Carson
"Why aren't you ready?" I frown when my girlfriend of two years opens the door to her apartment dressed in an emerald-green robe with a white towel over her hair. She was supposed to be dressed and ready to go already. I know she knows this because I had my assistant call and confirm times with her earlier this morning.
Angeline purses her lips and checks her ruby nails. "Ready for what? Who even are you?"
"Come on, Ang." I let out an exasperated sigh. "We don't have time for games. Please tell me you're joking and wearing a cocktail dress under that robe."
She folds her arms tight across her middle and juts out her chin. "I'm not."
"What do you mean, you're not? You know how important this event is for me. All these years, I've been working toward a shot at senior partner, and if I don't show up tonight and wow the big bosses from the top floor, I may as well kiss my chances goodbye."
As I talk, I move past her into her apartment, heading straight for the bedroom and her wardrobe. Several appropriate dresses hang in color order, leftovers from many previous events we've attended together, and I pick a blue shade similar to my tie. "Just put this one on, toss your hair in a bun, and let's get the hell out of here."
She doesn’t move. "I'm not going."
My jaw tightens. "Ang, please. I need your support. You know how hard I've worked for this, and if we don't show up on time, it'll look like we don't want to be there."
"Well, you should have thought about that before you stood me up."
I let out a huff of breath and drop the dress on the end of her bed, moving toward her.
"You're still mad at me for missing dinner the other night?" I place my hands on the backs of her crossed arms and try to draw her near as I soften my voice. "I'm sorry, OK? Work has just been—"
"It's not just the dinner, Carson." She snatches her arms away. "You've stood me up three times this month. And last month I barely saw you at all. Do you know how stupid I looked ringing in the new year all alone at a party filled with couples?"
"Babe, you know my client—"
"Your client. It’s always about the client. What about me? Where do I fit in? It's always ‘a client’ this or ‘a deal’ that with you." She pauses, lets out a frustrated breath, then touches her face with a manicured hand. "You know what? I'm not going to get into an argument over this. I'm simply tired of being in this relationship on my own. It's over, Carson. I'm sorry if that messes with your goals, but I just can't pretend I’m OK with being a distant second in your life anymore."
Her words hit me like a slap in the face, and I pull my head back in recoil, staring at her as if this is a dream and I'm willing myself to wake up. This isn't happening. Not tonight.
“You’re breaking up with me? Tonight?” I look at my watch, running my finger along the smooth edge as my chest grows even tighter.
“Are you surprised? You care more about that stupid sapphire watch than you do about me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Of course, it is. You take it everywhere you go, look at it constantly, and touch it when you need reassurance. And me … you only care about me when you need a trinket on your arm.”
The silence hangs like a heavy fog as we stand there just staring at each other. I want to argue, but it’s obvious that she’s already made up her mind. We’re done, and if I’m honest with myself, I’m not upset. I’m disappointed. Selfishly.
Letting out a slow breath, I nod. "If that's how you feel, I suppose I should say my goodbyes." My voice comes out flat and emotionless.
"I think it’s for the best." Angeline blinks as though she's holding back her tears. "I don't want you to be late on such an important night."
I don't know what to say or how to respond. Just like that, a relationship two years in the building is gone, like a deal falling apart the day the contracts are due to be signed. I don't know if I'm hurt, angry, or just plain numb, but I do know that I need to get out of here.
Without thinking, I grab the dress from the end of the bed then turn on my heels, exiting the apartment without a backward glance.
When I'm in the elevator on the way to the ground floor, I look down at the dress in my hands and wonder what the hell I'm supposed to do with it. Wear it and pretend I'm both me and my date? I roll my eyes and mutter a few obscenities under my breath while I try to figure out how I’m going to play this.
Every year my company puts on a big charity event as a show of benevolence to offset the ridiculous profit levels we report each year. Anyone of note is invited which of course means that this is a time when our personal lives are on display. When I show up without her, there'll be questions. And telling any of my bosses that my steady girlfriend dumped me on the night of the company's biggest event would reflect poorly on me and my future. It’ll look like I can't balance my work and personal life, which I guess is true—I'm all work and limited play. And while that sounds like it should be a desirable quality, it'll make me look like terrible senior partner material in their eyes. I'm screwed.
As the doors ping open, I glance down at my sapphire watch and realize I can still make it on time if traffic is light. There's not a lot I can do about the plus-one situation, but showing up alone is better than not showing up at all ... I think …
When I step outside, a cool breeze whispers across my heated brow, and I close my eyes as I let it wash over me, taking a slow inhale to find my calm. Everything is going to be OK. I can talk my way around this. Say she has a stomach bug or something. It isn’t the end of the world …
I’m calm for maybe a full second before a wall of flesh collides with my side. "What the hell!" a woman's voice complains. "Who steps out of a buildin' and just quits walkin'?"
