“Wow,” I whisper, while taking in the dress in the mirror. It fits like a glove, it accentuates my waist, and my boobs look spectacular. I guess money really can buy everything, because I’ve never been able to buy this kind of silhouette before.
Time to show the “boss.”
I open the door and walk out of the bathroom, feeling awkward. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I hold them demurely in front of me. “Is this what you were looking for, master?” I ask him.
His facial expression doesn’t change, nor does he show a flicker of appreciation. In a stern voice, he says, “It’ll do for tonight.”
Might as well be the farmer from Babe. Pat me on the head and say, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”
Sheesh.
At least he’s setting expectations right now. This is business. This isn’t some sort of fairy tale where he plucks me from rags and turns me into a princess. Not that I want something like that. I truly want to earn my way through this life, but, you know, a little decency or acknowledgement of my usually lacking cleavage would be nice.
“These other dresses are for different occasions. There are notes in the boxes on when to wear them and how, as well as which shoes to pair with them, but now that you’re going to be living with me, I’ll be able to give final approval before you walk out of the house.”
“Final approval?” I ask. “You realize this is my body, right?”
“Very much aware that’s your body. But you also signed a contract that stated I get final approval of all outfits before we attend a business event.”
“I thought that was just, you know, semantics.” I wave my hand about.
“Nothing about a contract is just semantics,” he shoots at me. “That’s something you should learn right away, especially if you’re going to be working within the admin side of your sister’s business. It would behoove you to become quite familiar with legal jargon.”
“I am familiar,” I shoot back. “Don’t assume I know nothing.”
“When you pass off our contract as semantics, I’m going to assume you need to be educated, especially when taking on your sibling’s business that they’ve built from the ground up. You don’t fuck around with that.”
“I’m not fucking around with it.”
“You need to take it seriously,” he says in that commanding voice.
“I am taking it seriously.”
“This isn’t just a game, Lottie. This is an opportunity to seize, to jump to the next chapter in your life, to level up, and if you’re just going to fuck around—”
“What the hell makes you think I’m fucking around?” I spread my arms wide. “I’m standing here in a dress you want me to wear, and some man is going to come here and move my boxes to your house, at your request. I’m going to attend a dinner tonight that, frankly, I’m terrified of attending, just for the mere fact that if I slip up, if I say something wrong, then I fuck everything up for you. And for some odd reason, I don’t want to do that.” I close the distance between us and poke him in the chest. “So don’t accuse me of fucking around. Do you understand me?”
A munching sound fills the silence, and at the same time, Huxley and I both turn toward Kelsey, who has a container of lo mein in hand, chopsticks in the other. She’s midbite when she smiles at us and says, “Oh, sorry . . . just enjoying the show. Lo mein?” She offers the canister.
Annoyed, I spin on my heel and return to the bathroom, where I disrobe once again, but this time, I sit, half naked, on the covered toilet.
The nerve of that man. It really is time to read that contract.
The air conditioner in the car is doing nothing for the burning inferno that’s ripping through my body.
I know this is business, I’m not looking for anything other than a business transaction, but would it have killed the man to at least acknowledge the lengths I went to, to curl my long hair? Granted, he asked me to curl it and demanded I go with a natural look with my makeup, but a nod of approval would be nice.
Do you think I got one?
When I stepped out of the bathroom—looking damn fine, mind you—he said nothing, other than “Let’s get moving.”
Kelsey gave me a hug of encouragement before I left and told me to call her if I needed to come back to her apartment. From the anxious look on her face as we were trying to figure out what to do with all the boxes, I’m going to assume the invitation is an empty one.
Huxley drives the car into a quiet street and pulls up next to a large white house that resembles the house from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, with the grandiose pillars and large, dangling light fixture.
I reach for the car door handle, but he asks, “Where do you think you’re going?”
I look over my shoulder at him. “I don’t know, arriving obnoxiously early to a dinner date?” I point to the clock. “Honestly, who shows up an hour early? Is that a rich thing us peasants are unaware of?”
“Cutting the snark out of your tone would be helpful.”
“Cutting the asshole out of yours would cut the snark out of mine, so . . . the ball is in your court, Huxley.”
The animosity between us seems to be strong, and I can’t quite pinpoint when it happened. Somewhere around the time he came to Kelsey’s apartment and demanded I try on a dress. Whenever it was, it’s now filtered into the vibe between us.
The tension is fierce, that’s for sure.
His jaw clenches and he carefully turns toward me, his large frame adjusting to the compact space of the car. “This isn’t their house. Dave lives down the road more. I figured, for your benefit, we could talk through some of the questions you texted me, but if you want to show up early, looking like a dysfunctional couple, then, sure, let’s do that.”
I point my finger at him. “That’s not cutting out the asshole tone.”
“I’ll cut it out with the asshole tone when you take this seriously.”
“I am taking this seriously,” I yell at him. I flip my hair in his direction. “Do you realize the kind of effort it takes to curl this hair? I rarely do it, but while you were enjoying lo mein with my sister, I was sweating like a beast in the bathroom, trying to make myself presentable enough to be on your arm. I’m sorry I’m not Page Six material, but you chose me to help, so deal with what you got.”
His eyes remain stern, his facial expression stoic, and for a second, I’ve an urge to poke his face, to see if he’s frozen without me knowing it. But he drops his eyes to his phone and grabs it from the console. He flips through it and says, “You want to know how we met.”
So, we’re not going to address how long it took me to do my hair? Okay, just making sure that’s the case. Insert eye roll here.
“It might be helpful, because I’m sure it’s going to be asked. Are we just going with the whole ‘ran into him on the sidewalk’ story? Because, although lacking in luster, it’s an easy one to tell, but in my version, you’re a dick. Let me guess, I’m a shrew in yours?”
“Close,” he mutters and then says, “We met in Georgia.”
“Georgia?” I ask in a shrill voice. “Why the hell did we meet in Georgia? I’ve never even been there.”
“You haven’t?” he asks, as if he can’t comprehend such a preposterous idea.
“It’s not as though I’m a Californian who’s never been to Disneyland. I just haven’t happened to fly across the United States to randomly visit Georgia, when Nevada is the furthest east I’ve been.”