Page 587 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Um, thanks, I think?” she said, sounding outraged. “What’s wrong with my jeans?”

“Oh my god, Felicity,” I sighed. “There is nothing wrong with them. But you’re right, we’re trying to manufacture a fantasy, so let’s do it up big time. Time to turn some heads.”

I could see her mind spinning out as she tried to come up with the next idea. “We need to build to a crescendo over time, so let’s start with a sexy but attainable scenario. Dinner in a special spot. We need to make sure it’s a place with a lot of foot traffic—and that they can seat us by a window.”

I snapped my fingers. “La Nuit. You can’t get much sexier than a French restaurant, and they have the perfect table right up front. The window is ringed with wisteria, so it’ll look great in photos. You available tonight?”

“Uh, lemme check.” She did a half-scroll and put her phone on my desk. “Imagine that, I’m free.”

I shot off a text to Daniel, and less than three minutes later I got the confirmation. “Eight tonight. Now, we shop.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said yourself that your look has to be right. If we had more time, I really would call in a stylist, but since it’s short notice, I’ll do it myself. I have very specific thoughts about how my partners should dress.”

She wrinkled her nose like she smelled sour milk. “Okay, that’s creepy. You want me to be your human Barbie doll?”

I laughed at her. “Not exactly. Let’s just say I’d rather see you in Branson Couture than Lily Pulitzer.”

“As if I could tell the difference between the two,” she said.

“Again, you sure you’re in marketing? I thought being up on that fashion stuff was part of it.”

“Again,” she said in a mocking voice, “I’m usually the behind-the-scenes person in crappy jeans, not on-camera talent. This is new to me.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” I said as I gathered my things and stood up. “Now let’s get to it—this could take a while. We’ve only got a couple of hours if we want to make it on time. Dress shopping first, then a quick trip to the salon for hair and makeup.”

She glared at me again. “Fine, let’s go.”

“You’re making it sound like I’m taking you to the dentist,” I laughed as we headed out of my office. “It’s going to be fun, I promise.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Okay, I admit it,” Felicity said, doing twirls in front of the mirror. “I’m having fun.”

“Told you,” I replied, glancing up from my phone. “Whoa.”

She stopped twirling and gave me a coquettish pose, with her hand on her hip and one foot kicked out. “Oh, you like?”

Did I like the strapless, pale pink dress that hit her on the high thigh and fluttered when she spun, showing off even more of her shapely leg? “Like” was an understatement.

“Uh, yeah, that one’s great,” I said. “Who’s the designer?”

She grabbed the label at the bodice. “Giam…giambat…I can’t pronounce it, but it sounds Italian and expensive.” She squinted at the label. “Hold on, three thousand dollars? For a dress?”

“For Giambattista Valli, yeah. It’s stunning, but let’s see you in the last dress you have in there. I have a feeling that’s the one.”

“That dress better be no more than a hundred bucks, otherwise it’s out of the question.”

I ignored her because I knew better.

We’d essentially taken over the dressing room at Atelier B, a tiny semi-bespoke boutique that knew my preferences without even having to say a word. I’d only visited the place a few times with Carolina, though, because she preferred going to shops with more staff to fawn over her and a tony address that guaranteed paparazzi outside.

Felicity was a breath of fresh air in comparison. She had no desire to court the cameras, and she actually looked at price tags. And while she knew all about the back end of marketing and publicity, she wasn’t eager to be a “face” for it, unlike my ex. Carolina wasn’t above stunts like purposely dropping a shopping bag on the sidewalk filled with stacks of silky lingerie, then posing prettily as she picked them up and put them back. Page Six had published a photo of Carolina holding up a strappy black teddy with the headline, “Cameron O’Connor is a lucky man.”

Couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

But now wasn’t the time to think about my battle scars from my ex. The manufactured romance with Felicity was keeping me on my toes, and it was surprisingly enjoyable despite our tendency to bicker.