“Like Dylan and his secretary?” I ask, and Rachel shakes her head.
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Damien Graves is attractive, and since you started working for him, you’ve changed.”
“Changed how?” I ask quickly.
“You’re more confident. You dress better. You’re happier,” she says.
“Well, yeah, I can afford to pay my bills, and I don’t have to eat peanut butter sandwiches and buttered pasta twice a week anymore,” I tell her.
“It really has nothing to do with wanting to look good for a good-looking boss?” she presses with a smile.
“Just because I am doing better does not mean a man had anything to do with it,” I say. But if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t be where I’m at if it weren’t for this particular man.
I suddenly realize that the night at the Opal Room followed by the grumpy cold shoulder the next day at work followed by the almost kiss in the dressing room and then the cold shoulder again is really taking a toll on me.
I really am putting my all into this job. I do that with every job, but this one in particular, I’ve gone above and beyond. That kind of effort deserves to be acknowledged. Rewarded, as Rachel put it. Contract or no contract, the benefits should go both ways. If he wants me to smile, dress a certain way, and devote myself to him, I’m going to need my stipulations as well, starting with that grumpy demeanor of his.
Most of all, I need more respect. I know he wouldn’t admit it, but Damien needs me as much as I need this job. He wouldn’t be paying me this much if he didn’t.
Chapter 15
Ellie
Iwear the gold dress to work the next day for exactly two reasons. One, I look really good in it. Wearing a gold-colored dress is not something I would have chosen to wear, unless it was for a New Year’s Eve party in my early twenties, but I love the way it makes me feel. Understatedly classy and subtly expensive.
Two. Damien knows I look good in it. He hand-picked this dress for me, and I intend to walk through the revolving door of that hotel with my head high and my tits out on display. I’ll make sure he notices me and what I do for him. If he doesn’t, I’ll remind him.
I pick up coffee for both of us in the lobby, smiling at everyone who smiles at me. Which, by the way, is a lot of people. Most of whom are not women. Am I breaking one of the rules? Not technically. It’s not after hours. I can’t keep my eyes on him and him alone when he’s not here yet.
I’m here early today and with plenty of time to spare. I ride the elevator up to my office, double-fisting coffees. I can’t help but have a little spring in my step. My chin is high, my back is arched, my hips are swaying, and my heels are clicking. I lookgood.But more than that, I feel good.
I walk into my office and stop abruptly, nearly dropping the two coffees on the floor. A clothes rack displays all the things Damien ordered at the boutique the other day. There must be thirty outfits here; from dresses to skirts to shoes and even lingerie.
I set the cups down on my desk and walk over to the rack to investigate. It’s beautiful. I check the tags to confirm that every article of clothing and every shoe is my size. I realize this is real and not a joke at all.
“Oh hello,” a woman’s voice comes from behind the wrack of clothing; making me jump out of my skin.
“Jesus, you scared me,” I say, pressing my shaky hand to my chest. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Jocelyn,” she says. She’s a tall, thin woman with lips that scream plastic surgery. Her blond hair falls in a short, pin-straight bob just above her shoulders.
“Jocelyn,” I repeat. “Are you from the boutique? Because this is…amazing. If it really is for me, I mean.”
Jocelyn studies me with a smile that fades a little at my words.
“No. I work with Damien,” she answers, and a jolt of jealousy pulses through my veins. I don’t know why. A lot of people work here. I guess it’s the way she said it.I work with Damien.Not,I work for Damien. There’s a difference. I don’t like it.
“Really?” I ask as I look through the line of dresses. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Probably because I’m always working,” she says with a smile, and our eyes meet. It’s subtle girl communication. Fake smiles. Eyes hot and hard. There are beats of silence while we reload verbal ammunition. It’s the chick equivalent of a dick-measuring contest. For the record, mine’s bigger.
“I haven’t heard your name before either,” I tell her, taking a dress off the rack and holding it up to myself.
“I work in logistics,” she says.
Hmm.
I’m not sure what to think of that, but I honestly don’t really care. “Thanks for bringing me my new wardrobe,” I say, hoping she’ll find the door and leave. No such luck. Jocelyn studies me a moment longer before making her way around the clothesline and walking slowly in front of the fish tank, tapping the glass, and scaring an angel fish in the process.
