Page 79 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

I sigh, staring at the open door. “I don’t blame you, buddy. If I had my way, I’d be shoving cake into my mouth, too.”

Even as I say the word, I feel bile crawl up to the back of my throat. I make a face of grimace and swallow hard, shoving it down. I’m not about to throw up over my hard work.

I spent hours perfecting the hors d’oeuvres selection because the host—the cake boy’s mom—was determined to throw a party so flawless that people would leave raving about her impeccable taste.

Correction:myimpeccable taste.

I decorated the house, baked the cakes, and painstakingly assembled the cranberry crostinis, which she insisted would be done unconventionally.

“Who cares about praise?” I mutter, dragging my exhausted body into a chair and plopping down. “As long as the check clears, I’m happy.”

It doesn’t matter that I had to bite my tongue through her endless critiques. Or that I fought the urge to remind her that I’ve worked for the Cross family—one of the most powerful names in the city—and even they weren’t this impossible to please.

Cake boy pops his head into the kitchen minutes later, this time with a disgruntled frown. “My mom says she’s not paying you to do things…” he rubs his hair as he tries to remember, “in your own time.”

He’s gone again, but I don’t even bother to chase after him with a response.

“Time to get to work, Natalie. Put on your best smile, act like you’re happy to be here, and make your exit.”

I inhale deeply, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on me. I push myself off the chair, hoping that the sudden movement will spark some much-needed energy.

But as I stand, my vision blurs, and my knees betray me, buckling beneath me. My hand shoots out to steady myself, but it finds nothing. I feel the surreal moment stretch before me as I watch my body tip over, helpless to stop it. In what feels like slow motion, my face crashes into the floor.

Everything goes black.

When I come to, I’m lying on the floor in a room full of people with an endless number of eyes staring at me.

It takes a moment for the embarrassment to kick in—it floods my face with enough heat to awaken a dormant volcano. I stagger to my feet, wincing and barreling through the pain that shoots through my body at the motion.

“I’m sorry,” I lower my head, too mortified to face them. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Mean to what? Collapse? Kiss the floor and turn the lights out? Or disappoint my client who’s staring daggers at me? I don’t have to see her face to know that she’s giving me a lethal glare.

“Are you okay, darling?” I hear a compassionate voice from the throng. Footsteps approach me, and I see a pair of stilettos. Swallowing my shame and clinging to her empathy, I lift my head slightly.

“You should go see a doctor,” she adds, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You have a nasty bump on your forehead.”

I shake my head firmly, dismissing her worry. My voice cracks. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be fine.” From the corner of my eye, I see the client. Her mouth is set in an angry line, and she’s mouthing the words, “get out.”

Right.

Right. I should leave.

Without another word, I turn around and retreat to the kitchen, mumbling something incoherent and desperate for an escape route.

***

Thirty minutes after taking the back route of the house, I find myself heading for the hospital. The gummies in my pockets are now a ruined mess—did I squish them when I fell?—and the bump is a throbbing mass of everything I can’t endure.

The cab driver drops me outside the hospital, and I walk in, patiently waiting to see a doctor. I finally get my turn, and he sits behind his weathered desk, leaning back with his white coat unbuttoned.

“How did you fall?”

I shrug. “Face down?”

He doesn’t smile. I shouldn’t have made the joke.

“I felt dizzy,” I explain. “I was working all day, and I must’ve been very tired.”

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