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You know… this dress fits her well. Perhapstoowell. “Is this appropriate?” I ask Pamela the stylist, waving a hand down my assistant’s body, lingering where the cream fabric nips in at her slender waist then flares out with her hips. The sight makes my throat catch.
Pamela hums and taps her chin with a lacquered nail. In her early fifties, with coiffed blonde hair and pink lipstick, this woman has observed the Bamford set for decades. She knows our ways. “We’ll have to hide the tattoo.”
I cross to the desk where we laid out the accessories ready. There are diamond bracelets, drop earrings, and a pearl-studded watch. Silk scarves and a designer clutch.
“Rusty?” Felicity asks, her eyes going wide. She wraps one hand around her wrist, like she’s protecting her cat from us villains. “What’s wrong with him?”
Besides the tiny scratch he gave her thumb once? I still haven’t forgiven the little flea bag for that, even if Felicity insists it was an accident.
“Nothing, except that the Bamfords think tattoos are for lower life forms.” I nod at the desk. “Pick something to cover him up. Whatever you choose, you can keep.”
That’s fair, right? And not at all a roundabout way to give my assistant gifts.
Leaning against the desk, I wait as Felicity stomps over, wobbling in the heels I ordered. Her cheeks are flushed, and she scowls at the accessories. She won’t meet my eye.
“Lower life forms,” she mutters, prodding at the bracelets. “So gross.”
“I don’t think that,” I hear myself say, as if my plucky assistant cares what her boring, repressed boss thinks of her appearance. Felicity Lovegood is pure sunshine, and no one could dim her glow.
Not even Pamela and I with our etiquette lessons. Not even the Bamfords. That’s why I asked for this favor.
Felicity is snob-proof.
Case in point: “I would never wear any of these,” she declares, waving at the priceless jewelry. “And if I did, I’d get mugged in two seconds flat.”
She would? Is her area really that bad?
No, I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.
The desk creaks as I lean back, my brain whirring. Could I pay for her to lodge closer to the office? Or nearer to my building, maybe? My driver could bring us both here in the mornings. Would she ever allow that?
“There’s a make-up alternative,” Pamela says, cutting through my daydream of Felicity piling into the backseat of my car each morning, fresh-faced and happy. Safe from mugging, her skirt riding up her thighs as she sits close to me, filling my lungs with her red berry scent. “But you’d have to be careful not to stain the dress.”
They huddle together, strategizing. Outside, the wind lashes the skyscraper windows, dulled to a faint roar by the thick glass. In the distance, lightning spears through the night sky.
A minute later, Felicity is so solemn as she fixes the pearl-studded watch around her wrist. It covers most of Rusty, with only the tips of his ears poking out.
Though she usually never stops grinning, Felicity has barely smiled once since we met Pamela in here. In fact, she’s been acting strangely all week, chatting less and avoiding my eyes. Her shoulders have been permanently slumped.
Does she regret agreeing to this? Well, who can blame her?
“Give us a moment please, Pamela.”
The stylist’s footsteps echo away down the hall, and I wait until the water cooler gurgles far away by the elevator. Felicity fiddles with the watch, setting the time by the clock on the wall. Her dark hair is flawless.
I miss those pink streaks.
“I realize this may be unpleasant for you.” With Pamela gone, I speak more softly, voice hushed. Though there’s one less person in the room, my office suddenly feels smaller. More intimate. “But you can change your mind. As I said, it won’t affect your work.”
Felicity chews on her bottom lip, and when her eyes flick up to mine, I grip the edge of the desk harder.
God.
Thisis why I rarely stay late in the office. I’d rather finish my work at home, with a safe amount of distance between Felicity and I. Otherwise, the hush of the building and the darkened skies, the knowledge that we’re alone… they get to me.
Not appropriate.
“It’s fine,” Felicity says. “No problemo. I can play dress up for a weekend—I did it all the time as a kid. I can pretend to be someone I’m not.”
