“No.” His teeth are a breath away from my ear. “The answer is no. I don’t want you in my bed. I don’t even want you in my penthouse, but since you suck at your job, you’re going to take off that fucking sack you’re wearing and get in that dress because you are coming with me to this charity event.”
“I—I can’t. I am not in the mental state to go to a high-society charity function, especially not with my boss.” I just want to run and get away from him, to not let him see me cry.
His palm slams the wall next to my head again.
Yelping, I clap my hands over my mouth.
“Don’t you dare fucking cry. This is your fault, Mandy—you’re the reason I don’t have a date. You fucked up. Now put on that fucking dress.”
Gulping back tears, I duck out from under his arm and grab the dress, fresh from the dry cleaner, that’s hanging from one of the bookcases in the living room.
In the powder room, I struggle out of my clothes and dump them in a pile on the vanity counter. Then I take the dress out of the garment bag. It’s one of those stretchy ones that’s supposed to hug your body. With its low-cut front and back and the slit up the side of the skirt, shapeware is out of the question, if I even had any I could fit into.
“Mandy!” Salinger’s fist pounds on the door.
“I’m changing.” The words are a croak. “Just give me a minute.”
Dabbing at my stress sweat with one of the Egyptian-cotton hand towels, I say a little prayer. What if the dress doesn’t fit me? Sucking in my stomach, I carefully shimmy the dress up. It gets stuck on my hips.
No, no, no, no.
“Mandy.” The deep voice has a dangerous, threatening edge.
“I said, just a minute. It takes women a long time to get ready.”
“You have eight minutes,” he bellows through the door.
Trying the other way, I lift my arms up and let the dress slip over my head.
My arms fit through. I stuff my boobs in the little scraps of fabric on either side of the deep V-neck then think skinny thoughts and manhandle the dress over my hips. The luxurious fabric skims my bare legs, which I thankfully shaved the day before after suffering through numerous snide comments from my sister.
“Okay,” I say to my slightly sweaty reflection in the mirror. “We did it. This is fine.”
I send a prayer to the gods that my tatas stay in the low-cut top, pat my shiny face with the towel, then swipe on mascara and lip gloss. I try my best to pin my frizzy hair in a messy updo. If I’d known my sister was going to flake out on me, I would have gotten a blowout or at least washed my hair.
Still, I don’t look too terrible, at least compared to my usual standards.
The shoes are another story.
I live in flat shoes—Crocs, if I can get away with them. Anything with room for my toes and a thick, padded sole. These shoes? Four-inch stilettoes with little crystal-studded straps that dig into my skin? My feet begin to ache as soon as I put them on.
“At least they fit,” I remind myself. “Be grateful you and Lauren wear the same shoe size.”
Because I don’t know how Salinger would react if I told him I would have to go to the fancy function in Crocs.
My boss is waiting in the hallway when I step out of the bathroom. Gray eyes sweep from the top of the messy bun, down the deep V of skin on my chest, down to the ornate design on the fabric hugging my hips, down to the sparkly shoes… then back up, settling at my hips. “Are you wearing underwear?”
“You can’t ask me that!” I sputter. “And yes, of course I am. I don’t go commando.”
His mouth turns down. “Take them off.”
“I’m not taking off my underwear.”
“I can see the line of them through the fabric.” His teeth flash.
“It’s not that noticeable,” I protest, peering down.
It actually is that noticeable. Maybe if I was wearing something other than granny panties, I might have been able to keep them on, but now? I shuffle back into the bathroom, trying not to trip over the hem of my dress, and slide the underwear off.