Presley
I don't know how he didn't see me. I'm practically a disco ball in my silver sequined dress and spiked stiletto stripper heels. Add to that the fact that I'm on the rather large and round side of the scale, and I could pretty much stand in for the moon in the right light.
"Are you OK?"
The annoyingly handsome stranger’s voice is deep, almost velvety, and when I look up to answer him, I'm arrested by the sight of him. He's wearing a sharply tailored gray suit with a blue tie and crisp white shirt. His dark hair is neatly styled in a way that oozes confidence. He looks like he just stepped out of a boardroom and wields the power of an entire city block. He even smells rich and powerful.
The idea of a man with all that money is kinda hot to a poor gal like me. But what really gets me about him are his eyes. They're dark like a perfectly formed onyx, and stare deep into me in a way that makes me feel like he can see beyond my sparkly, circular exterior and right into my soul.
I blink twice, shake my head, and break our gaze. "I'm fine," I say, slipping my phone into my small sequined clutch. I stand tall and look up at him, my confidence returning by the second. "But in case you missed the memo, it's not the best idea to step out of a building without looking. Sidewalk rules are pretty much the same as traffic rules. Yield before merging. But no one got hurt here, so no harm, no foul."
I expect the stranger to make an excuse, but instead, he just stares at me before a slight frown plays across his ridiculously good-looking face.
"I really am sorry. I didn't mean to—"
“Forget it.” I cut him off with a wave of my hand. "I'm sure you have somewhere important to be, and I need to get to my own destination as well. So …" I take a step to the right to move around him, but he moves too and blocks my path.
"Wait," he says, grabbing my arm so I can't leave. There's a desperate look in his eyes, and it suddenly feels like I'm in a scene from a romantic movie where the two would-be lovers meet at random and something wonderful sparks between them, and he just can't let her leave without knowing who she truly is.
"Yes?" I look up at him dreamily as he moves closer. I can smell the scent of his cologne in the night air, and my heart flutters in response, a strange sensation for someone who gave up on men so long ago that I thought I'd forgotten how to be attracted to one.
"We're connected," he says. My chest tightens, and for a moment there, I think I might swoon. But then I remember why I swore off men, and I shake my head to get my attraction to him under control.
"Listen," I start, needing to let him down gently. "I get it. This feels a little like fate has intervened to bring us together. But, honey, it isn't fate. Fate doesn't exist. You and I are just two random people who happened to cross paths. This doesn't need to mean anythin'. You go your way, I'll go mine, and I'm sure we'll both be happier for it."
His delightfully perfect brows knit together in confusion, and I feel bad for a moment. I’m sure a guy as stratospherically hot as he is doesn’t get rejected too often. But then he blinks that confusion away and smirks at me. I get the feeling I’ve just made a hideously incorrect judgment.
“Your dress is caught in my watch,” he says. “We are literally connected to each other."
"Oh." Heat rises up my neck. I'm quite certain from the burning sensation in my cheeks that my face is now scarlet. I can’t believe I just gave him that speech!
He nods, and we both look down at the same time. Sure enough, a sequined thread spans the distance between my dress and his watch.
“See?” he says. “We’re connected.”
My stupid instinct is to jump back as if it’ll miraculously dislodge us. Riiiippppp!
"No!" He makes a grab for my arm again, but it's too late. I've already freaked out, and I'm twirling around, trying to duck down and catch all the sequins raining onto the pavement. This might be a good time to point out that I am not the person you want around in a crisis. My brain seems to stutter, and I act like a chicken minus its head.
"Oh my god!" I cry. "What do I do?"
"Stop spinning!" he commands, clutching me by the shoulders and holding me steady. "Just ... stay still."
"OK," I whisper, bouncing on my toes nervously before taking a few breaths to calm down.
“That’s better. Don’t move.” We look at each other, then at the mess on the ground at our feet.
"My dress is ruined, isn't it?"
"Not if you just wanted a gray dress with sequin patches," he says, giving me a half-grin as he detaches the thread from the band of his watch and gathers it up before he snaps it off so it can’t do any more damage.
"I can’t go to work like this."
"You were on your way to work?" His eyes land on my shoes, and I roll my eyes.
"I'm not a stripper if that’s what you’re thinking. I just work in a strip club, so I dress the part. I'm the coat-check girl." I do a little curtsy like somehow that fits the moment.
"No shame even if you were a dancer,” he says. “Do you live far from here?"
