Page 16
Something flickered across her face. Hesitation, maybe. Or calculation again.
“Are there going to be kids there?” she asked.
I blinked. “Do you have a problem with children?”
“No, it’s fine. I just want to wrap my head around the vibe.”
“The vibe is rich people writing checks and feeling good about themselves. There might be a few kids for photo ops, but mostly it’s adults in formal wear drinking champagne and congratulating each other on their generosity.” I shrugged. “You’ll fit right in.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t say no either.
I let my gaze drift over her outfit again. The hair pulled back so tightly it probably gave her a headache. The black eyeliner that looked great for a night out but a little harsh on a Saturday morning.
“You can’t dress like this, though,” I said.
Her spine somehow straightened even more. “Excuse me?”
I gestured at her and shook my head. “Like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you just came back from a funeral.” I tilted my head, considering. “Working as the mortician.”
Those icy eyes turned absolutely arctic. “Excuse me? This is fucking Armani.”
I chuckled at her F-bomb. Plenty of venom in her bite.
“I’m not trying to insult you,” I said. “I’m trying to help you. That outfit says don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t even think about approaching me. That’s the opposite of what we need.”
“This is professional attire. Do you expect me to sashay around in yoga pants or whatever it is you’re wearing?”
“I’m wearing jeans. That’s what normal people wear in their downtime. No one walks around buttoned up all day every day.”
“You don’t know what I wear every day.”
“You plan on running a board meeting in the next hour?”
She scowled. “No.”
“Well, there you go.”
“I don’t need permission to dress the way I want,” she snapped.
“This is armor.” I gestured at her general direction. “You’re dressed for battle, not a charity gala. We need people to see you as approachable. Warm. Human. Right now you look like you’re about to fire someone.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. For a second I thought she might throw her coffee at me after all.
“I’m not used to getting dressed up for things like this,” she finally admitted, the words coming out like they physically pained her. “Galas aren’t exactly my natural habitat.”
“I know someone who can help.”
“Of course you do.”
I pulled out my phone and quickly fired off a text. “She’ll find you something that says I’m warm and approachable without making you feel like you’re wearing a costume.”
Darcy glared at me, which I realized was her default setting. I could see her weighing her options. She was looking for an out. A way to tell me to fuck off without upsetting her father and destroying her chance of being CEO.
“Fine,” she said at last. “Set it up.”
