Lacquered Tattoo

Chapter Eight

Monroe took me to the mezzanine where an office-s***h-staff lounge was set up.

            Two desktops were sitting on desks parallel each other, with the usual swivel chairs, and there’s a kitchenette as well, about the size of my own back in my apartment, complete with a fridge and even a coffee maker.

            In the middle of the room was a small square wooden table with four matching wooden chairs with the same varnish finishing.

            I’m not particular with the types of wood but this set, like the desks, seemed heavy duty and durable. I could only guess that they’re probably mahogany because isn’t that what most hand-made wooden furniture are made of?

            “Sorry about that. Heather can be… assertive.”

            That’s one word to put it. If anything, I’d say she’s quite unwelcoming.

I gave him a small smile. To be honest, I don’t really mind. I only wish I could be that brave or have at least a little bit of spice in my personality. I don’t get the cause of the attitude, of course – she doesn’t even know me to act untoward me – and I’d never give someone I just met the attitude, but at least I can get an idea of what kind of personality she has through her actions. She’s not bland at all.

“Coffee?” Monroe offers, striding towards the counter and opening one overhead cupboard. “We have ground, bullet, and –” His brows knitted together as he inspects a clear canister with thin red sachets in it. “– instant coffee, apparently.” He mumbled the last word, disdain coloring his dark, ruffled features.

I bit back a smile. The guy obviously has appreciation for quality coffee.

“No cream or milk but with plenty sugar, yes?”

It was surprising how he seemed to have paid attention to the order I had when we went for breakfast a few hours ago. Despite myself, I felt a few butterflies in my stomach, disturbing the quiet and calm that I meditated into myself all day in the safety of the confines of my apartment.

This is silly. I’ve been acting unlike myself at all. I wasn’t one to feel infatuated by someone I just met, not even a gorgeous, thoughtful, foot-taller-than-me extremely appealing male species grounding me come fine coffee.

God, that sounded dirty.

I wanted to slap myself on the cheek.

Turning away from Monroe, I pulled my phone out and pretended to check something utterly important over there as he busied himself, when all I was doing was search throughout various social media platforms for him.

What am I, a teenager?

I sensed him shuffling behind me, and all too quickly, I pushed my phone back in my pocket after a hasty move to lock it. How embarrassing would it be if he saw me already trying to stalk him when I hadn’t even begun to work for him yet?

Dam me. I hope my face wasn’t too red.

He handed me a mug and our fingers touched. Such a cliché, I know but the shiver that coursed through my hands all the way throughout my body has nothing to do with the cold. No chance my face was its old usual pale self.

My eyes landed on anywhere but him the moment I felt his gaze on mine.

“Now, Cassandra. Why don’t you let me show you around?”

Monroe led me aisle after aisle, giving me a brief history of the shop, which I could only describe as interesting. Starting off as a tailor, the shop had been established by his great-grandfather when his seamstress wife had left him for another man, establishing a tailor’s shop on her own.

“There was great rivalry in there until a blood feud had ensued,” Monroe says in a suave voice, as if he was used to recounting this tale over and over again for new staff members. He mostly told me about the story of his family more than giving me instructions about the maintenance of the apparels and how they manage inventory, much to the obvious displeasure of Heather. It’s hard not to notice when she was lurking close by either behind, ahead, or beside us.

I tried my hardest to ignore her, but I bet even Monroe had noticed. We continued on to the fleece jacket isle in the women’s area, though, and every minute he spends unraveling the events of the past, the more I became focused on it more than familiarizing myself with my would-be working surroundings.

“Bisnono remarried and one of his grandsons fell in love with his ex-wife’s own granddaughter.”

I loved how passionate he sounded while he was talking, as if he was actually proud of what I could only guess to be a tragic story that had happened in his family.

“Classic Romeo and Juliet,” I commented, a shy smile hinting at my lips.

I’m a sucker for a good romance as much as the next Literary teacher out there, and though some of my reads were questionable at the slightest for most of the demographic readers, I am not ashamed of my tastes nor do I feel guilty about them.

Monroe’s steps halted as he c****d his head at me. “Star-crossed lovers.”

His voice was a deep rumbling that caressed my skin from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. Lucky is the one who would be with him.

Here I am, who couldn’t even be considered as his acquaintance, almost falling to my knees as they buckle. His charms are off the rails and it wasn’t just the beauty of his inked skin nor the contradiction of his cheery and approachable personality hiding underneath it. Somehow, like I did with Jolie, I have the vaguest feeling that Monroe is a good man.

Hearing him talk about his family so fondly was close to a proof of that.

Just then, he let out a deep sigh. “You have got to be f*****g kidding me,” he muttered to himself as we rounded a corner and came to face one of the full-length mirrors around the shop, both getting an eyeful of a blonde head disappearing right behind a shelf of graphic sweatshirts a second right after we came into view.

“You’ve got a shadow,” I jokingly commented with somewhat of a teasing smile.

That comment was met with one raised eyebrow and while I’ve always thought the quirk looked weird and awkward on someone else, I have to say that Monroe was owning it. Then again, that just might be because he looks physically attractive. I doubt any expression looked silly on him.

“What makes you think it was me she was following?”

His question surprised me and for one moment there I thought I had read the room wrong. Then a wide grin broke out of his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“No, you were right,” he said, eyes alight with mischief before it dulled just as quickly when he muttered the next words. “Remind me again not to mess around with my employees.”

I knew from one look that this man attracts people left and right, but I haven’t considered him taking it to the workplace. That made me a little uncomfortable and he noticed.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, rubbing the rough patch of five o’clock shadow peppering his jaw. “Don’t want you scared. I wasn’t thinking with a clear head, and it was a clear mistake. Won’t happen again.”

His dark eyes bore into mine as he said this, assuring – promising me, that he wouldn’t do so much as touch me. He held my gaze for a few seconds before we were both distracted by a sudden crash that came from our left.

Monroe cursed under his breath, the grip he has on his mug tightening. “I’m sorry, Cass. I have to cut this short. Are you done with that?” He nodded towards my own drink. I handed it to his outstretched hand. I couldn’t be more ready to go back home.

“I’m gonna go take care of some… business,” he glanced at where the crash had been. I know that both of us have a pretty good idea who was the cause of that. Monroe turned to walk that direction before stopping short and giving me a genuine warm smile. “Welcome to Gideon.”