"Too far to make it home and back before my shift ends.” I look down at the destroyed fabric. “Maybe, since I stand behind a counter most of the time, no one's really gonna see?"
He looks me up and down. "They'll see."
I let out a resigned sigh and shake my head. "Well, I don’t know what to do. If I don't leave now, I'm gonna be late, and I can’t afford to skip my shift altogether—rent to pay and all that. So, I guess I'll just have to take my chances and hope they see this as a style choice. It was ... decent meeting you," I say before starting to walk off.
"Wait."
My shoulders drop, and I turn back to face him. "Dude, it’s been real. But I really need to go."
"Why don't you take this?" He holds out a blue dress that looks so chic, I doubt I'd have the money to pay for it if I saved all my tips and paychecks for a year.
"You carry dresses around just in case you wreck one?"
He rolls his eyes but shakes the dress for me to take. "It's a long story. Just have it."
Holding it up in front of me, I can't deny its beauty. And were I several sizes smaller than I am, I'd be delighted to actually wear it. My belly starts shaking from my laughter as I try to picture myself squeezing into it.
"What is this? A leg warmer? It looks like a size two."
"Four, actually. But it has some stretch."
I scoff out a laugh. "Some stretch. Sir, I don't think you understand just how much stretch this dress would require to wrap itself around this body.” I gesture at my curves and add a body roll for good measure. While I’m no stripper, I certainly have myself a few moves. “Thank you. But no thank you. I appreciate the laugh though." I hand the dress back to him and start walking again. He follows after me.
"Well, I can't let you walk into work like that. Why don't you call your boss, let them know you'll be late, and I’ll take you to the store to get that replaced?"
I pull out my cell and check the time. "At this time of night? Dude, I know this is the city that never sleeps, but even stores close their doors at a reasonable hour."
That's when he grins. "Not to me they don't," he says, pulling out his cell phone while at the same time holding up an arm and gesturing until a sleek black town car pulls into the curb beside us. A man even gets out and opens the rear door like they do for rich people on TV. My jaw drops. Am I dreaming?
"Bro. Who are you?"
"Carson Myles, at your service," he says, handing me a business card then indicating that I should get inside the car.
“Well, Carson Myles. My mother always told me to never accept a ride from a stranger. But since murder cars aren’t normally this pretty, I’m going to take a gamble here that you’re a man on the up and up. But just in case …” I hold up my cell and snap a quick picture of him with the business card in the frame, sending it straight to my bestie with a pin drop so she can track our location. “My people are watchin’ us now.” I point two fingers at my eyes then back at him before shoving my cell between my breasts and turning to get into the car. He chuckles, hanging back for a moment to say something to the driver. But when he gets in beside me and flashes the most dazzling smile my way, I start to wonder—despite swearing off men—if a man carrying around a size four dress that obviously doesn’t belong to him could ever be interested in a not-size-four girl like me.
Carson
"I'm Presley, by the way," she says, flicking her shiny blonde hair over her shoulder as the driver pulls away from the curb and we're on our way.
"Just Presley? Or do you have a second name to add to that?"
She gives me a sideways glance. "Presley Brandt."
I smile at the sass. "It's nice to meet you, Presley Brandt. And I’ll say again that I'm truly sorry about your dress," I say, letting my eyes drop to the bodice and the mountain of flesh that seems to struggle against the neckline. She's beautiful. With a curvaceous figure, bright blue eyes, and a vibrant spirit that appears to be as sassy as it is strong. Moments before I met her, I was lamenting the loss of a two-year relationship. But now I'm honestly questioning the depth of my feelings for Angeline because the moment Presley slammed into me, my dick took notice. I stopped thinking about my breakup and started wondering if this woman is the universe's way of delivering me an answer to my current problem. Sure, this little detour is going to make me late for the charity event. But it's better to show up late with a gorgeous woman on my arm than it is to show up on time and have the seat next to me empty all night. Now I just have to convince her to accompany me.
"Where is this dress store you have the power to re-open with a phone call, anyway?" she asks.
"Not far. And it's more of a perk of the job than it is an individual power. My firm has a special relationship with a high-end department store chain, so we get use of their concierge service whenever we need it."
Her brow shoots up before she lifts the business card I gave her and squints at it. "Venture capitalist," she reads. "What's that?"
"You ever watch Shark Tank?"
"Not really. But I've heard of it enough to know about it."
"Well, it's basically that. People come to us and pitch their ideas, and we decide if we want to give them the money and support they need to take whatever it is they're pitching to the next level."
"I see. So, you're a bunch of rich guys getting richer off other peoples’ ideas and efforts?"
