Jesus. I have never done anything like this before. I can’t believe how amazing it feels. Pleasure sweeps over me in intermittent waves, the fantasy consuming my thoughts, my actions. I picture Duke’s face between my legs, the raw edges of his beard scratching at my inner thighs as his tongue licks and swirls and—
The water turns to ice.
I yank the shower head away, shocked, my desire deflating faster than a popped balloon. My breath comes in small shallow pants. I turn off the water, re-attach the showerhead and quickly towel off. My skin is so goose pimpled it’s like sandpaper.
I haven’t washed my hair, haven’t fully rinsed.
No wonder I’m fucking single.
I wrap the towel around me, pull my wet hair into a loose bun, and pad through to the kitchen to check my phone—no messages or texts—and then to my bedroom. My cat, Onyx, stares at me with knowing eyes.
“Stop judging,” I hiss. He flicks his tail and licks his lips. Smart ass.
My closet creaks as I open it. I push some hangers aside, and that’s when panic sets in—I have nothing to wear. Wool skirts, pencil skirts, plaid skirts, even a damn tutu from that phase of my life. I find more cardigans than the local thrift mart. Every pair of jeans I own is riddled with holes—hip, but not professional—and my single pair of dress pants gives me about as much shape as a potato. Ugh. I wore my most professional outfit for today’s meeting. There is nothing in my closet except—
My fingers close around the hanger tucked at the back behind a signed Big Bang Theory T-shirt and my prom dress which has far too much tulle. I pull out a small black dress and hold it up for inspection. The neckline plunges almost to my belly button and it’s too short—way too short. I can’t believe I ever bought it.
I lay it on the bed and scrounge in the back of the closet for shoes, finally producing a pair of strappy stilettos that need a good dusting.
The ping of an incoming text pulls my attention. I slip into lace thong underwear and a black bra, and go back to the kitchen, carefully avoiding Onyx’s judgmental stare. I don’t recognize the number, but the message is clear: A car will be there at 8 p.m. sharp. Be ready.
No room for interpretation.
A quick glance at the clock tells me I have less than an hour to transform from nerdy college grad to soon-to-be successful business woman.
Challenge accepted.
I crank the radio and sashay over to the bathroom and dig around under the bathroom cupboard for my make-up. Most of the containers are still sealed, the brushes and applicators clean and covered. I call up YouTube on my phone and start scrolling through make-up tutorials until I find something that looks easy enough for me to pull off.
Two tries later and my eyes are dark and smoky, an almost perfect blend of silver and grey. I blink at my image. The eyeliner is thick. My eyelashes seem to go on forever. I lean toward the mirror and smooth out a wayward eyebrow hair.
My stomach flutters.
The make-up is too much. It’s overdone. I’m overdone.
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.