"We'll provide the wardrobe," Merritt says. "Dresses, shoes, accessories. Everything you need to look like you belong."
"Do you own a valid passport?" Sloane asks.
"Yes."
I got it two years ago when I thought I might take a vacation. Then I remembered vacations cost money and require free time, two things I don't have.
"Then we're set." Merritt pulls a folder from her bag—leather, structured, probably worth more than my rent—and slides it across my desk. "This is everything you need to know about Blake Hartwell. His preferences. His patterns. His tells."
I flip it open. There's a photo of Blake clipped to the inside cover.
He's handsome in that generic rich-guy way—square jaw, perfect teeth, hair that probably has a standing appointment with someone named Ricardo.
He's smiling in the photo, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Classic. I've seen this smile before.
It's the "I've never been told no" smile.
The "my trust fund has a trust fund" smile.
"He has a type," Barbie says, studying me like I'm a project car. "Brunette. Busty. Confident. You've got the raw materials."
"Dye your hair brunette. You've got boobs in spades—just need a better bra. Push-up. Underwire. Ones that make your goods point athiminstead of the floor. Hair extensions if we need length."
"I don't think—" I fight the urge to swing my breasts at them.
“A spray tan wouldn't hurt."
"A spray tan," I repeat.
“You’re very pale,” Sloane observes. “Like you’ve been living under a rock.”
"I've been living inBoston," I counter. "In January. There's a difference."
"He also likes women who challenge him," Sloane adds. "He's bored by the society girls who agree with everything he says. Be smart. Be sharp. Make him work for it.”
I stare at the photo. At the dossier. At the four women watching me like I'm a show horse they're evaluating for purchase.
"I need to be honest with you," I say. "I don't have experience with this kind of job."
"You've done undercover work," Merritt says.
“I’ve pretended to be a customer at a gym,” I correct. "That's different from seducing someone."
"How different can it be?" Barbie asks.
I almost laugh. Sweet mercy—where do I start?
"I'm not—" I pause, searching for a way to say this that doesn't make me sound like a complete disaster. "I'm not good at flirting. I don't have a lot of practice with the whole seduction thing."
"You're twenty-six," Barbie says, like that's an argument.
"And busy," I reply.
“Busy,” Sloane repeats, flat.
"I run a business. I take care of my sister. I don't exactly have time for an active social life."
The four of them exchange glances. It's the kind of look that rich people give each other when they're trying to figure out if you're lying or just tragic.