A chuckle bursts out of me as I sit back and straighten my tie. "We put forward plenty of effort and ideas. But I'd be lying if I said we weren't in it for the profit."
"Everyone's in it for the gains," she says, puffing out her cheeks as she looks out the window at the passing scenery. "What's it like to be rich, anyway?"
I laugh again.
"Is it hard? I'll bet it's super tough." She's being sarcastic, but I answer honestly.
"It has its downsides. But overall, it's quite nice."
"I'm sure. Too bad it's not for the likes of me, huh?"
I don't answer her because I'm too busy memorizing the contours of her face as the streetlights play against her features. If I didn't need her to play a part for me tonight, I'd be tempted to put all of my efforts into seducing her as a way to lose myself and forget about life for a moment or twelve. I'd rent a room and spend hours drawing pleasure from her body, licking, sucking, tasting, thrusting. A shudder makes its way down my spine and settles as a stiffness in my cock, and I'm quick to adjust the way that I'm sitting in order to hide it from her.
"Don't look at me like that," she says suddenly, snapping me from my filthy thoughts and back to her furrowed blue eyes.
"Like what?"
"Like you feel awkward around me just 'cause I'm poor. For the record, I wasn't fishin' for you to throw money my way."
"No?" I didn’t think she was, but her fire has me wanting to hear more.
"No," she says, shaking her head and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she presses her lips into a tight smile. "I'm just curious what life looks like from the other side of the fence. It’s not every day that I run into a rich guy who fucks up my dress and offers to buy me a new one."
I look down and fiddle with the cufflinks at my wrists. I have to get my mind off how good I think it’d feel to fuck her if I’m going to salvage my evening. I need a date, and if I’m going to get that, I’m going to have to put on some charm and bring the energy in the car down a touch.
"I wasn’t always wealthy. So, I do understand where your curiosity is coming from. And for what it’s worth, I never thought you were asking for anything.”
“Good.” She plays with a sequin still attached to the skirt of her dress. “Because I wasn’t. I’m doin’ just fine on my own. Am I where I thought I’d be at twenty-seven in life? No. But I’m OK. And I’ve got dreams. It’s just takin’ longer to get to them.”
“What are your dreams, Presley?” I ask, my voice coming out softer than I planned.
Her eyes flash as they meet mine. “Same as everyone’s I guess. Travel. A home of my own. I always thought I’d be a fashion designer. There’s just not enough out there for us plus-size women. I mean, it’s getting better. But …” She sighs and shrugs.
“Well, if you ever get those dreams off the ground, you already have my card.”
She laughs. “That’s true. Maybe this little field trip of ours was the universe’s way of putting a foot up my ass.”
“Maybe.” Hearing her voice out loud something similar to what I’d been thinking makes me even more sure that Presley is the answer, and I’m about to open my mouth and proposition her when she starts talking again.
“So, how did you go from being a regular guy to a guy with a driver and a fancy car?” she asks.
“It’s really not a very exciting story. I worked my butt off, got into a good school on a scholarship, befriended the right people, and just kept working until I got to where I am.”
“Sounds glamorous.”
I smile while simultaneously biting the inside of my lip. “Parts of it have been glamorous. But there's a hell of a lot of sitting at desks, taking meetings, and sacrificing relationships ..." The memory of being dumped barely an hour ago hits in a way it hasn't yet. And suddenly I feel ... empty. And not because I’m going to miss my relationship with Angeline, but because I failed at being a good boyfriend. Again. I hate failing.
Clearing my throat, I force the feeling away. "Anyway, we all have our own issues, I guess. No matter how much money we do or don't have."
"Oh, I'm sure," she says like she doesn't really believe me. "But when you have buckets of money, there are some pretty great ways to ease that pain."
"Is that so?"
"Oh yeah. I have Instagram. I see how some of those influencer people deal with their 'pain'." She puts the word in air quotes. "I reckon I'd be OK sufferin' too if I could do it in the Maldives."
I let out a laugh. "I’ll take your word for it. I've never been."
"Well, sir, that right there is a real tragedy. What's the point in workin' so hard and sacrificin’ if you don't do anything fancy and over the top to enjoy it?"
"I do plenty," I assure her, the weight of my watch heavy on my wrist. You like it better than me.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“I ski. I collect things. I read.”
She scrunches up her nose at me. And suddenly I feel like I’m doing this self-made billionaire thing all wrong. “What do you collect?”
“Watches.” I click the latch on the wrist back of my ridiculously expensive watch and slide it off my hand, handing it to her to look at. “This one is the pinnacle of my collection. I’m looking at moving into cars next.”
