Page 7 of Dirty Arrangement

But when I tug the pink chef coat on over my breasts, squeezing them inside with a grunt, I feel... less certain about my image. The outfit istight.It clings to my middle, my hips, and flares out around my rear in a way that's not indecent, but noticeable.

However, the material inside is wonderful. The luxurious silk rubs over my bare skin, waking me up so fast I forget I haven't had my morning coffee. My skin is electric; I give a little gasp.

Did Thomas know this would happen?

My face is flushed in the mirror. I don't feel in control anymore. Smoothing my hair, I place the stupid hat on. It's so dumb. I look like a cartoon character—except my breasts are way too enhanced to fit into a kid's show, that's for sure.

Focus. Who cares how you look, you have to get baking.

Striding into the kitchen, I begin my usual duties. The new outfit doesn't restrict me. Again, I have to give Thomas some credit. Wherever he had this made, it's well designed. I set out the morning pastries and see myself in the reflection of the front windows. When I saw myself earlier for the first time, I was uneasy. Now, I think the outfit is... cute.

But I refuse to give my new boss any points.

****

MY REGULARS DON'T HIDEtheir surprise when they see my new ensemble.

“Alice,” gasps Ms. Snip, a sweet woman who always orders the same blueberry muffin each morning. “You look...”

“Stupid?” I suggest with a blush.

She quickly shakes her head. “No! I love it.”

“You do?”

“It's so different and cute,” she insists. “It's great to see a splash of color in here.”

“I guess,” I say, eyeing the rather bland walls. Is it bland? WasIbland? I always focused on the food, not the décor, and certainly not my image. Frowning thoughtfully, I hand her her muffin. I spend the next few hours taking in the comments of my customers. Like Ms. Snip, it's almost all positive, at worse ambivalent.

I'm starting to see that Thomas knows more about business than me. It's irritating, honestly. But also... reassuring. Working with him might not be so bad.

I close the bakery that evening without seeing a hint of my new boss. He doesn't even text me, though I know he has my phone number. I expected him to be more hand-holdy. Controlling. Especially after how he behaved when we were alone in his office.

The memory makes my body tingle.

Rubbing my cheeks, feeling the scalding heat, I hurry home to my apartment. I want to put on some lazy Netflix-binge-watching clothes. Then I see something blocking my front door. There are multiple packages stacked as high as my chest.

Stunned, I walk around them, trying to understand. Are these for me? They have my name on the shipping label, but I'm no less confused. Frowning warily, I nudge them aside so I can unlock my door, then one by one, I carry them in. I'm breathing heavily by the end. Who sent me all these boxes?What's inside?I wonder. Unable to wait, I pull one open. Wrapped in crunchy tissue paper is a gorgeous lavender floor length gown. I stare. Then I blink and stare again. “What the hell?”

One by one I open the packages until I've arranged what seems to be an entirely new wardrobe of expensive outfits around my living room. Cocktail dresses, fitted pants, raw denim jeans, silk blouses... Then it clicks. “He said he'd change my wardrobe,” I laugh humorlessly. “He wasn't kidding.”

Slumping in shock, I hold my forehead. Does Thomas want to help me, or does he get off on dressing me up the way he likes? I'm too tired to pick it all up so I leave the clothes where they are, slipping into a pair of plain sweatpants and a giant tee-shirt. Reheating some leftover pizza, I start to sit on my couch, but the sight of all the fancy clothing is too distracting.

Retreating to my bedroom, I eat my food and browse my phone while lying in bed. My mind won't shut up—it's obsessed with Thomas and how he's infecting my world. Before I know it I'm Googling his name like I did before. This time, I purposefully click on the multiple candid photos of him tanning in the sun.

His body is cut with muscles. I'm sure he has a personal trainer. He can certainly afford one. I scroll and scroll until my vision blurs. When I fall asleep, Thomas enters my dreams. His mouth tastes like sugar and electricity, and his wicked voice haunts me when I wake from my fitful sleep.

Rolling on my mattress, I groan. My hand is buried between my thighs as I hiss a name I know I shouldn't. “Thomas... fuck me, oh, yes...” Before I can come, my phone rings loudly, startling me.

I grab my cell from where I left it on my pillows. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon.”

Thomas's voice warms me. My body floods with adrenaline, resonating with the sex dream I was having. Wait, did he sayafternoon?“Oh god,” I gasp, seeing the time on my phone; it's already past two.

“You aren't at the bakery,” Thomas notes. “Is today a holiday I don't know about?”

“I'm sorry!” Throwing the covers aside, I stumble to my feet. “I've never been late before, I swear. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

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