Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
But when the long, narrow hallway deposits us into the showroom, all I see are dresses. Sheaths and ball gowns in jewel tones.
“I’m Damien, and I’ll be working with you today. Champagne?” my guide offers me, even though it’s barely past noon.
I shake my head, absorbing the peacock bright array of gowns. “I think I’m just here to pick something up.”
“Oh no, honey,” Damien laughs. “You’re here for a fitting. Your boyfriend booked the whole midday fitting for you.”
“What?” I squawk, startling Damien. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Excuse me, I just assumed. We work by referral only. Normally we wouldn’t do this so last minute, but Ruby Blackthroat is a huge client. Huge, huge,” he emphasizes with widened eyes and spread hands.
“And she set this up for me?
“Yes, I believe on her brother’s request. Not your boyfriend?”
I almost laugh out loud. If Blackthroat heard someone call him my boyfriend, he’d set his gaze to death ray and incinerate them on the spot. “He’s my boss.” I cover my surprise as I turn in a slow circle, breathing in the subtly perfumed air. The place smells like money. “I’m supposed to pick out a dress?”
“THE dress, honey. We’re going to make you look ‘chef’s kiss’.” Damien actually says ‘chef’s kiss’ before he kisses the tips of his fingers. “I can’t wait to get started. Although,” he frowns. “He did have one requirement. No high heels.”
I smile at the look on Damien’s face. “He’s joking.” He better be joking. I’ve had it up to here with my boss ordering me what to wear. I’m definitely not secretly pleased that my boss is obsessed with my outfits.
A clap of Damien’s hands and a parade of assistants stream in, rolling in more racks of gowns. Each one looks like a runway model. Maybe they are.
I glance down at my phone, where another notification has popped up. Two pm appointment at DeLuxe. The address is next door. “Hang on,” I hold up a finger to stay the hordes of fashionistas ready to descend on me like the mice on Cinderella. “I need to make a call.”
I duck behind a rack of dresses, my finger hovering over my contacts. Do I call Indira? She’s too busy swimming with the sharks in her new department, and odds are slim she knows what’s up. Do I call Blackthroat?
A third appointment pops up on my phone. This one's for tonight. Blackthroat Family Foundation Ball. With an extra note: You’ll be my plus one.
“Oh hell no,” I stab the cellphone button to dial my boss. He won’t pick up, but I plan on leaving a passive-aggressive message. Thank you, sir, for the last-minute honor of being your plus one to the most anticipated event of the season, but I can’t accept.
I’m rehearsing my pseudo-grateful tone when a voice growls in my ear. “Madison.”
He picked up the phone. For me. He never does that. Indira said he fired three assistants in a row when they transferred him too soon, and he heard two seconds of on-hold music.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath, and a moment is two seconds too long for Brick Blackthroat.
“What is it?” he clips, and his short tone does delicious things to my body.
I recover. “There seems to be some miscommunication about my duties today.”
“You’re at the boutique?”
“I am. An appointment I wasn’t aware of until a half an hour ago.”
“This job requires you to pivot quickly. You know that. You usually keep up.”
“I’m the assistant. I should do the scheduling.” I take a deep breath. “And I can’t accompany you to the Blackthroat Ball.”
“Are you disobeying a direct order?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I dodge the question. “Assistants don’t rate BFFB tickets.”
He uses that scornful tone I’ve already learned is a misdirect. “You’ll be there to work, Ms. Evans. You are my assistant, are you not?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Benson will be there. I need eyes and ears on the ground.”
That makes sense. “But I’m going as your plus one?” I reach out and stroke the satin sash of one of the dresses in front of me, and try to think of how to ask what I really want to ask. Am I going as your assistant or your date?
In my mind’s eye, I see myself in this dress, waltzing with Blackthroat in front of a glamorous crowd. My heart squeezes so tight, I can’t breathe.
“It's easier to slip you in that way,” he says, and my Cinderella fantasy pops, even as my breathing comes easier.
What does he mean, slip me in?
He means I don’t belong in a room full of billionaires. I don’t belong with the uppercrust of Manhattan society.
Well, screw him. I’m going to fool every last person there. “You’re paying for my dress?” I ask coolly.
“Company policy.” He sounds bored.
Good. I will go designer, all the way.