“In New York?” She inspects the watch and lifts her hand up and down like she’s taking the weight of it. “Where would you even keep them?”
“There are garages or even car clubs you can join where you all share a stake in the collection. It could be fun.”
“I’d rather go to the Maldives,” she says, handing me back the watch like it isn’t the equivalent value of a family home in the suburbs. I run my thumb over the watch face.
"I guess I just feel like there’s too much work left for me to do. I don’t have time to jet off to islands."
She lifts her brows. "In this day and age, you can work anywhere in the world as long as you have an internet connection. So I have a feelin’ that the only thing keepin’ you chained to that desk is you.”
“You might be right,” I say, slipping the watch into my coat pocket instead of putting it back on.
“But, hey … if you ever decide to finally take a break, and it turns out you need a friend to enjoy it with .... Hi!" She waves her fingers at me and laughs. "I'm just jokin'." She sits back and folds her arms across her middle before giving me a sideways glance. "Or am I?"
"I'll be sure to keep you in mind should I need an island partner."
"Platonic, of course. I just met you." I can see her in the dim light of the car, the way her eyes flicker and the corner of her mouth turns up in amusement. I wonder—not for the first time tonight—what the hell I'm actually doing. I seem to be running forward with no real plan, and what’s even worse than that, I’m stalling. I never stall. I’m a man who always goes after what he wants, period. But for some reason, I’m struggling to get the right words out around this girl. And I don’t know why.
"Separate rooms. Got it," I say, chuckling slightly as I look out the window to the nightscape of the city while I try to gather my thoughts. Just come out with it!
"Separate rooms," she echoes before tapping me on the arm to get my attention and giving me a serious look. "Forgive me if I'm wrong or out of line, but I get the feeling you've been through a lot tonight. If you need someone to talk to, I'm a good listener. No charge."
The comment—like almost everything about Presley—catches me off-guard. For a moment, I simply study her face. The way her lips curve into a friendly smile, the way her eyebrows hike slightly in expectation. She's beautiful. Stunning, even. But it's more than that. It's the way she's looking at me, with a genuine understanding and compassion that I didn't even realize I was missing until this moment. And coming from a stranger no less.
"I'm OK," I reply finally, but even I’m not sure I mean it.
“OK. You let me know if you change your mind.” Presley smiles before turning back to the window and letting the conversation between us fall silent.
Perhaps she finds this comfortable, but I'm not feeling so silently comfortable at all. Maybe it's because she seems so genuine, and I already know I got her into this car under false pretenses. Or maybe it's because I'm not thinking about Angeline the way I should be after what happened tonight. Hell, I'm not even thinking about the charity event right now. All I'm thinking about is Presley and my desire to keep her all to myself. Part of me wants to forget the importance of tonight and do something out of character like enjoying myself for once.
But that won't really help my career, will it?
"I have a proposal for you, Presley." The words give my conscience a twinge, but I push it down and forge on. I need tonight to go the way it was supposed to, feelings and desires be damned. "What do you say to me paying you the equivalent of what you'd earn in a month at the club if you'll come with me to a charity event tonight and pose as my girlfriend?"
It takes her a moment to answer, and when she does, her voice is low and cautious. "You want to payme to be your girlfriend?"
"I do."
"Sir, I'm not a hooker. And I have zero interest in bein’ any man’s girlfriend on account I’m on a zero-bullshit diet after the last couple of guys cheated on me."
"I never presumed that you were a hooker, and I’m sorry you were cheated on, but I’m not offering you a relationship either. I think I’ve made it clear how awful I am at those.” She tilts her head like she agrees with me, so I forge on. “I simply need someone to pretend to be my girlfriend and help me fulfill my obligations. See, my date fell through at the last moment—"
"Guess that explains the size-four dress."
"It does. And since you're clearly intelligent and capable, and we're already heading to the store to get you something to wear, I thought you might be able to pick something a little more high-end and fill that void for me."
"And you'll pay me to do it?"
"Yes."
"To wear a pretty dress and go to a party? No funny business?"
"That's right. I’ll be a gentleman all night. And you can keep the dress too."
"I get a party, a dress, and money? And all I have to do is say I'm your girlfriend?"
"Correct."
“Will there be food?”
“Full menu. Open bar.”
She lets out a heavy sigh as she thinks on it for a long moment, her Cupid’s bow lips twisting from side to side before she looks back up at me. "You know what? Sign me up, Carson Myles. I'm gonna be the best damn girlfriend you've ever had," she says, a slow smile spreading across her features as her eyes light up.
I can't help but return her smile. "I'm sure you will be."
