Page 17 of Fake it for Keeps

Della pointed to one of the pages that outlined the boundaries. “The touching and kissing for the deal have been outlined,” Della said. “Anything else is up to you. If the client attempts to violate the contract, it must be paid in full and the contract will be terminated. And the client will no longer be welcome at my agency.”

I stared at Colt, waiting for his response. “But if it’s a mutual thing, that’s okay, correct?” He asked the question while staring directly at me.

“Of course,” Della said.

He really thought I was going to fall into his bed. Not a chance. This was business. Revenge wrapped in a lucrative contract.

I pressed the pen to paper and signed my name in one smooth motion.

Hallie Bellrose.

There. Done.

Colt leaned forward and added his signature below mine, his handwriting bold and confident. Of course it was. He thought he was running this show.

“Congratulations,” Della said, practically glowing. “This is going to be a wonderful partnership.”

Partnership. Right.

I stood up, suddenly needing distance from the table and Colt’s penetrating gaze. “When do I need to make my first appearance with you?”

“Right now,” Colt said casually, like he’d just asked me to pass the salt.

I blinked. “What? No. I’m not—I’m not ready. I’m wearing jeans, I don’t have any makeup on.”

“I came prepared.” He gestured to a garment bag hanging on the back of one of the chairs. I hadn’t even noticed it when I’d walked in. “Everything you need is in there.”

“You brought me clothes?” My voice came out higher than I intended. “That’s pretty presumptuous of you.”

“I like to be prepared for success.” He stood and pointed to the contract we’d just signed. “Section four, paragraph three. You’ll wear what I choose to all events, within the standards of polite society, obviously. And you’ll appear at all events with at least two hours’ notice. I will of course provide you with a suitable wardrobe. And of course, you’ll keep the clothing after the contract is over. Consider it a perk.” He looked up, his expression hard and businesslike. “Except for this first one. This one is mandatory. No notice required.”

Gone was the flirty playboy from the gala. This was CEO Colt, all sharp edges and no-nonsense authority.

The shift was jarring.

And kind of hot.

No. Stop it. Down girl.

“Fine,” I said through clenched teeth. “Is there somewhere for me to change?”

Della showed me to a private bathroom down the hall. I grabbed the garment bag and locked myself inside, my hands shaking slightly as I unzipped it.

The outfit inside was beautiful. Expensive. A cream-colored cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my share of rent, paired with tailored black pants that looked like they’d been made for me specifically. There were shoes too—designer heels that were somehow exactly my size—and a small makeup bag with high-end products.

How did he know my size? Had he guessed? Asked Della?

I stripped out of my jeans and pulled on the new clothes, watching my reflection transform in the mirror. The sweater hugged my breasts while somehow diminishing my waistline, the V-neck dipping low enough to show a hint of cleavage without being trashy. The pants fit perfectly, making my legs look longer and my waist smaller.

As simple as the clothes were, I looked high class in them. Put together. Like someone who belonged on Colt Jesson’s arm.

But as I stared at myself, insecurity crept in. I wasn’t used to wearing things that clung like this. I preferred looser, comfortable clothes that let me blend into the background. Clothes that didn’t draw attention to my body, to my size, to all the parts of me I’d spent years learning to accept but still sometimes struggled with.

This outfit didn’t let me hide. It put everything on display.

And Colt was going to look at me like he could see everything.

I took a deep breath and turned to look at my ass in the mirror. Big butts were in these days, but they hadn’t always been. I liked my butt, and unlike the round asses that were trendy in Laurenwood, mine was all natural.