“No, I don’t, but that’s not even the worst part. I hardly dare move in case my boobs fall out or I flash my panties through the split.”
Sandra waves away my concerns with a careless wave of her hand. “You worry too much. I worked an entire Halloween shift in that thing last year and nothing popped out. I did get a much better than usual round of tips, though. Now come on, let’s go.”
I shake my head so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t roll off. “Absolutely not. No way. I’ll do another forfeit. I’ll do anything else. Make me clean the bar’s toilets for a month. Make me eat a raw onion. Just not this.”
Her grin sharpens. “If you refuse to do this, the next penalty is worse.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Worse? How could it possibly be worse?”
Sandra leans against the doorframe, her blue eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Let’s see. It would be to walk down Oxford Street. Dressed exactly like this. In the middle of the day, when it’s full of sober shoppers.”
I stare at her, horrified at the very thought of it. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would,” Sandra says. She crosses her arms, her expression smug. “So, what’ll it be, Pippa? Embarrass yourself in front of a few drunk strangers, or strut down Oxford Street in broad daylight like you’re auditioning for some questionable cabaret?”
I groan, pressing my forehead to the cool wall. The image of me in this dress parading past Zara and Boots while mothers shield their children’s eyes is enough to make me want to sink into the ground. She’s right. I’d never live it down. I’d probably end up on someone’s TikTok compilation titled Cringe Moments in London. At least here I’m at least half-drunk and capable of Dutch courage.
“Fine,” I mutter. “The bar. I’ll take the bar.”
Sandra claps her hands and does a little shuffling dance. “That’s my girl.”
“I hate you.”
“No. You love me.”
I give her a dirty look. “Not at this moment, I don’t.”
Ignoring me, she sweeps out of the break room and demands that I walk towards her. “Right. Shoulders back. Chest out, though you don’t need much help there.” Her eyes flick down, and she whistles. “Bloody hell, Pippa, those things are defying gravity.”
She is behaving like she’s my personal drill sergeant or something. I cross my arms, which only makes the neckline plunge lower. “Sandra,” I say in a pleading tone.
“Own it,” she says firmly. “Every man in there has fantasized about Jessica Rabbit. Now you get to make their dreams come true.”
I groan. “Do you really think this is boosting my confidence?”
“Yes. Trust me. Walk tall, swing your hips, and I promise you that you’ll have every man in the place drooling.”
I want to argue the point, but then Peter’s face flashes through my mind. That look he gave me was a look full of shock, yes, but there was also something else there. Something I’ve never seen from him before, not in all the years we’ve been coming here. His eyes had lingered, darkened even, like he was seeing me for the first time.
The memory sparks the tiniest flicker of confidence. Maybe Sandra is right. Maybe I can pull this off. That thought, plus the alcohol buzzing through my veins, makes me nod.
“Ok. Fine. I’ll do it,” I say with a resigned sigh.
Sandra claps again and whoops like a delighted child. “That’s my girl. One last thing.” She pulls a tube of lipstick out of her pocket and proceeds to apply the chili red lipstick on my lips. She leans back to inspect her handiwork. “Hmmm … you really do have the perfect Jessica Rabbit pout. Come on then, let’s find your lucky victim.”
We reach the end of the corridor, and she stops. I wait while she peeks out of the door leading into the bar, and scans the room like a hunter surveying his prey. I hover nervously behind her, resisting the urge to bolt back into the break room and barricade the door with the mop bucket.
“There,” she says finally, pointing across the room.
I follow her finger, and nearly choke on my own tongue.
Seated at a corner table, half hidden in shadow, is a man who looks like he’s been cut straight out of a glossy magazine. He’s clearly tall with broad shoulders. Even from this distance, I can tell his suit is quietly expensive. All sleek charcoal with a crisp white shirt beneath. He looks relaxed just sitting there, one arm draped over the back of the settee, and the other nursing a glass of something amber. Yet he radiates authority.
His hair is dark, slightly tousled in that deliberate way that screams effort disguised as effortless. And his face - good God, his face. He looks like Mother Nature carved him herself as a gift to women everywhere. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth made for sinful things. But it’s his eyes that really catch me. Even across the crowded bar, I can see the intensity in them. They are a bright emerald green, but right then, his beautiful face is fixed in a scowl that makes him look tense, dangerous, and – bad news for me – wholly unapproachable.
My heart sinks.
“Not him,” I whisper in a panic. “Come on, San. Not him. Please.”