Presley grins and sits back, seemingly pleased until she suddenly leans in again, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If I'm gonna pull this off, I need to know everythin'. Tell me about this charity event we're headed to."
I take a deep breath and launch into the details, telling her about the organization, the mission, the cause. I tell her about the people I'm working with, the people I'm hoping to impress. And at the end of my ramble, I look over to find her expression thoughtful.
"So basically, it's a bunch of rich people in fancy clothes talking 'bout themselves, right?”
I laugh. "Basically, yeah. But your job isn't to talk. It's to act like you're my doting girlfriend and look like you’re having a good time even though you'll likely be bored out of your mind. I'll take care of the rest."
"Sounds easy enough," she says, chewing her lip. “I can be arm candy.”
“You’ll be exquisite arm candy.”
Her eyes widen as she lifts her eyes to mine, and I can tell she's nervous as hell now. I can't help but reach out and cover her hand with mine reassuringly.
“What’re you doing?” Her cheeks turn pink. “You said no funny business.”
"And I’m a man of my word. But I figured we should get some practice in since we’re fake dating now," I say, trying to cover up the fact that I touched her without thinking, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. "You know, so we look comfortable with each other when we arrive. We don’t want people asking questions if we’re stiff."
"Oh," she says, relaxing her hand beneath mine as she gives me a smile and shifts a little closer to me. "Good call."
And although we’re technically still strangers, I can't stop my heart from pounding when I catch her scent, a mix of fruit and floral that has me breathing in deeply. I don't know if this is the best plan I've ever had or if it’s a disaster waiting to happen. But I do know that there’s something about Presley that I’m not ready to walk away from. And treating this like a business deal might just be the key to a successful relationship.
Presley
“You’re short.” Carson’s statement carries an undertone of surprise when I step out of the dressing room in a blue, floor-length dress that I don’t even want to know the price of. When we arrived, the assistant picked out a few different styles for me to try on, all in varying shades of blue. Since the dress he tried to hand me earlier was also blue, I’m guessing this guy has a thing for the color. I’m more partial to purple, but hey, if he’s paying, we’ll go with blue.
“No shit, Sherlock. Of course, I’m short. The top of my head barely reaches your ear when I’m in platform heels. Barefoot, I’m barely five and a half feet.” I lift up on my toes to simulate shoes and look at him expectantly. “Well?”
“Yeah. You look taller now.”
I roll my eyes. “About the dress! I thought you rich guys were s’pose to be smart.”
“Smart, yes. Mind readers, no.” His expression is softer than his words as his eyes travel down the length of me then back up again. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t give me a little thrill to have those eyes on me. Carson Myles is head to toe deliciousness, and I dare any red-blooded woman to look at him and not get a little weak-kneed.
“The dress looks great on you,” he says, and I detect a hint of gravel in his tone that I really dig.
“You want me to try on another?” I ask, turning in a slow circle so he can get a three-sixty view. I feel his eyes all over me, and it heats my skin. “There’s one with a higher back?” I glance over my shoulder and catch his eyes glued to my rotund ass. They fly up to meet mine, and he clears his throat before he speaks.
“The low back works great.”
I grin and turn back to face him, wondering what the hell I think I’m doing when we just agreed that this is a platonic paid situation. “OK. I’ll just get my shoes back on and—”
“Oh no,” he says immediately. “You can’t wear the stripper heels. I’ll get you something new and appropriate.” He signals for the assistant to gather some shoes and she very quickly scurries off like a little mouse.
“But I like the stripper heels,” I counter. “Plus, I can’t wear new shoes to an event without breaking them in. I’ll get blisters for days.”
“You won’t get blisters from these,” the attendant says, somehow appearing out of nowhere at my feet holding a pair of black, red-bottomed shoes. “They feel like butter.”
“How many people put their feet in butter to know that’s a comparison?” I ask, lifting one foot as she crouches and slides the shoes on each foot like I’m Cinderella and these are my glass slippers. “Oh my god.” I move a step side to side. “Now I want to put my feet in butter to compare. These are great!”
Carson chuckles and holds a hand out for me. “We’ll take them. Can you put all of this on my account?”
“Certainly, sir,” the woman says, practically bowing as she shakes Carson’s hand and money gets exchanged like they’re doing some kind of drug deal. Rich people are weird.
“Why didn’t you just hand it to her?” I ask after Carson leads me out of the building toward the waiting car. His hand on the small of my exposed back feels real and warm, and I catch myself wishing this was a real date instead of just some paid gig. It could be nice to date up in life for a change.
“Hand her what?” he asks once we’re settled into the back seat again.
“The tip. Why didn’t you just hand it to her like you would at a restaurant?”
