Chapter 28
Tilly
Blaise gives me a ten-minute warning before a car — no, not a car, a stretch limo — shows up. He doesn’t tell me what to wear, just says that everything will be taken care of and to pack a diaper bag for a long day and to pump if I have time, because I’m not gonna be able to ‘whip out a nip’ once things get going.
There are seven people in the car: a photographer, a makeup artist, two hair stylists, a wardrobe coordinator, a nail tech, and a . . . babysitter, I guess? He’s a bulky security-guard-looking guy, but he takes Donovan from my arms and waves a brightly-colored rattle in his face as the nail tech grabs my hand and starts testing fake nails on it.
Donovan gives me a look likewho is this guy?as I balk at the already-painted nails. They’re pretty, I guess, but not really my style and too long for me. Nothing obnoxious, butbetween baby care and the rotary cutter I pick up the second I put Donovan down most days, now that I’m back to work, longer nails just aren’t practical.
The limo hops the curb getting onto the road, and one of the hair stylists starts pulling wigs out of a bag.
“Oh, umm, I like this wig,” I say. With Blaise having a big meeting today, I figured he’d need a good night tonight, so I went ahead and put my nice lacefront on and even asked Joss if she’d mind sitting Donovan for a few hours so we could go out. I was going to put together a picnic for us to have at Camden Square, right by Joss and Gabe’s place. A cheap date, but no one would have thought it was anything less than romantic.
I have a feeling now that we’re not getting that picnic tonight.
The wigs are in a few different styles, but they’re all black hair at their roots, some of them fading into light browns, one with fire engine red accents. Then a braided ponytail extension comes out.
“That’s not really how I like to wear my hair,” I say awkwardly. I don’t want to be rude, but even when I had a full head of hair, I was more of a headband or plain ponytail, some cute afro puffs if I was feeling festive. I experimented with a lot of different styles, but I never really committed to anything and usually went with what was easiest.
“Just for the photoshoot, Ms. Sinclair,” the other hairstylist says as she starts to remove my wig. The announcement of the photoshoot — after Blaise literally just told me not to do myself up at all — has me bowled over enough I don’t fight it.
Through some miracle, full hair, make-up, and nails are accomplished on the drive while the fashion coordinator andthe photographer work out which outfit will work best. They don’t seem to care about my body type or even size, but I guess that’s their problem, not mine. The big security agent guy gets Donovan in a brown onesie with a screen print on it that makes him look like an actual football, and I could literally die over how adorable it is on him. But there’s also a proper outfit, a little plaid shirt and tiny elastic-waist jeans, for him.
I don’t get to see myself until we get out of the car at a film studio, of all places. I’ve never worked at this one before, but I know a couple of the shows that are filmed here, and I’m more confused than lost as I’m led into a changing room.
I get to glance in the mirror then, at least. The wig looks okay. The face isn’t really mine. Lots of contouring. Enough bronzing to make my complexion two shades darker. But it’s a ‘natural’ look at least. I haven’t looked this much like my sister since I was a baby.
Six different outfits are thrown on me. They range in size, but there’s some serious control-top they bust out for a couple of the sexier dresses. Also, one of those fake baby bumps for a maternity outfit. Somehow, the most confusing part of the whole thing is how, despite the hair and make-up, the outfits range from party heiress to Little House on the Prairie.
By the time they lead me to a set that must be for a nightclub, in the slinkiest outfit they’ve given me — which shows every ounce of cellulite, so hopefully that photographer’s airbrush game isstrong —I’m relieved enough to see Blaise that I clomp to him in my heels and hug him. “You look nice,” I say of the suit they’ve put him in, even if it’s no more his style than this shiny dress and steel spandex is mine.
The way he looks at me is far more critical. His nostrils flare as he takesme in.
“Whatever, screw you too,” I huff and stomp off.
I make it two steps before Blaise grabs my hand, snapping me back to him so suddenly there’s no chance for me to stay on my feet. He catches me easily enough, though, and yells at the gathered ensemble that we’re going to need a minute before dragging me back behind the set.
“What are you doing?” I screech. “You can’t be carrying me around on a sprained ankle, Blaise! You’re going to hurt yourself more, and then what are we—ooph!”I squeak as I land hard on a sofa. It’s upholstered in faux leather, and it’s weirdly lumpy, with springs poking in my back. Definitely a random bit of set decor that’s been dragged to the back until it’s needed again.
Blaise throws himself right over me, anchoring a knee next to my hip and kicking his booted ankle up into the air — it’s elevated, at least — and grips the armrest with both hands to hover over me as he kisses me hard.
I tell myself to fight back. I’m not his toy to manhandle. A complete stranger could run off with our baby right now. Anyone could come back here and see him mauling me. Instead, I grab him by the dress shirt and pull myself up to demand more kisses once he pulls away.
“Fuck, Tilly.” He grinds himself against me, distracting me enough that he can drag his lips down to my neck. “You’re so fucking hot right now, baby.”
It’s the bucket of cold water I need to push him away, giving myself space to think. He straightens his arms but remains above me, his gaze molten and unflinchingly meeting mine.
I keep my hand on his firm, flawless chest. I don’t think about it much, not when I’m looking at him every day of my life, and he’s mostly just a human doing human things when Iam, but he’s impossibly handsome. I know that part of why the team has so many restrictions on him, why everything with the blackmailer snowballed so badly, is because he gets himself into trouble constantly. But he also wouldn’t need to have so many restrictions if there weren’t so many people who wanted to look at him. No airbrushing is needed with Blaise. He was photograph-ready when he woke up this morning.
I’ve got four coats of foundation, I’m contoured beyond recognition, and I’m pretty sure they pinned back all the fat Donovan put back on me.
“Maybe instead of forcing me to fight back, you could try just not being an asshole,” I tell him, but any strength in my voice is just bluster, and there’s no way he doesn’t see through it.
He laughs at me. It’s soft, and I can tell he doesn’t mean it to sound cruel, but it really hurts to get that compliment from him when I feel less like me than I have in a long time, even when the cancer was eating me from the inside out.
“Aww, Tills, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just didn’t think my dick was gonna start getting hard every time you chewed me out.”
“Not that, the . . .” I huff and tear my eyes from his in a scowl because I know how stupid it’s going to sound to him. “The compliment. That was shitty.”
