Page 23 of Big Boss
Like Tate did when we met, right before I bullied my way into a job with him. The job where I have now singlehandedly embarrassed the crap out of not one but at least two famous musicians and yet somehow ended up being best friends with my boss.
Clearly karma is coming for me today, guns blazing. I’m already itchy with anxiety, and I haven’t even been able to bring myself to step into any of the places here.
Because I know exactly how this situation is going to resolve itself. I finally work up enough nerve to go into a boutique where I clearly can’t afford anything, and the staff treat me like garbage, and then I leave embarrassed, and then Tate comes back and makes a big scene and defends my honor.
I mean come on. I’ve seenPretty Woman. I love that scene.
But I can’t be the damsel in distress. That’s just not who I am. Nor do I want to watch people be all fake nice to me just because my hotpants boss shows up and acts all stern and disapproving with them.
I prefer him smiling and easy. As much as I like to pester him, it’s never really out of meanness. It’s simply that I genuinely like Donovan Tate, and that’s why I feel comfortable playing rough with him.
I don’t think there are many people he lets close enough to him to give him any sort of hard time. It’s a privilege to be close enough to him to be the one who teases him, irritates him, makes him lose his plastic celebrity composure.
Not that fake, over the top flirtatious crap he likes to give me either. But those rare times when I can startle a genuine laugh out of him, stir him out of his overthinking with a quick jab or an off-color joke. I like catching Tate off guard. And for that reason alone, I am determined to see this problem through all on my own.
I know that when he sent me here, he was waiting for it to blow up in my face. As much as he likes to pretend he’s just a regular guy, Donovan Tate loves to be the man who rescues the damsel in distress. I think that’s half the reason for every single interaction we have had together.
Remember when he protected me with his entire body while I had a panic attack in the elevator? Yeah, I do. That entire scene lives on in my memory rent free.
And then when he gave me a job that I am almost definitely unqualified for, just because I was pushy about it? Or the way he ends up being the one who always buys the coffee, despite our supposed agreement on the subject?
Underneath his facade of barely reformed bad boy, Donovan Tate is a big old softie. He’s kind hearted and a natural caregiver in a way that doesn’t fit in with how he’s always portrayed in the media. He’s definitely not the brazen playboy that everyone seems to think he is.
I personally keep his calendar and know that he doesn’t go anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. As far as I can tell, he simply goes home and binges cooking shows on Netflix after work. Of course, that’s assuming there is an “after” for work with him.
I get the feeling that Tate is the kind of person who never really shuts down. He never gives himself a break. I figure on those nights when he’s not at my place, he probably goes home and spends all night long listening to people’s record samples. In between episodes ofThe Great British Bake Off,that is.
And this is why I absolutely cannot let things fall apart today. I have to keep it together, not matter how twitchy and anxious the crowds are making me. I can do this. Most people probably like shopping for clothes and getting dressed up. I can pretend to be most people for a little while.
When I step into the little boutique, the bells above the door make a ringing sound that I’m sure is supposed to be cheerful, but it’s still enough to make me flinch. A voice rings out from behind the mountains of clothes.
“Welcome to Fleur-de-Lis, where we’ll help you be your finest.”
The stunning woman who slides out from between the racks looks like the woman I like to think that I look like. She definitely isn’t a blend-in type, but the wild dress on her is giving statuesque goddess with extra rhinestones vibes, whereas I always end up feeling like a scarecrow with dodgy makeup skills and worse fashion sense.
Yet this woman, inexplicably wearing an entire galaxy’s worth of sparkles, makes it seem like her dress is doing her a favor by letting her wear it. It’s her poise and her confidence that are doing it for me. I can’t get enough of watching her move.
She pauses, and I realize I haven’t given her a response aside from an open-mouthed stare. She’s probably used to it, but I have practiced long and hard to be better at dealing with people than this.
“Hi,” I finally manage, my voice shaking, and I force my hand out to shake hers. Then when she stares at me for a moment too long, I fold it back up into my pocket and start restlessly tapping away at my leg.
The woman in violet sparkles moves toward me and crushes me into a hug that steals the breath from my lungs. “Okay, okay,” I squeak. “That’s a lot of touching.”
She pulls back and beams at me. “I have exactly what you need, you pretty little thing. Now come on.”
And with that, she wraps her arm gently around my shoulder and shepherds me into the tiny aisles of clothing that look like various shades of a sunrise.
“Immediately no,” I say, staring accusatorily at the long. poofy pink gowns. I shake my head. “No offense, but I am not a pink dress type of girl.”
The woman tilts her head at me, peering at me without blinking for long enough that I start to worry that maybe she’s actually a robot. Some sort of glamazonian outer space fashion creature whose secret weapon against humanity is making us all dress in the least comfortable clothing available.
She pulls a gown off the rack and waggles it at me. “But these sequins.”
I nod. “It is very sequins. Sequinsed.” I clear my throat. “It is.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to read my future in the angles of my eyelashes. “Okay, I’ve got just the thing.”
We’re on the move again, her arm tucked into my elbow and hauling me through tall racks of gowns, these with beads and fringe and in every conceivable color, all the finest, most delicate of silks. It’s like walking through a room of desserts; each thing I see is more tempting than the last but also definitely not meant for me.