He taps the glass barrier separating us from the driver as a signal to leave. “I don’t know. It’s just how it’s done.”
“Hmm. I think I’d wave it in front of their face and make them snatch it before I pull it away. It’d be more fitting that way with the way they grovel about.”
He quirks a magnificent brow. “You didn’t like being waited on?”
“It was OK. But I could have put my own shoes on. That part was—oh no! My shoes!”
Carson immediately lifts a receiver in the armrest and connects to the driver, telling him to double back and fetch my dress and shoes after he drops us off. I watch him put the receiver back when he’s done before he turns to me and smiles. “Better?”
“That must be nice.”
“What?”
“Speaking a command and having someone jump to it.”
“I like to see it as delegating tasks I don’t have time for.”
“Does anyone ever say no to you?”
His mouth turns downward as he thinks for a moment. “Not usually.”
“Jesus. That must be somethin’. People say no to me all the time.”
***
It's not long before we arrive at the charity event. In my mind, I’d imagined we'd be in a function room at some fancy hotel and it'd all be set up kind of like a wedding. But the moment we step out of the car, my jaw drops. The hotel’s grand entrance is lined with a red carpet that leads to elegant white marble stairs with towering ivory pillars along the sides. Photographers are taking pictures of all the guests like we're at a movie premiere, and we have to stop and pose in front of a makeshift wall for said pictures like we somehow matter.
"You look amazing," Carson murmurs near my ear as we pose against the matte black backdrop that's covered with shiny gold sponsor names. "Just relax and smile like you belong here."
"Kinda hard when I don't belong here," I say through my teeth as I grin for the flashing cameras. "But I'll try."
He leans in closer and presses a soft kiss against my cheek. It feels like my brain short circuits.
"What was that for?"
"A diversion tactic. You're not thinking of the cameras anymore are you?"
“What?”
He grins, and I laugh because he's right. For a moment there, the entire world fell away, and there was only him and the warmth on my cheek from his lips. My god, he’s so damn hot!
"I think that’s enough pictures for now. Let's go inside. I'll introduce you to some friends before I let the wolves circle."
“That’s not helping with my nerves, Carson.”
He chuckles in a teasing way and takes my arm in his before he leads us up the stairs, guiding me through old-fashioned doors that open onto what can only be called an enchanted wonderland. The walls sparkle like stars against an endless night, lit up by gorgeous twinkling chandeliers. Massive overflowing flower arrangements dot every tabletop, while the tables themselves are draped in flowing silk cloths of all colors, each topped with ornate silverware and vintage stemware glinting in candlelight.
I let out an awed breath, craning my neck from side to side as I take it all in. There's a hum of chatter as beautiful people talk and laugh like long lost friends who all share the secret of what it takes to truly be happy. I feel out of my depth and overwhelmed by everything that surrounds me, and I wonder how on earth I'm going to get through this night without making a fool of myself. Each person here looks more elegant than the last.
"You made it!" A man with light brown hair and piercing green eyes holds his arms out in greeting, clapping Carson on the upper arm and shaking his hand at the same time as he leans in and adds, "I thought you were going to make me do this on my own with Brody." He jerks his head backward to an older man—maybe mid-forties—sitting at a table alone with a whiskey in hand. The man lifts his glass to Carson in acknowledgment, so I figure he's the Brody they're talking about.
"I wouldn't do that to you," Carson replies with a gentle smile. "Is Eve not here?"
"Ladies room," the man says, looking to me and smiling kindly. "Hiding most likely. She hates these pretentious events." That last part is mostly said to me, and it puts me at ease immediately.
Carson places what feels like a possessive hand on the small of my back, his thumb moving lightly and thrillingly against my bare skin. "This is Presley," he says, drawing me a little closer. "My girlfriend."
The man's brows lift slightly, and that ease I felt a moment before is suddenly replaced with nerves. How am I supposed to pretend to be the girlfriend of a man I literally met less than an hour ago? "Nice to meet you, Presley," he says, holding out his hand to take mine.
"And this is Drew," Carson explains. "He's one of my colleagues."
"Oh! You're a venture capital guy too?" I ask, not missing the amused quirk of his mouth as he raises my hand to his lips.
"Yes. I'm a venture capital guy too," he says, covering the top of my hand with his before letting me go and stepping back. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say, trying to remove the New York from my accent by annunciating clearly.
"Have you seen any of the big bosses yet?" Carson asks, seeming to pull me a step behind him as Drew stands up straighter and shifts his curious gaze away from me to quickly scan the room.
"Goodman was hovering around the bar about fifteen minutes ago, and I haven't seen Pierce yet. You haven't missed much."
