Page 10 of Peasants and Kings
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “She’ll see you on Monday, which means I have a day to get you ready.”
I looked at her warily. “Get me ready?”
“Yeah. You didn’t think I would send you into the lion’s den without any weapons, did you?”
“Lion’s den?”
“You’re beautiful, Sterling. You’re smart, you speak two languages fluently—”
“Three,” I corrected.
She frowned. “Italian, English, and what else?”
“French.”
“Okay, that’s new.”
“There wasn’t a lot to do this past year while I was trying to remain under the radar.”
“So, you used your time to learn another language. Sure, yeah. Because everyone does that.”
“I’m not like everyone else. I wish I was,” I said, staring over her shoulder to the window. Bright sunshine poured through the glass. “I just wanted normal. That’s all I ever wanted to be. Instead, I have this—legacy—I have to contend with.”
“Normal is overrated.”
“It would’ve been nice to have had a choice, you know? Instead, my mother’s history is dictating my present and my future.” I shook my head. “Okay, enough with the feeling sorry for myself. That won’t help. Can we go back to what you said about having to get me ready?”
“You’ve got the goods, but the packaging doesn’t do anything for you.”
“I don’t know what any of that means.”
“No offense, but your wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired. And your nails…” She shook her head. “Your hair is pure luxury, but you’ve neglected the hell out of it. You’ve got towowher.”
“Wow her,” I repeated dumbly.
“The Rex is a glamorous hotel. You can’t walk in there looking anything less than your best. Doesn’t matter if you’re a server in the Bar and Restaurant, a concierge, or a maid. You have to look your best because The Rex expects the best.”
I sighed. “I know beggars can’t be choosers, but I’d love nothing more than a job that lets me blend in, sit behind a desk, and stare at a computer all day long.”
She looked at her watch, a dainty little piece. “Can you be ready to go in an hour?”
“Go? Go where?”
“I have a dress fitting at Folson’s.”
“Folson’s?” I asked in surprise. “A dress fitting?”
“There’s a corporate event I have to go to,” she said breezily.
“I don’t have nice enough clothes to get me through the front door of Folson’s,” I said to her, looking down at my worn-in-the-seat jeans and threadbare shirt.
She waved away my objections. “I’ve got a dress that will fit you.”
“I’m three inches shorter than you, Tiff,” I said dryly.
“It hits me mid-thigh. The length on you won’t be an issue.”
