Free Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) by Heidi Joy Tretheway Page B

pushed him too far, and fear churns in my core. Why can’t I think first? Speaking (or typing) my mind gets me in trouble. Every. Damned. Time.
    I push the knot of worry down and decide that if he gets me fired I’ll deal with that when it comes. I don’t have the guts to tell Dan what happened.
    Jasper baroos a greeting when I open the door and I quickly change and take him out for a walk. We run into dogs of every size and color, but not another basenji.
    On our walk, my mind can’t escape the riddle of Gavin. He’s searching for something, but he doesn’t know what. He wants me to “just deal with” personal stuff in his apartment, yet he’s cagey about the details.
    I want to know why.
    When we get back to the apartment after high-fiving Charles and collecting Jasper’s piece of cheese, I go in the other bedroom and take a look at the clothes piled on the bed. They really are exquisite, so I try on a sweater. It fits.
    The tops fit. The dresses, T-shirts, and bras. And with a little wiggling, even the jeans fit. I don’t try on the panties, but I know they’ll fit too.
    I can’t throw all this stuff out. It’s a goldmine!
    It will be my brand-new New York wardrobe and the perfect replacement for my Bumpkin Fashion. I decide to tell Gavin I got rid of it—no need to explain that it went to Beryl K. Sutton instead of St. Vincent de Paul.
    With everything he’s wasting, he’ll never know the difference.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    I show up for work in a sleeveless purple blouse with tuxedo ruffles down the front and a silk skirt that floats around my knees, both chosen from my new wardrobe. I stop by a Duane Reade on the way to work and buy vampy purple lipstick to complete the look.
    I’ve got my second house-sitting gig thanks to Dan’s connections, and after I catch up on email at the office, I take a cab to the Upper East Side where Greta Carr lives.
    I’m prepared this time. I Google her first and find out she’s the daughter of a seafood processing magnate. While Daddy is selling frozen shrimp, she’s on the party circuit attached to various Hollywood B-list actors.
    Goody, goody. I can hardly wait to snoop through the tabloid princess’s drawers.
    Greta’s supposed to be gone for a couple of weeks and my duties are light—clean up and restock her place, get her cleaning and deliveries, and feed her fish.
    From Google, I know she has a purse-dog, but apparently that poor creature travels with her everywhere.
    I fill out a sign-in sheet and fork over my ID and Dan’s business card—my cards are still being printed, and Dan’s changed my title from “Assistant” to “Short-Term Property Manager.” I like it better than just plain “manager” of the coffee bar.
    The doorman takes a photo of both cards with his phone, makes a few notes in a logbook and then hands me a key.
    Greta’s apartment makes Gavin’s look tiny. It feels like the inside of a seashell, decorated in blush and pink and coral with stark white carpet and blond wood furniture. An enormous fish tank divides the main living space and now I see why its care instructions were so precise.
    I gawk at the tropical beauties on display and then imagine Greta’s father’s machines stamping multicolored fish sticks out of them.
    Yuck.
    I open Greta’s refrigerator and see diet soda, slim-down drinks, a few dessert-flavored yogurt cups and some sad-looking baby carrots. Even her condiments look hungry, nothing but a few low-fat salad dressings.
    I guess this is what skinny rich girls eat. I snoop and her pantry is equally barren, with portion-controlled snacks, fat-free this and low-carb that. The only guilty pleasures I can find are a bag of pretzels—good God, carbs!—and a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
    I have no idea how she’d prepare it. There’s no butter, margarine, or milk in her fridge.
    I go to Greta’s bedroom and it’s a riot of pink, made even more extreme by the mirrors hanging on the walls. Her wide dressing