Page 17 of By A Thread
“Thanks, Ruth.”
“Good luck! I’ll see you at lunch.”
If I survived that long.
* * *
I found the office—andthe two assistants, only one of whom looked terrified—without needing to ask for directions. Which was good because everyone I passed in the hallway looked like they were running off to war. There was an urgency that permeated the entire floor. People seemed on edge.
Or I was overanalyzing everything, and this was a typical office environment.Labelwas a big business, and that meant a lot of money, power, and influence. Also, probably a high instance of stomach ulcers.
“Hi. I’m Ally,” I said, startling the closest assistant into nearly falling out of his chair. He caught himself but sent a pen cup flying.
He clutched at his chest. “Holy macaroni.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Johan,” the second assistant complained. “You knew the front desk was sending someone back here.” She stood while the Jumpy McJumperson scrambled to pick up his pens.
“I’m Gina,” she said. “You can come with me.”
She led the way into the glass-walled inner sanctum behind her.
Dalessandra Russo stood behind a sleek worktable with bowed metal legs in a blue so deep it was almost black. The walls were papered in some exquisite fern and leaf pattern in soft creams and greens. Silver framed photos of the woman in question with celebrities and other important-looking people were hung in a pattern too pleasing to the eye to be accidental.
She and a thin, bespectacled man were studying something on her desk.
Dalessandra looked up over delicate reading glasses. Her dress was an ivory and sterling knit wrap dress with long sleeves that played off her gray hair. Her necklace was what someone more educated in fashion would probably call a statement piece, a thick gold bar with tiny gemstones sprinkled over it.
If I wore something like that, I’d chip a tooth hitting myself in the face the first time I bent over.
“Ally. So happy you could join us today,” she said.
“I’m happy to be here,” I said warily.
I was still waiting for the “I’ve changed my mind” conversation.
“Ally—what is your last name?” she asked.
That got the attention of the man beside her. He looked up, puzzled.
“Morales,” I said.
“Ally Morales, meet our production manager, Linus Feldman.”
Linus gave me the once-over, and I knew he was wondering what the chick in the thrift store skirt was doing in Dalessandra Russo’s office.
“Hi,” I said.
Linus was short, slight, black, and—from the heights his cute, furry eyebrows climbed—a teensy bit on the judgmental side.
I couldn’t fault him. I had no idea what I was doing here either.
“Hello.” He drew out the word like he was waiting for an explanation.
“Ally is joining our admin pool,” Dalessandra said.
Whew. Okay. There really was a job after all.
Linus looked relieved by that explanation too.
