Page 2 of Acquiring Ainsley
Brooke’s eyes widened.
“It will be an interview about the new line, my style, and various other fashion tips.” I grinned. “I don’t have to tell you that I said yes.”
“No one ever says no toPalm Beach Today.” Brooke glanced down at her empty glass. “Too bad we have nothing to toast this good news with.”
My phone vibrated on the glass table in front of us. It rang a few times; I disregarded it, and we kept talking about mindless gossip. Then another call came in on the device. I still chose to ignore it and enjoyed the last bit of conversation with my friend. By then, the waitress had returned to us. She held a silver tray with my credit card, and the bill on top.
“Miss, I need to talk with you.” She shifted her eyes toward Brooke and then back to me, not placing the closed check in front of us. “Right now,” the woman said, her voice level directive, almost stern.
“About what?”
She bit her bottom lip and flickered her gaze over the other patrons in the restaurant. “Uh… Perhaps we should step outside the dining room and have a chat there.”
“Why?” I placed my purse on the tabletop, and as I did, the phone rang again. “Wow, I’m sorry. Let me see who this is. Whoever is trying to call won’t stop.” I grabbed the phone and flipped around the screen. “Oh, god… Ashton.” I punched the button to send the call to voicemail. Whatever my older brother had to say, it could wait. I smiled at the waitress. “You were saying?”
She swept another cautious look around the dining room then dragged her wide, brown stare back to me. “Well, I’m not sure that I want to do this here, but—”
“Just tell me.” I laughed to put her at ease. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Fine.” Her gaze connected with mine and, after a beat, she placed the silver tray on the table. “Do you have another credit card to cover this bill? This card has been denied.”
I sat up straighter. “D-denied?”
“Yes. To put it another way, declined.”
“Declined?”
The word sounded foreign as it stumbled across my tongue. Nothing in my life had ever been “declined.” That happened to other people, not to someone like me. I cleared my throat. “As in ‘no good?’”
“Yes, miss. Your card is not good here.”
I looked over at Brooke, and a flush of heat passed through my cheeks. “That can’t be correct. I’m sure there has been a mistake.”
The woman crossed her arms. “I swiped it ten times, and I called American Express myself. This card is no longer valid.”
No. Longer. Valid.
The words thundered in my head. Each one seemed to carry more weight than the last. I studied her embarrassed expression. The blush on her face shone a pretty shade of pink, one I might consider using in my new fashion line. Or perhaps I’d go a shade or two darker… probably about like the pink tone onmyface right now. I squirmed in my seat. I knew I was stalling, allowing my thoughts to stray to such silly, mundane points. Really, I needed to distract her—hopefully along with Brooke and the rest of the restaurant. But what was I to do? Get up while the whole room watched, step outside the dining room like the waitress had suggested, and accept this nonsense about a declined card?
Absolutely not.
“No, this must have been an honest mistake or something. What exactly do you mean?” I asked.
My mind raced with possible answers. Whatdidit mean? I’d never experienced this before, never paid attention to such terminology. Had AmEx reissued me a new card with a new account number without my knowledge? Did someone steal my identity? Had I handed the waitress my gym card by accident? What the hell?
“You can’t use this card here,” she replied in a flat voice. “In fact, you can’t use this card anywhere.”
“Excuse me?” My words rose with the question, and a man sitting on another couch near us gave me a quick look of sympathy, the kind one gave a homeless person on the street. My cheeks flushed hot again. I didn’t have cash, and this credit card had been my main source of payment for years. After all, one didn’t get an AmEx platinum andnotflash it around. That was the whole point. That card meant something. It gave a silent signal to the rest of the world: I wouldnothave received this if I didn’t have good credit, a lot of money, and the social standing to match.
“I’m sure there’s been some simple error,” Brooke offered, her words edged by the barest thread of pity.
The waitress’s gaze bounced back and forth between us. “Well, either way I need an answer—now…” Her tone had shifted into rock-hard authority, her face to stone. “We need to turn over this section over to other customers. Do you, or do you not, have another way to pay this bill?”
This was getting embarrassing. Humiliating, even. Her question had implications, and wherever this conversation was headed, it wouldn’t be good. The realization of that alone stunned me. I’d never been treated this way in Palm Beach. Never. People here catered to me—they made hundreds of dollars off my shopping, dining, and bar bills. But now, here this woman stood, practically ordering me to pay and get lost.
“I just—” I took the credit card and stared at it. “This account is nowhere near its limit. There must be…”
“I assure you, we haven’t made a mistake. We don’t make errors on things like this. It’s all done electronically and connected to the card issuer.”
