Page 3 of The Boss I Can't Stand
“I arrivedbeforeyou were closed,” he said pointedly.
“Yes, well, now we’re ten minutespastclosing time. So you can either tell me what you’re looking for or you can show yourself to the door.”
Preferably option two.
He looked me up and down with those hazel eyes, and my stomach twisted up in knots. Tall, dark, and irritating wasn’t usually my type, but I couldn’t stop that little intake of breath.
“Fine,” he said, the words practically dripping with disdain. “You want to help me, then pay attention.”
I bristled. The absolutenerveof this man.
“I need fabric for a man’s suit. Something nineteen-twenties appropriate. Modest. For a man who’s working class and hustling. It should be practical and decent, not too flashy.” His eyes flicked over my face. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes?”
I shook my head at him. “This isn’t rocket science, Mr. Bigshot. Despite how confused you looked with the silk back there.”
He grumbled, eyes narrowing. “I also need fabric for a woman’s day dress. Something a socialite might wear to afternoon tea or a garden party. And last, I need fabric for an evening gown. All period-suitable for the nineteen-twenties, autumn weight. The women’s clothes should be Boston Brahmin levels of quality and conservatism. All the fabrics in tones that would photograph well.”
He smirked at me, all cocky and challenging. “Think you can handle that?”
What an asshole!
“Why don’tyoutry to keep up?” I turned and led him through the store. My thoughts spun, comparing the fabric swatches I knew we had in stock. I pulled a bolt of gray wool from a shelf and shoved it into his hands. “This one for the man’s suit.”
“Why this?” he asked, looking it over critically.
“Because you’ll want a wool blend,” I said, “probably with a hint of tweed if you’re going for lower class.”
“It looks a little safe,” he said.
“This is classic nineteen twenties,” I argued. I knew he was trying to rattle me, but the joke was on him because I wasalwayssure about my fabrics. “You said working class man, so no herringbone that will draw attention. Just a simple, solid weave. And you want a rougher texture, not the refined finish of high-end wool.”
I set off into a different section of the store, and tossed another bolt of fabric in his arms. Silk chiffon in pale lavender for the day dress, then black velvet for the evening gown. Mr. Bigshot found more things to complain about, but I held firm on my sample selections. “This is exactly what high society was wearing back in the day. Especially the old money Boston elite. Subtle. Luxurious.”
He curled his lip. “I’m not sure you understand what subtle means.”
“Maybe you’re just struggling to recognize taste,” I said, arms crossed. “Now, are you satisfied with those samples?”
His nostrils flared like he intended to be difficult, but then a small huff of frustration escaped him. “If that’s the best you can do.”
I bit my tongue. I’d done a damn good job, and we both knew it. “I’ll ring you up at the counter.” I stalked toward it. He followed me withthe bolts. I cut his samples while he scowled at me. When I was done, I plugged in his order at the register, adding a surcharge for my “expert consultation” because I damn well deserved it.
In fact…I went ahead and also added a fifty-dollar AT charge. That was the code the owner and I used for “asshole tax.”
He paid, and I handed him the bag with his samples and his receipt.
He took his things then snatched his jacket from the counter while I cleared away the fabric cuttings. His eyes locked on my stack of business cards. “Should I take one of these in case I need another ‘expert consultation’?” He pocketed one without waiting for my answer. “Or another AT charge?”
I swallowed my groan. He wasn’t actually meant to read the receipt. “Be my guest,” I said, trying to remain cool and collected instead of sweaty and embarrassed at being caught.
“What is that AT charge exactly?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket.
I glared at him wondering if I should have doubled the tax.
“Well?”
I was going to need the whole quart of ice cream, at least. “It’s the Asshole Tax. Something I’m sure you’re familiar with, Mr. Armani.”
He fixed his collar attempting to burn me with his glare. “Can’t wait for another one of your ‘expert’ consultations tomorrow morning.”
