As Amina steps out and closes the door, I stand and walk around my desk to shake Kane’s hand, taking in his outfit as I do. It’s… not great. He really does need help.
“Nice to meet you, Kane. I’m Damian Ward.”
He takes my hand in a firm grip, though thankfully not squeezing like a douchebag. I don’t have time for anyone who tries to assert dominance through a fucking handshake.
“Thanks for meeting with me, Damian. I appreciate it.” His face is calm, even friendly, but there’s a note of wariness in his voice that gives away how nervous he is. Can’t say that’s a surprise. In preparation for our meeting, I had a better look at the media coverage of him, both the recent stuff and going backto when his sitcom first put him on the map, and to say none of it is ideal is putting it nicely.
“Have a seat.” I gesture to the two club chairs over by the window that I use specifically for putting new clients at ease, and as we sit, I add, “Tell me what you’d like me to do for you.”
He freezes for a millisecond before settling more comfortably into the chair, and I know I’ve taken him by surprise.
“I’d like you to take me on as a client,” he says smoothly, and I give him kudos for knowing that’s not a done deal just because I agreed to meet him. Extra points for acknowledging it upfront. “There’s no point in either of us pretending that you wouldn’t be doing me a favor if you did. I was tired of being overlooked at red carpet events, but the direction I took led to, if you’ll excuse my language, a clusterfuck of epic proportions, hold the lube.”
I cough to hide my laugh, but when I meet his gaze, he’s smirking.
“You can laugh. I wouldn’t believe you if you said it’s not that bad.”
“Good, because I wasn’t going to.” It’s a little blunter than I usually am at this stage, but that seems to be what he wants. “Youwerebeing overlooked, and the changes that got madeweredisastrous for you. What role do you see your stylist playing in the future?”
Before he can hide it, frustration seizes his expression. A millisecond later, his face is smooth again, that casual friendliness back in place. I’m used to working with actors, so the quick reaction doesn’t faze me.
“I don’t want to be overlooked, and I don’t want to be a fashion don’t. That’s my bottom line. I know that right now I’ve got work to do to get to that point, thanks to this year’s mistakes, and I need a stylist who can guide me on that.”
It takes effort to keep my whole body from twitching at that word, “guide.” I learned the hard way that clients who say theywant guidance mean that they want to control the whole process. Obviously, the final say always belongs to the client, but I won’t work with someone who wants to micromanage me—or worse, thinks they know better than me when it comes to putting a look together. They never do.
“Guide you?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. You’re the one who has contacts with designers and jewelers and knows what’s appropriate for a red carpet thatisn’ta standard black tux, so obviously I’m going to listen to what you say. But I’m not taking it as gospel. There were a few times in the past couple of months that I didn’t want to wear some of the stuff my stylist put together, but I didn’t say anything, and that was a mistake.” He pulls a face. “That’s my fault, not hers, and even if I’d pushed back those times, I don’t think it would have made a difference overall. I’m not good at the kind of fashion that gets attention at media-facing events.”
That’s not unreasonable. It sounds like he and his stylist had a miscommunication in addition to her not understanding how to dress him for his body type. All he needs is a stylist he can trust, and who knows what suits his vibe and goals.
“I’m okay with everyday stuff,” he adds. “I just keep it simple.”
Coming to a quick decision, I say, “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re not.”
He blinks, managing to look charmingly curious. “Not what?”
“Not okay with everyday stuff. What you’re wearing is wrong for you.”
Kane’s jaw drops, shock overcoming his acting skills. He follows it up with a sputter that almost makes me smile. He’s very attractive when he’s not pretending to be suave. “It isnot! It’s classic!”
I nod. “The pieces, yeah. But the structure of that jacket does nothing for you, and color makes it even worse. The neck of the tee is too high. At best, you look like a million other ordinary guys who bought a jacket off the rack because it’s what their local department store had this season. At worst, you’re playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes. The jeans are good, though.” I tack that on because for a second it looks like he might cry. It’s also true—the skinny fit flatters his legs.
He doesn’t seem to have heard the compliment, because he whispers, aghast, “I look like I’m playing dress-up?”
“At worst,” I stress. “That’s what someone might say if they were feeling bitchy. Honestly, I don’t think you need to worry about that—in this outfit, you fall into the overlooked category. It’s not worth any style columnist’s time to report on you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I’m notworth a style columnist’s time. Ouch.
I mean, I already knew that was true—hence me telling my stylist that we needed to change things up—but hearing it from a man who has a reputation for creating trends gives it a weight it didn’t have before. The kind of weight that hurts like hell when you drop it on your foot.
The critique of my clothes that I agonized over for so long stings too. He’s not dressed that different from me in jeans and a dress shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled halfway up his deep brown forearms, but even I can admit that he looks like he could be a movie star, while I look… fine. Ordinary. Forgettable. How did he put it? Like a guy who bought whatever the department store had out on the rack.
Considering how much this blazer cost, and that it was tailored to fit me, that’s a real kick in the teeth.
Straightening my shoulders, I pull myself together and ask, “Anything else I should know?” If he’s not going to help me, I’m taking as much free advice as I can weasel out of him before I leave.
