was how she really felt. But it wasn't his fault nothing was going right today.

Sometimes running a garage was overrated. "Sometimes" was more often than not lately.

"I'm almost done with the Ford," he continued, obviously not picking up on her mood. "I'm going to take it for a test drive tomorrow, unless you'd like to."