Page 13 of Rent a Mob Boss

QUINN

You know when you’re searching for a very important dress at the last minute and you’re looking around online, and you see one that’s currently forty percent off, and even though the reviews told you the dress tends to run small, you order it anyway because forty percent off is forty percent off?

And you know how, when the dress comes in, and you try it on, you find it does, indeed, run small? Small enough that you can’t zip it?

Or does it only happen to me?

Because here I am, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, drowning in the depths of despair. Twisted up like a pretzel with my arms behind me while I try in vain to work the zipper up just a little. I’m literally starting to sweat, and the damn thing won’t move.

What am I supposed to do? The party is in three freaking days. Three days. I have nothing to wear but the black dress Mom already ruled out. Why didn’t I go up a size? Oh, right—when I did that, it told me I’d have to wait an extra week for the dress to come in. I didn’t have an extra week. I figured I’d just inhale as hard as I possibly could and force the zipper up, and that would be that. Sometimes I lie to myself, but I usually lie out of desperation. And that’s definitely the case here.

By the time I peel the dress off, I’m in a full sweat, and I’ve made a sound I really hope no one ever hears me make. I drop to the corner of my bed with a sigh and do the mental math. Tomorrow, I have class at eight, then I go straight to the Moretti house after. There’s no time to make it to the mall in between and still make it when I’m expected—and I really don’t think I can get away with skipping class.

That means only one thing. Calling my boss and telling him I can’t be on time tomorrow because I don’t have anything to wear to our fake date. Talk about a sentence I never imagined saying in my life.

I pick up the phone. I put it down. I pick it up again—this time I pull up Dorian’s number in my contacts. I just have to get it over with. I don’t think he’ll be upset with me. Ms. Beaumont can cover for me for a little while. I just don’t want him to think I’m flaking out, especially when he’s doing me a favor by escorting me to the party.

He picks up on the second ring. “Quinn.” His voice is low and a little rough, and may or may not give me goosebumps.

“Hi. Hey.” Get it together, girl. “I’m sorry to bother you so late. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I might need to come a little later than usual tomorrow—maybe an hour?”

He pauses for a beat. “Everything all right? Any trouble?”

“No, no. I just have to go find a dress for Saturday. I ordered one, but…” I look down at where the dress sits in a heap on the floor. “It’s not going to work out.”

“Why not?”

“It’s much too small. That’s the risk you take when you order things online, I guess. I mean, I could’ve ordered a size up, but then it wouldn’t have gotten here on time, and—” I have officially said too much. The man wasn’t asking for my entire life story. He was only being polite.

“So you plan on going to an actual store instead?”

“That’s the idea. Like I said, it won’t take long. I’ll find something quickly.”

The silence that follows makes my stomach do uncomfortable things. This is where he tells me I’m asking for too much, isn’t it? It’s one thing for him to take me to the party so it looks like I’m not a completely hopeless loser, but now I’m asking for another favor. Everybody has their limits.

“I have a better idea,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Wait. What? “You’ll be here? At my—Mr. Moretti, wait⁠—”

Too late. He’s already gone.

I sit in my room holding a quiet phone, trying to catch up to what just happened.

When I do, every single cell in my body activates at once, because Dorian Moretti just told me he’s coming to my apartment, and my apartment looks like it lost a fight with itself.

Twenty minutes.

I have twenty minutes to make this place look like a human being lives here instead of a college student who’s been slowly losing a war against entropy. I don’t think I’ve ever moved this fast in my life.

Dishes in the sink go into the dishwasher.

Shoes on the floor go into the closet.

The pile of laundry on the couch? I look at it, look at my room, look at the clock. Then I shove the entire pile into the oven, because the oven is the one place a guest will never look. I’ll deal with the consequences of this decision later, when I’m not in crisis mode.