“She has date nights,” Holly says.
I blink. “What?”
“With Dale sometimes. Sometimes with Sebastian. And sometimes with Ray.”
I stop walking and clutch the sign to my chest. “Oh god, Holly. My heart can’t cope with this.”
She laughs. “I know. Underneath all the grumpy and terrifying, he’s actually ridiculously sweet.”
“But still terrifying,” I mutter.
“Oh, definitely.”
She glances at the neon sign in my hand and smirks. “You know he’s going to hate that, right?”
I grin and drop it into the basket. “Yeah, I’ve noticed he’s very into his beige, grey, and moody-man aesthetic.” I glance down at the bright pink sign. “But if I was stuck in bed all day, I’d want colour. Lots of it.”
By lunchtime, we’re tired, starving, and weighed down by far too many shopping bags.
Well, Holly and I aren’t weighed down. Ray sent one of his men to carry them.
I was completely gobsmacked when he appeared out of nowhere outside the third shop and started taking bags from ourhands like some kind of luxury pack mule, but Holly acted like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Now, she’s handing over yet another glossy bag without a shred of guilt while the poor man trudges back towards the car to dump them.
“Ray specifically told me we had to go for lunch at one of his bars,” she says.
“One of?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
She laughs. “He’s got a few. But he texted to say he’s booked us into his favourite.”
My stomach twists with unease, wondering if he’s treating us differently to any other employee.
A few minutes later, Holly steers me towards Green’s, a cocktail bar I’ve walked past more times than I can count, and never once dared step inside. From the outside alone it screams money. The sort of place where women glide in wearing heels that cost more than my old monthly rent, and men that wear watches worth a small house deposit.
The windows gleam. The brass fittings shine. Even the people inside look expensive.
I slow on the pavement.
“Holly . . .”
She hooks her arm through mine and keeps walking. “Don’t start, they’ll smell your fear.”
The moment we step inside, I feel it. That shift in the air.
The warm, low-lit glamour of the place should feel inviting, but instead it feels like every polished surface is reflecting back the same message—you don’t belong here.
At the front desk stands a woman in black. She’s perfectly tailored and perfectly groomed, with the kind of expression that suggests smiling is beneath her.
Her eyes sweep over us. Not warmly but assessing.Dismissing.
“Can I help you?” she asks, in a tone that suggests the answer should probably be no.
I instantly want to leave. Holly, of course, doesn’t even blink.
“We have a reservation,” she says pleasantly.
The woman’s gaze lingers on my outfit, then my shoes.