Chapter 30 – Pleasing the Boss

“All right.” Hadrian interrupts our banter. “Time crunch. Remember?”

I want to remind him that his sister told him he had to be nice to her friend, but Mirabelle is a professional, and she’s already moving us along. “I went ahead and pulled some things already if you’d like to take a look.”

She’s leading me to a rack at the center of the store, but Hadrian once again interrupts. “Brystin, go to the dressing room and get undressed. I’ll pick something for you.”

I don’t even consider agreeing. “No, no, no. I need to do the picking.”

His eyes widen slightly, as if he’s appalled that I would defy him. “We really don’t have time to discuss this.”

“Which is why you should let me get to looking at—”

“Which is why you need to go to the dressing room and start undressing.”

I straighten my spine. “Look, I know this seems like an easy task, but it’s not. I have a brand to live up to. There are certain do’s and don’ts when you’re in a position like—”

“Brystin.” His voice is sharp and irrefutable. “I’m choosing the dress. Go to the dressing room and wait for me. Now.”

As though these kinds of arguments happen every day in front of her, Mirabelle smiles cheerfully. “I’ll show you where it is. Right this way.”

Begrudgingly, I follow her.

“Not my business, but want to make sure you’re all right,” she asks as soon as we’re out of Hadrian’s sight. “If you need me to get help, I’ll step in. I know it can seem like men with money get away with everything, but I know my way around them.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind. But he’s fine. He’s an ass, but he’s not going to hurt me.” At least, I don’t think he will. “And this isn’t what you think it is. He’s my boss. That’s all.”

“Oh, okay.” She doesn’t sound exactly like she believes me, but she does seem reassured. “Then is there anything particular you’d like me to direct him toward?”

I jump on the offer. “Yes. Please. Nothing slutty. Nothing that implies bimbo. I need to look smart, but not frumpy. Sharp. Notable. Cleavage is good, but nothing that makes you think of a Playboy bunny.”

“Got it. I’ll see what I can do.”

She leaves me alone in the dressing room, and I try to be optimistic as I strip out of my zipper dress, but I don’t succeed. Elvis and Shiloh are the only two people I would trust to shop for me, and even Elvis at times tries to put me in clothes with too much leg. It’s not that I don’t have the body for it—being on TV requires strict awareness of my figure—but rather it’s that I have to prove I have a mind as well. It’s the obstacle women in my field run into over and over again. Be pretty, but if you’re too pretty, people will think you’re dumb.

Actually, that’s probably the obstacle women face everywhere, not just in journalism.

Point being, I carefully choose my event wardrobes, and to be honest, I’m doubtful we’ll find anything suitable in such a short time frame. Me being relegated to the dressing room will only make the process take longer.

I’m undressed when there’s a knock on the door. A short rap that sounds more masculine than feminine, and I know it’s Hadrian before he speaks. “Open up. I have a dress for you.”

One dress?

I hold up my zipper dress to cover me—as if he hasn’t seen me near naked—prepared to argue with whatever outfit he’s brought me and open the door. Wordlessly, he sticks his arm in just far enough to hang a dress on the hook.

I’m not sure where he goes after that because my eyes are on the dress.

The gorgeous, breathtaking dress.

Not something I would have chosen for myself in a million years, but it might work. There’s no price tag, which means it’s super expensive, and I wouldn’t have chosen it for that reason alone.

But oh my God, it’s to die for.

I shut the door and quickly put it on, eager to see if I’m as enamored with it on my body as I am with it on the hanger.

I’m surprised as shit when I like it even more.

It’s somehow both simple and stunning, a basic white sheath sk**t that goes all the way to the floor with gold bands of ornamentation and a matching gold bodice. Though it’s low cut, and requires I go braless, it holds my br***ts well, letting nothing spill out. I can’t wear pa**ies either. Not with how tight it is around my h*ps. The gold bands are delicate needlework, and my skin can be seen through them, but it’s classy rather than slutty, and all the needlework in the bodice is layered with a material that matches my skin.

I’m still staring in the mirror, still gaping, when Mirabelle arrives—apparently, I left the door slightly ajar. She drops some gold shoes on the floor and moves to zip me up, then peers at my image with me. The dress fits me like a glove, like it was made for me. Not just the tailoring, but the design itself. I look somehow sultry and wise. Like a goddess.

“It’s perfection,” she says.

“Thank you. I was scared he’d pick out something terrible, and this is…I don’t know what to say. I see why you have the reputation you do.”

“Well, thanks, but this was all Hadrian.”

I turn to face her. “No way.”

“He fl*pped through the dresses I’d picked, barely looking at them, then went off to search on his own. This is what he came up with. Your size and everything. He even picked out the shoes.”

“He got lucky.” This wasn’t luck. I’m not sure what this was, honestly. A man with a good eye for fashion, probably.

It feels like something else. Like a man with a good eye for me.

“You’d better hurry and show him,” Mira nudges. “He’s waiting.”

Quickly, I put the shoes on, then start toward the front of the store, suddenly nervous. Not because I don’t think he’ll like it, but because I know he will. Because I know now what he thinks of my potential. That he sees me as a stunning siren. That he sees how beautiful I can be without compromising my values.

Funny that this is the same guy who has extracted sexual favors in exchange for my dream job.

With my head held high, I step out from the back hallway and hold my breath, waiting for his approval.

He’s typing into his phone, so it takes him a few seconds to notice me. When his head lifts, I notice his eyes flash with something dangerous before he masks his exp**ssion. “Come here,” he says, and without question, I walk over, stopping when I’m only a couple of feet away.

He nods as he walks around me, inspecting me from all angles. When he’s in front of me again, his brow furrows.

“We’ll take it, right?”

He considers.

“Hadrian?” I glance behind me where Mira is watching the whole interaction. When I look back at Hadrian, his furrow is gone, and his eyes are dark.

“Kneel down.”

“Uh…what?”

“I said, kneel down.”

“Kneel down? Like…” I know exactly what the like is without him filling in the blank. He’s looking forward. He’s thinking about my mouth on his c**k, and knowing that’s what’s on his mind makes liquid trickle bet**en my th**hs.

My cheeks flush with understanding.

Then I have to make a decision. The dress is awfully tight. I can probably manage if I’m careful, but why should I try? Why, when it’s clearly meant as an act to demean me? Why should I dress in an outfit that makes me look and feel powerful, and then submit myself to the likes of Hadrian Seymour?

I can’t answer any of those questions.

And still, something draws me to my knees. In the middle of Mirabelle’s boutique with the shop owner looking on, I kneel in front of him and look up at him. Without thinking to do so, my t***ue fl**ks across my lower l*p, and even though my eyes are caught on his, I know his pants are suddenly on the verge of tenting.

“We’ll take it,” he says softly. He holds his hand out to help me up. “This is your brand, Brystin Shaw.”

I’m not sure he means me in the dress or me in the dress kneeling in front of him. Whichever it is, I know he’s right.

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