Thank you, Captain Obvious."I'm not an assistant, either, but here we are."
His shrug is dismissive. "I suppose you can't do any worse than these atrocious jeans."
We both chuckle at that, and I abandon my tablet to the seat of the chair I vacate and make my way to the racks.
Exactly ten minutes of hunting later, I've put together a decent-sized pile of options for him to pick from. He eyes some of it with distaste, which is fair, because we can't all like all the fashion circling at any given time, but I watch him disappear into the dressing room with a strange sense of hope fluttering in my chest. Maybe I've got more talents than I initially thought.
Take that, mom. Spending so much time on social media actually paid off after all.
He comes out of the dressing room wearing two completely different vibes on his upper and lower halves, and I realize that this man has likely never once in his life picked out his own clothes in adulthood.
"Quick question," I ask, emboldened by this false sense of security I have in knowing he needs me—and there's likely not another soul on this planet willing to work with him on such short notice. "Are you by any chance colorblind?"
He looks like I've slapped him in the face with a rotting tuna fish. "Colorblind?" That stony stare turns down on his clothes, and he frowns. "Is there something wrong? I wore these colors when I originally debuted."
Again with the terrible stylists. They're rampant in the kpop industry, even abroad. "I'm not touching that with a twenty-foot pole, sir. Just know that's not a matching set of colors, and we're going to file that away undernever doing that again."
He's still protesting quietly as I shove him into the dressing room and follow after him, rifling through the stack of clothes I gave him until I find the crop top he was wearing earlier. I then search around and spot the black slacks I had them pull off a mannequin and shove them at him.
"Here. Put this on."
I leave him standing there like a mannequin himself as I leave the dressing room and search out my tablet again, planning to pick up where I left off.
Ironically enough, it's on a section of the list calledIncompetence and Slacking: Things Kobayashi Does Not Tolerate.
"Oh, this oughta be good," I mutter, sliding my finger down the scroll bar to take in the notes, line by line.
I make it through this section and another section calledHow To Train The Dragon To Listenwhich is really just this guy complaining that Kai never listened to a word he said, before someone clearing their throat grabs my attention.
"I feel like a teenager."
I turn around and instantly realize this was a mistake.
"You look like you took years off your age."
It's not flattery or a lie. It's the truth. The crop top accentuates his tiny, toned waist, while still clinging to the slight frame he carries around, and the cut of the sleeves makes him look like he's got more muscle than he actually does. The pants are supposed to hang low on his hips, but he's tugged them up and cinched them to stay there. Not that it looks bad, but it could look better.
"Hmmm," I muse, hand on my chin as I circle him to buy myself time. "Not bad, actually. The point is to make you look young and hip and popular. At least, that's what your concept says, in the memo the company sent to your last assistant."
"I don't like it. It's not my style." He tugs at the shirt, clearly displeased with how it clings to his torso, and it snaps back into place when he releases it. "Why can't my concept be sophisticated and mature?"
I cock a brow at his ridiculous man-tantrum. "I'm not the company. Take it up with them."If you can find time in your packed fucking schedule."I'm just the assistant."
His lips split in a grin. "Why don't you shoot them an email for me, Miss Stone? Since, as you pointed out, you're the assistant here."
He's got me in my own trap. "Damn." Foiled by my own words. "I wonder who exactlyisin charge of that shit?"
He shrugs. "I think it's the artist management team, or maybe the producers. I don't know, not my job to know."
Somehow, I seriously doubt this controlling taskmaster has no idea who to reach out to. He's just making things hard on me to challenge me, see if I can handle it. I'm not letting him win this one. I swore I'd give it my all, and dammit, I have to make it to the finish line so I can get that bonus. If he wants to fire me after that five-day prelim period, he's more than welcome to.
Well, as long as I can find work for someone else soon after. Surely putting this company on my resumé will do a little to undo the damage the bastard did to my reputation.
"Fine," I grit out through my teeth, "I'll figure it out."
I turn around and start to storm over to where my tablet awaits, hoping Arista Simmons can direct me to the person in charge of this asshole's comeback plans, when?—
"Hey, listen, if it's too much, I can find someone else."
