I’m briefly impressed by his single forearm holding them all before pulling him into the room in case someone sees it. “Why do you have so many?” I stare at the pile as he dumps them on the bed.
His eyes, almost amber in the dim light, cut to mine. “I don’t enjoy my job, but I am thorough.”
I scan the array of multicolored dress bags covering the duvet like jewels. “There’s thorough but then there’s... Did you tell the intern to buy an entire store?”
With his hands on his hips, he shoots me a side-on glance. “Imagine what I could achieve when I’m actually enjoying myself.”
“I don’t need to imagine, thanks,” I counter, immediately regretting my phrasing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smiles slyly at me, and for some unfortunate reason, it’s working. I tamp down on the fizzing feeling in my chest and cross my arms.
I roll my eyes, clipping my hair up. “Just shut up and hang them nicely over there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His accent pops. I watch his shoulder blades move against his T-shirt as he hangs up the dress bags one by one in the wardrobe. My eyes travel to a pair of black boxer briefs hanging over the armchair. For fuck’s sake, Spencer. I thought I’d hidden everything of his before Oliver arrived, giving the impression that I am definitively not staying in the same room as my boss. I whip the underwear off the chair and stuff them into my bag before Oliver spots them.
When he turns around, I cross my arms again, pretending to look at something incredibly interesting out of the window. “Thanks, I’ll just be a few minutes.” I click on a couple more lamps to counteract the 4 p.m. late January sunset.
“Take your time. And I’ll be right outside if you need any help.”
“Great, thanks!” I shoot him a sarcastic smile, pushing him out of the room.
When the door clicks shut, I stand in place gathering my thoughts as the tingle of his body dissipates under my fingers.
I unzip the first outfit, a mustard-yellow dress bag with the wordsMagie de la modewritten in a white scrawling font overthe center. It’s a formal black dress, fairly unremarkable, but I can tell just by touching it that the fabric is expensive. I sneak a look at the tag and stifle a gasp. Jesus Christ, thirteen hundred euros. I hesitate, then run to wash and dry my hands before delicately pulling the dress from the bag.
Despite its obvious luxury, the dress looks terrible on me. More like a sack than a dress that costs over a grand. But maybe this is what Jocelyn is going for: a serious businesswoman. The opposite of sexy. My back starts to sweat a little. I sigh and shuffle to the door.
Oliver turns around. “That was quick.” His face creases in confusion when I just reveal my head. “Everything okay?”
“I’ve only tried on one.” I hide my body behind the heavy door, not wanting him to see me looking like this. “I just need to know what the vibe is, for the dinner.”
His face bemused, he confirms, “It’s a formal dinner.”
“I know, but what does thatmean? Do you know what the other women are going to be wearing?”
He purses his lips. “It’s a Michelin-starred dinner for the executives. Jocelyn is the only woman attending.”
My eyes couldn’t roll any harder if I tried. “That’s both depressing and not at all helpful.”
He resigns himself, sighing and pulling out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Gettying,” he says. For a second I’m confused, but quickly realize he’s looking up her name on Getty Images. How often does this woman get photographed?
“From what she’s worn to other events, I’d say... smart but formfitting. No cleavage but you can see her...” He searches for the right word. “Curvature. Y’know?” He holds the phoneout, showing me a series of event photography with the Getty Images watermark layered over the top.
“Okay, cool, that helps. Thanks.” I slam the door the tiniest bit harder than necessary.
I try on ten more dresses at lightning speed, immediately hating each one as I put it on.
Eventually, I stumble upon a ruby-red dress with promise. Once I’ve fumbled around with the stiff zip, I have to give myself a second glance. It’s figure hugging without being skintight, enough to show curves without looking too try hard. Long sleeved with a skirt to the knees, but with its sweetheart neckline, it’s still flattering. I pull my hair down, moving it to one shoulder to match how Jocelyn seems to style it in the Getty Images. My reflection stares back at me until I decide that this is the one with some accessorizing. I slip on my one pair of black heels and put on gold drop earrings and a red lip to match the dress.
Smoothing down the dress over my waist and thighs, I tilt my head and imagine wearing something like this on the stage Spencer is gracing tomorrow. A smart, confident, elegant woman is something I don’t think anyone will ever see me as. When people look at me, they see a reserved control freak who is out of her depth and desperately trying to look the part. I think it’s what Dr. Bernie saw in me when we met at the hotel. But wearing a dress likethis, maybe I could be something different. Someone different. Someone deserving of greatness.
The door clicks open; Oliver looks up from his phone and blinks rapidly. “Whoa.”
My cheeks match the fabric as he takes me in, the side of his mouth twitching upward for an instant. Smoothing downthe dress because what else do you do with your hands in this scenario, I huff an embarrassed laugh. Hands on hips feels too “look at me” and waving jazz hands and saying “ta-daaaa!” doesn’t feel like the chic woman who would wear this dress.
