Page 25 of Tender Offer
I translate personal brand through fashion. I am a source of answers. Right now, I’ve got nothing.
Designer labels extend from the polished floor of the temperature-controlled closet to the ceiling, which anchors not one but two crystal chandeliers. Everything is neatly in place, organized by season.
Why am I here?
When Bellamy reached out about my services, she made it sound like she needed help with her wardrobe. I won’t turn down any work while I’m here, but I did a double take when I first walked into her London apartment and spotted a piece from last season’s fashion week. It’s casually hanging next to dresses from notable fashion houses.
Either she needs constant reassurance, or she tripped and hit her head on the heated tiles warming my toes. My lip sinks between my teeth as I catalog the forest of high-end clothes.
Vanilla mixed with spice wafts into this makeshift mini boutique. Bellamy stands in the entrance, a belted figure of slender hips tapered into long, straight legs. Her black body con dress settles against her narrow waist and jutting breasts.
I wouldn’t call you a liar if you told me she just strutted off the runway. Her face is delicate, carved from high cheekbones and a prominent jawline. There are no blemishes. Only pouty lips and chestnut eyes that drag up my form for the second time today. Aside from the black patent leather heels I left in her foyer, I’m still in the same outfit she saw me in earlier: a chocolate brown crew neck top and vegan leather skirt.
Her gaze snags on mine, and a manicured brow lifts. I don’t know what she’s searching for, but I clear my throat. I’m attractive, but I’m not the damn Mona Lisa.
“Apologies,” she says with a hint of an English accent. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes.” I reach for my tablet on top of the chaise and scroll through her digital folder. “I have your style preferences. A look through your wardrobe helps with that. We did your coloranalysis, and I have your body measurements for the best silhouettes to complement your figure. We’re in a good place for a styling session.”
I’m so caught up logging my notes that I miss Bellamy unzip her dress. Black fabric pools over gold heels. It matches the lace thong resting on skin that has never fought cellulite a day in its life. Blood-red nails dig into the hip she juts out, activating the muscles of her toned thighs under a halo of light.
“Why wait?” A challenge brews in her tone, which she lowers along with her lashes. I assume she’s eyeing the tablet clutched to my chest until the heat from her stare incinerates the glass and plastic. “You have a beautiful shape,” she says to my breasts, concealed in the comfort of a padded bra.
“Thank you?” How else do I answer that?
“They look natural.” Her jaw tightens. “How fortunate for you, to not need enhancements like the rest of us. I got mine redone a few years ago.” Her fingertips trace the rings around her rosebud nipples, which are pointed at me like double barrels of a gun.
“That’s nice.” Does she expect me to praise her surgeon?
Aside from her own wardrobe, there are no clothes here for Bellamy to try on. So why is she showing her literal ass?
“We’ll have fun.” She tosses a smirk over her shoulder and spins, careful to step over her dress still on the floor. Her sashay is practiced choreography as she fastens a silk robe to her body. “I need new suits, evening gowns, and lingerie. When will you have them ready?”
“A few weeks. We can schedule a fitting,” I say.
Bellamy’s grin spreads. “Let’s see what you got.”
Chapter 14
Madison
“Please tell me you ate her pussy.”
“Kojo!” I glance at the couple three seats away from us. The way the older woman smirks around her teacup proves she heard my loud-ass friend.
Motormouth leans against the low-backed booth with a dreamy grin. He’s wearing a black dress shirt and pants. The diamond studs under his dreads, which are pulled back into a bun, wink in the light of the sconces on the back wall.
He separates a bite of ice cream and brings it to his mouth. “Don’t knock it until you try it.” The spoon breaches the pink flesh in slow motion. He swirls the ice cream in his mouth for good measure.
Freak.
“Unlike you, I don’t sleep with clients.” I sip my espresso.
“At least I’m not dropping dust from my thighs when I walk. It probably looks like the catacombs down there. Just dead and full of webs.”
We fall over laughing.
Tears stream down my cheeks. “I hate you.”
