“Juliette, you’re lookingverylovely today.”
Peter is the first person I see when I get to the office, and I immediately regret putting in the extra effort. Peter is an expert at straddling the line between genuine compliments and harassment, leaving you questioning whether or not you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the additional sleep and time this morning, or the fact that I’m not blinking back exhaustion, or how these heels actually bring me about flush with his height, but I manage to catch Peter off guard with my response.
“Thank you, Peter,” I say, brushing past him. “You are lookingverylovely, too.”
Walking past him, I nearly run head-on into Quinn, the other team lead for our department. She’s a tall woman with curly black hair and deep brown skin, and she laughs, raising her eyebrows at me and jerking her head toward Peter like,good going.
I smile back at her, grateful to feel like someone is even slightly on my side in this, but Quinn’s been dodging my requests to join her team for ages now. So, in a way, she’s part of the reason I’m still stuck working with Peter every day.
When I get to my desk, I’m awash in emails like always, but now I feel energized by the task, sipping on my coffee—which was left for me in my travel mug on the counter—and quickly working through tasks.
Finalizing communications guidelines. Reviewing content to go out to the press. Bouncing back and forth between different contacts, trying to get a spot in the upcoming publication for a new client.
My favorite client right now is a young woman who started her own bakery with nothing but a dream and her grandmother’s croissant recipe, which has those pastries selling like hotcakes. I’ve been working hard to get her an interview with Food Network Magazine, but the guy I usually talk to—Scott—is out on paternity leave, and that’s made things a touch more difficult.
I’m brainstorming other opportunities—maybe a local Chicago foodie page?—and so immersed in what I’m doing that I don’t notice Peter standing at the edge of my desk until he clears his throat.
This time, because I’m not so sleep deprived and wired, instead of startling at the noise, I just finish the email I’m working on then turn and look up at him, raising an eyebrow.
“Can I help you?”
Peter stares at me for a moment, then sighs and says, “We just got a call from Burch Hospitals and Clinics. They’re considering our agency and specifically requested thatyoube the one to come over for the consultation. And they requested that you come for the meeting now.”
I blink at him. BHC would be a huge account, so it makes sense that he’s capitulating to them about having a meeting right away, even on a Friday. But it’s too much of a coincidence, right?
Maybe Russell is sweetening the deal by pulling strings for me. Getting me a large account here. If I got BHC under my belt, maybe I’d have enough weight to swing a change over to Quinn’s team. Peter watches me as I pack up my things, and I can’t shake the sense that maybe I don’twanta large account here, even if it meant I could move teams.
Sure, it would be nice to be treated a bit better, but something inside me is itching to go somewhere else. Maybe even to make my own way in the PR space. Put my marketing degree to work, too.
When I get down to the street, I almost walk to the parking garage through muscle memory, then remember my car is in a junkyard somewhere. Sighing, I shift my bag to my other shoulder and pull out my phone, getting ready to call a ride share.
“Juliette Harper?”
I look up from my phone to find a car in front of me. Instead of rolling down the passenger side window, like an Uber driver might, this man gets out, and this is when I realize that it’s notjusta car, but a Mercedes, and he’s not just a guy, but is wearing a full suit, circling the vehicle, opening a door to the backseat for me.
“Dr. Burch sent me,” he says, moving his hand in acome-ongesture. “I’m to take you over to Gold Coast to find a gown for this evening. And there’s an appointment for your hair and nails.”
This has to be the most elaborate kidnapping scheme I’ve ever witnessed. I take a step back from the car, shaking my head. “Yeah, no, I’m not just?—”
But it’s at that moment that someone in the backseat dips their head down, looking up at me with wide hazel eyes. I smell her simple lilac perfume before I fully realize who it is.
“Bitch, you’d better get in this car,” Ettie says, a giddy grin on her face. “No way am I letting you ruin this for us.”
Shocked—not for the first time today—I numbly stumble over to the car, sliding in beside her, eyes adjusting to the dark when the man shuts the door for me.
“For us?” I repeat, turning to her.
“Uh, yeah,” she says, her smile wide. “Yoursugar daddydidn’t want you shopping or getting your hair done alone. So, hepaid meto come along with you before the stall opens tonight. Let me repeat that—hepaid meto come hang out with you.”
“I…”
It takes a moment for the information to sink in, for me to realize that Russell coordinated all this. An evening off work. Getting my hair and nails done. Wordlessly, the driver slides back into the front and picks something up off the passenger side seat, turning around and handing it to me.
Mob style, it’s an envelope with a stack of crisp, hundred-dollar bills, and a note scrawled in Russell’s surprisingly legible handwriting.
My card is on file at the boutiques, and for hair and nails. Use the cash for lunch, anything else you need. Meant to tell you the other night—my fiancée will need to look the part.
I swallow down my surprise. Of course—Russell doesn’t want to bring me to a charity gala with his rich friends if I’m wearing a borrowed dress from Ettie or Sienna that will pull too tight in all the wrong places. He wants me to look like I would if I was with him.
