Page 228 of Love Me Stalk Me
Just a simple press of lips, a quiet acknowledgment.
When we crawl back into bed, she curls into my side, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. As she drifts off, she mumbles, "I can't wait to meet him."
And for the first time in a long, long time...
I fall asleep.
THIS IS NOT IN THE EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK
IZZY
Back in manager mode.It clicks into place easily, familiar and steadying. The rhythm of schedules, meetings, and check-ins gives me something to hold onto, a structure that keeps everything else at bay. The week off was necessary—forced, really—but being back at the store feels right. Messy, busy, full of problems to solve. But it'smine. And I’ve missed the chaos more than I want to admit.
The familiarity of it all soothes something raw inside me. The gleam of polished marble floors under carefully positioned lighting. The subtle scent of the store's signature fragrance wafting through the air conditioning. The quiet hum of exclusive clientele browsing through racks worth more than my monthly salary. This is my domain, my carefully curated world where I know exactly who I am and what I'm worth.
At least Amanda seems to have laid the groundwork for my return. Because if people do know about what happened with Evan—the arrest, the charges, the humiliating police statements—they're not saying a word about it. There are no pitying looks when I pass by, no awkward condolences whispered as I approach, no hushed conversations that suddenly stop when I enter a room.
Just business as usual.
And for that?
I owe her a very large bottle of tequila. Possibly two.
The click of heels announces her arrival before I see her. Amanda waltzes into my office with her usual dramatic flair, her tall frame adorned in a black pencil skirt and fuchsia blouse that somehow manages to look both professional and slightly dangerous. She's holding her tablet against her chest.
"Good morning, boss lady," she says as she drops into the chair across from my desk. She settles in, crossing her legs and raising an eyebrow at me.
I smile. "Is it though?"
She grins, a flash of perfect white teeth against crimsonlips. "We'll see."
I straighten in my chair, adjusting my posture from exhausted to professional in one practiced movement. I glance at the daily schedule she's pulled up on her tablet, the screen glowing with color-coded appointments, deliveries, and staff rotations.
"So what's the damage today?" I ask, bracing myself for whatever retail nightmare awaits me. In this business, catastrophe is always lurking just around the corner—a delayed shipment, a difficult client, a staff member calling in sick at the worst possible moment.
"Well, our VIP shoppers will be here soon," Amanda says, scrolling through her tablet with perfectly manicured nails. "They booked a private shopping experience for their entire group, and we're fully staffed for it." She looks up, her expression reassuring. "No major hiccups this morning—yet."
I scan the list of names attached to the booking, my eyes narrowing as I recognize a few. These aren't just any VIPs—they're the type who expect the world to bend around them, who treat retail workers like servants rather than professionals. The type who demand the manager, not because they need one, but because they can.
Just what I need on my first day back.
"Great," I mutter, setting the tablet down on my desk with a soft thud. "They're totally going to ask for me."
Amanda’s eyes twinkle with mischief. "Obviously. Who wouldn't want the Izzy Russo experience?"
I shoot her a glare that would wither most people, but Amanda just absorbs it like sunlight. "Be serious."
She shrugs, flipping her tablet shut with a decisive click. "I'm sure you can handle them." Her voice softens, takes on a teasing edge. "Cal's been giving you lessons, hasn't he?"
My body responds instinctively to his name—a subtle warmth spreading through me, a quickening of pulse that I hope isn't visible on my face. I roll my eyes, my lips twitching despite my best efforts to maintain my professional façade. "And what exactly are you implying?"
She leans forward, elbows on her knees, her entire posture a physical manifestation of gossip about to be shared. "Oh, nothing," she drawls, drawing out the word like taffy. "Just that you seem… different."
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how easily she reads me. "Different how?"
"More confident. More assertive. Looser."
I raise a brow, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "Looser?"
