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Apparently, what she can do is set me up in the largest dressing room with a plethora of blouses, dresses, pants, and even lingerie. I know they don’t sell bras and panties on this floor, so I wonder what exactly Chase had instructed Susan to do.
That’ll teach me to stare at his ass while the adults are talking.
I spent the better part of ten minutes sitting in a robe after Susan took my clothes, including undergarments, and said she’d be right back. I really didn’t see why she needed my panties, but as the robe was warm and fluffy, I hadn’t cared.
And now, with a multitude of choices before me, all beautiful and made in sumptuous fabrics, I decide to spend my recent tax refund on a new wardrobe. Who needs to deposit into their retirement account when La Perla lingerie and Stella McCartney blouses are staring you in the face?
I’ve just put the first outfit on, complete with neon-pink lace panties, when Susan returns with a knock on my door.
“Ms. King? When you have the first outfit on, I need you to come out to the platform please.”
“The platform?”
“Yes, the room with the three-way mirror? We passed it on the way in. I need to see what you have on.”
Great, she probably thinks I’ll steal something and wants to catalogue everything I’m wearing. I hadn’t even gotten to try on the Gucci pussy-bow blouse yet. I pout into the mirror but reply, “Sure thing, Susan. Be right out.”
In the mirror, I take inventory of what will probably cost me half of said tax refund. A black Tom Ford pencil skirt and an Alexander McQueen blush-colored silk blouse. I’m no slouch in the wardrobe department, but I’ve never owned anything this nice. Or should I say, this expensive.
It’s the stuff I dreamed of buying while wearing an Old Navy hoodie and Walmart jeans while I studied for my finals a few years ago and a couple floors down from here.
I take one last longing look at the clothes I’ve yet to touch and exit the dressing room, humming to myself.
Resolved to spending a fortune, I shuffle in my bare feet down the corridor and into the platform room.
“I’m wearing the bright pink La Perla panties, so you can definitely put those on my bill, Susan,” I say while looking down. I run my hands down the length of my body, enjoying the feel of the expensive fabrics. “And this pencil skirt is in serious contention, though I can’t wear it today. It would look odd with my flat sandals.”
“Then we’ll have to get your shoe size so we can bring you a selection of shoes to go with that outfit,” says a deep, familiar voice.
I close my eyes and count to five, hoping that when I open them Chase won’t be there. That I hadn’t just announced what color underwear I’m wearing to my new client. Slowly, I open my eyes… and sigh.
Not only because I had, indeed, announced the color of my panties, but because it isn’t fair that my new client looks this good.
He’s sitting on one of the pink velvet couches behind me, relaxed against the plush cushions, legs crossed like only men can get away with in public. He’s changed suits entirely, going with a navy so dark, it’s one shade this side of black. The top button of his new white shirt is undone, and I can see the hollow at the base of his throat. I spend a weird amount of time looking at his throat. I mean, who gets turned on by a hollow?
Me, apparently. I get turned on by a hollow. (Internal eye roll.)
“What are you doing here?” I cringe at my sharp tone.
He just grins. Great. Now I’m contending with a sexy hollow and a charming smile.
“I thought we could have a Pretty Woman moment.” He gestures to the room, which I have to admit, does remind me of the shopping scene in that iconic movie. But wait a minute…
“Did you just call me a hooker?”
4
CHASE
“I, uh…”
Campbell erupts into a fit of laughter so hard she doubles over.
“Oh my god… you should see… your face,” she says between deep breaths as she tries to control her laughter.
A second before, my mind seized in panic. Now, watching her previously guarded face transform in delight, I find myself grinning back at her. This isn’t who I was expecting. I mean, I was, but I wasn’t. Forbes had highlighted King Marketing, the company. Sure, most of it had been about its president, CEO and founder, Campbell King, but the focus was on her business acumen, her savvy marketing strategies, her prestigious educational background and awards. The magazine hadn’t focused on Campbell King, the woman. On her laugh, her eyes, or her sexy Southern lilt. (If they had, they’d have sold a thousand more copies.) There’d been a picture, but it was a group shot. I hadn’t thought to look through all the names under the picture to figure out which person was Campbell. It hadn’t mattered what she looked like; it mattered how she did her job.
And besides the article, all my other searches had come up with company background information and her personal résumé. No pictures. So although I am quite familiar with her impressive marketing talents and credentials, I’d been unprepared for her… everything else.