"That's a relief," Carson says, craning his neck to try and find the name partners he mentioned needing to impress tonight. "I'm going to do a lap before we need to take our seats. Tell Eve I look forward to seeing her during at least one of the courses."
Drew chuckles. "That's if she doesn't convince me to leave after the entree," he says as Carson chuckles and starts guiding me through the crowd.
"Who's Eve?" I ask quietly.
"Drew's fiancée. She and Drew are the brains behind the Endearing Badger Rideshare service."
"No shit!" I exclaim. "We use that at the club for the girls to get home at night."
"She has a great mind for business."
"Wow. You know some crazy smart people," I say, suddenly feeling even more out of my element. How am I supposed to make conversation with these people? The most I've ever done is implement a barcode system on the coat hangers at the strip club to make it easier for me to find everyone's stuff at the end of the night when they're leaving drunk. I am so in over my head here.
The mild panic threading through my veins must show on my face because Carson pauses and turns to look at me with a reassuring smile.
"Don't feel like you need to compete with anyone here," he says in a low voice. "These people are no different than you and me, they just have a little more money. As long as you remember that, you'll be fine."
"You and me? Carson. These are your people. I'm the odd one out here."
He places his hands on either side of my face, crowding my vision so he's all I can see. "I know I've thrown you in the deep end here, but I promise you, I haven't always been able to buy a seat at these tables. I worked my ass off to get here, and I still feel like I'm trying to prove I belong. So believe me, I get it. I also know that each and every one of these people eat and shit and burp and fart the same as everyone else on the planet. So as long as you set your shoulders straight and hold your head up high, nothing about them can get to you. Can you do that for me?"
"I think so," I say, setting my shoulders back just like he said while taking a deep breath to try and channel my inner Eliza Doolittle. I may not be educated, but I know I'm smart. I can fool these rich people into thinking I'm a cultured lady and not a coat check girl at a strip club if I believe in myself enough to do it.
"I need you to be a little more certain than that." He rubs his thumbs against my cheeks, and the sensation makes me feel a little woozy. I lift my hands to his forearms and hold on like I don't want him to stop touching me.
"I can do it."
"Good girl," he says, leaning in and dropping a kiss on my forehead. Is it bad I wish he'd stop dropping kisses and just stick his tongue down my throat already?
Carson takes my hand firmly in his and leads me farther into the room, introducing me to important people and flashing that blinding smile at them while I try to remember names and not stumble on my elegant heels. I make a point to speak calmly and clearly, keeping my answers to any questions as minimal as possible. It's a lot of 'pleasure to meet you's’ along with interested nods and not much else. Carson wasn't wrong when he said my primary job was to stand next to him and look pretty.
When the soft music gives way to the tapping of a microphone and a feedback squeak, our attention is turned to the front of the room where a man who looks a lot like the dad in Gilmore Girls welcomes everyone to the 'Goodman Pierce' charity event. The guests seem to find hilarity in that, and it's only when Carson leans in to explain the company name is Pierce Goodman and the man on stage is Bartholomew Goodman.
"He makes this joke every year."
"And I'll bet they laugh like this every year too."
Carson chuckles. "They sure do."
Mr. Goodman gives a long and boring speech about the importance of philanthropy and how amazing his company is for giving a shit. Then he invites us all to take our seats so the entrees can be served. But the speeches don't stop there.
Goodman throws it over to a couple of other partners of the firm who bang on about why their charity of choice is the best one, followed by lots of pats on the back because these rich people are so benevolent enjoying gold-flecked caviar with free-flowing Dom Pérignon.
When the food is initially set in front of me, I'm not quite sure what to do with it. I could probably pay my portion of this month's rent with this meal alone. But when I lift my glass and take that first fragrant sip, I stop judging the extravagance and start enjoying it. My long-suffering taste buds are shocked alive, and the bubbles flow down my throat like I’m drinking a memory. I close my eyes and just savor the feeling.
"I felt like that too the first time I tasted it," a woman says a couple of seats next to me in a hushed stage whisper. "The price tag is ridiculous. But that first sip ... it's something, all right."
I set down my glass and press my lips together. "You must be Eve."
She's beautiful, with eyes a similar hue to Drew's and a barely-there makeup look that perfectly accentuates her subtle features. I get the sense that she dresses to blend in, but there's something about her that commands your attention that a simple black long-sleeve dress and matching turban can't take away. But what strikes me most about her is the sliver of pink hair I can see poking out from under that hair covering. I feel like we're in a secret club of misfits hiding in plain sight and immediately want to be her best friend.
"And you must be the lovely guest Drew was talking about." She smiles and extends her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Presley."
