Page 11 of Bastard In A Suit

But then I think about Duke, the boardroom at Kingston Industries, the kinds of women he’s rumored to date. I’m no model—far from it—but maybe tonight I can pretend to be someone I’m not.

And yes, I know I’m supposed to be keeping this strictly professional and pitching him our MicroTracker…but I can’t help it.

I want to impress him.

I want him to look at me with those dark, penetrating eyes—to perhaps catch him looking at my cleavage, my ass, my legs.

So I have to look my absolute best.

Of course, that means wielding a curling iron and with less than half an hour left on the clock, I’m not convinced I can work any kind of magic with that wand. As it heats up, I head back to the bedroom and slip into my dress. It clings to my body like shrink wrap. The fine hairs at the back of my neck prickle, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m excited, or if it’s the fact that this dress barely covers my chest—

Shit. My chest! I stand in front of the mirror and my shoulders sag. I can’t wear a bra with this dress—not with how far the neckline plunges. To my surprise, and relief, the dress’s thick shoulder straps hold my breasts in place. They look fuller, perkier.

Great!

Heat creeps up the side of my neck. Good grief, I’m suddenly that girl?

I see Onyx’s reflection in the mirror. He lifts his head, yawns, and slumps back on the duvet.

“You can be annoyed all you want, Onyx, but if you ever want to move out of this shit hole, I’ve got to nail this pitch,” I say in a harsh whisper.

God. Now I’m the crazy cat girl, too.

The glowing digits on my alarm clock tell me I have twenty minutes to finish my hair, put on my shoes, and get downstairs. Fifteen, actually, since the elevator can’t be trusted and I am not walking down nine flights of stairs in six-inch stilettos.

Curling my hair takes far less effort than applying the right shade of lipstick, which gives me two extra minutes to find my leather jacket, strap up the shoes, check my look once more in the mirror and throw my cell phone, the MicroTracker, a notebook, my wallet, and breath mints into my fake Louis Vuitton purse.

I let out a deep sigh. Five minutes to eight.

Onyx shoots me one last look to remind me of how pathetic I am as I close my apartment door and step into the hallway. Alex Hartfield, the eccentric old guy down the hall, turns his head when he sees me approach the elevator. Does a full-on double-take.

“Damn, Hailey, you clean up nice.”

I fight the blush of embarrassment and smile as confidently as I can muster, given the circumstances. “Thank you, Mr. Hartfield.”

Nervous energy shakes through me. I have three minutes to get downstairs and through the lobby before Duke picks me up. I imagine the look on everyone’s face as the Duke Kingston swoops up to the curb in an expensive Town Car and gets out to open the door. He’ll stare at me in wonder, murmur something about how beautiful I look… Or maybe we’ll be in a limousine. A white stretched limo with champagne and strawberries, soft music playing in the background.

Cool it, Hailey.

It’s obvious my neighbor can’t stop staring at me and I’m suddenly uncomfortable being the center of his attention. “How long have you been waiting for the elevator?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “Five minutes?”

I groan. I’ve got less than two to get my ass downstairs.

Tick. Tock.

My pulse speeds up.

I can’t wait. I untie my heels, slip out of them, and dangle them in my right hand, and head for the stairs. The concrete is cool on my skin. By the time I reach the landing I’m sweating and freezing.

I slip on my shoes and take tentative steps toward the front entrance. With one minute to spare, I reach the door and stare out onto the busy street. Chicago’s skyline sparkles in the distance.

I moved to this city five years ago, leaving behind the safety net of parents who doted too much, and friends who think I’ve sorely underestimated the charm of Mystic, Connecticut. Going home is nice, but I’ll take towering skyscrapers and Navy Pier over quaint seaside village any day.

At the end of my street, a dark limousine weaves through traffic and pulls up alongside the curb. My stomach flips end over end as a driver gets out, circles the car, and opens the door for me. I exhale deeply. Show time.

I paint on my biggest smile, and thank the man as he takes my hand to help me into the car. My thighs stick to the taupe leather seats. Champagne cools in the center console, but there’s only one crystal flute.

The driver leans in and smiles. “Mr. Kingston invites you to enjoy a glass of champagne. We’ll be arriving at the restaurant in about twenty minutes. Enjoy the ride.”

“Thanks,” I say, but my voice is flat, monotone. Maybe it’s silly, but I assumed Duke would be in the car. That we’d go to dinner together.

His absence is another stark reminder that this isn’t a date.