He rolled his eyes. “That’s ourcompany’smotto.”
“Well”—she shrugged and stared at us like an innocent, wide-eyed doe in her Tiffany blue designer dress—“shouldn’t we try to live by your company’s standards?”
The stars in his ocean blue eyes and the smirk that people rarely saw from the CEO had one of the salesladies sighing.
I rolled my eyes instead. “I’m not wearing anything over your shoulder.”
Rome ambled over to me, and his eyes trailed up and down my body. I felt the heat in his stare as he took in my attire. All black, cut at the sleeves, ripped dark jeans, and lettering across my chest that said “I’m not interested.”
“New store, Kate-Bait?”
“I don’t know why we’re here in the first place.”
“We needed to establish security. They’re in place up and down the streets now. And”—he turned to the saleslady—“she needs new stilettos with some support and comfort.”
“Not possible,” Brey, Vick, and I mumbled at the same time.
The saleslady wasn’t paying attention to anything he really said, though. Her gaze had focused on his mouth, his full lips, his straight teeth, and that dark stare that held most women hostage. “I’ll call the owner. We can get a custom shoe made. I’m happy to assist in any way I can.”
“She’s happy to assist, all right,” Vick mumbled, but she couldn’t have whispered even if she was in that movie where they had to be quiet the whole time in order to survive.
The saleslady returned only a few seconds later, and her walk was catlike, trying to lure every one of our men in the store to look at her. If it hadn’t been for me, she’d have sunk her claws into Rome the second he walked in. She placed her hand on his forearm when she got close enough to him, like I wasn’t there.
Or like I was trash.
She thought that because I wore clothes that were beneath her boutique and didn’t perk up at the silk on her hangers, I could be ignored. She thought that because I checked the price tags, I didn’t have the money to spare on them.
She leaned in close to Rome, and I saw his jaw tick as he crossed his arms. “Could I have your number, please? The owner will call you with the designer on the line to see exactly what’s—”
I held up my hand to stop him from responding. He wanted her attention about as much as I wanted her giving it. But I got to handle this confrontation; I wanted it. “I need the shoes. Would you like my number?”
“Your number?” she squeaked, like she’d forgotten all about me. “Oh, I think it’s better if the owner talks to the one who’s buying.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You think I’m not buying my own shit?”
Rome draped his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t disrespect my woman. Call the owner and give me the phone.”
She glanced around, her hand now a little shaky, but she dialed the number. “Yes, hi. A customer would like to speak with you.” She nodded and then handed over the phone.
Rome turned with me toward the door and exchanged smirks with the Stonewoods. We still had anonymity. They didn’t. They knew what was about to happen, though.
“It’s Rome.” His voice rumbled into the phone. “I didn’t think it was necessary to let you know I was coming in.”
He paused. “Next time I will. My girl needs shoes and she only wears stilettos and combat boots.”
“I wear flats sometimes.” I never really did. Not anymore. It was either combat boots or stilettos now. Probably boots for the rest of my pregnancy.
“What size?” Rome asked me.
“Size 7.”
“She likes red bottoms. I have a few more requests, so tell your designer to call me.”
He waited again, and I figured the owner was telling him to go to hell. No one was getting that designer on the phone. We all knew who he was.
“Of course I know who he is. Tell him who I am and have him call me. She needs boots too, ones that go up her leg to hide the ratty socks she wears underneath.”
I smiled at his ridiculous request. When he hung up, he handed the phone to the woman whose eyes were now wide with fear. “Thank you for your customer service today.”