Page 24 of Big Boss
And then she stops, pulling out another selection.
This time, the gown is the color of the dark night sky. The neckline is high, but the arms and shoulders are bare. I gasp.
She holds it up to me, hanger pressed against my collarbone. “This is the one. And it has pockets. Do you want me to wrap it now?”
I flush. I didn’t even get a chance to look at the price. But whatever it is, I am probably better off not knowing. As much money as it is to me, it’s nothing more than pocket change to a man like Donovan Tate.
The thought sends a small shiver down my spine. I wish he were easier to figure out. At least, I wish I could tell whether he considers me to be a real friend or not. He’s so private with everyone, like an oyster that only opens up for a very few people under certain circumstances.
But I think I get to see certain parts of him that even his best friends don’t get to see. And I even feel like he likes that I see those pieces of him, now that he doesn’t have to be that public bad boy with me ever again. But it’s not exactly something that we talk about with words.
At least I’m glad I don’t have to worry that he’s making fun of me. We’re better than that to each other. At least now we are.
We are halfway to the counter when I stop abruptly. “Shoes. A bag. All of it.” The words leave my mouth involuntarily. I can’t help it.
But without even a flinch or a hint of hesitation, she leads me to a jewelry case, where I find large, sparkling earrings. She hands me a small beaded bag with a peacock pattern on it without even pausing to see my reaction.
Because she automatically knows what will look best with the gown and yet be subdued enough that I’m willing to wear it. We wind our way back toward the front of the store and she hands me a business card for a shoe store three streets down.
“Show them the gown. They’ll find something perfect.” She pats my hand and then sighs dreamily as she reads the back of the black credit card that Tate handed me when I was leaving.
“Not the ‘Eating Out’” Tate,” she says, swaying melodramatically and pressing the back of her hand to her forehead.
I stare at her, trying to decide whether she’s making fun of me. That is easily the most ridiculous nickname ever invented for a grown man, and I don’t believe for a moment that anybody would actually call him that, even as a joke. “Well, Donovan Tate.” I clear my throat. “My b—” I pause, then lick my lips, “boyfriend. My boyfriend.”
The woman pauses, just for a moment, but the hot flame of embarrassment flushes my cheeks a deep reddish color. Not at all in any sort of attractive manner. No, I blotch all over like I’m about to break out into hives.
I fan myself frantically with both hands. What on earth is wrong with me? Here I am, on the edge of actual hysteria, trying to stave off a panic attack over lying about my relationship with my boss, who turned out to be one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known.
Who am I right now? I’m not the type of person who cares what people think about me, but something about having to face this woman’s kindness with Tate’s credit card weighing down my pocket has apparently made me unhinged.
As if anyone would believe that I’m Donovan Tate’s girlfriend. I’ve seen plenty of pictures of him online by now, and even I can see what kind of woman he’s usually with.
There’s not an expensive dress in the world that can close the gap between who I really am and the kind of woman that my boss dates.
And that’s the feeling of shame that claws at my throat when the salesclerk pauses at my declaration, raising her eyebrows just enough to indicate her disbelief.
She thinks I’m lying. And I am lying, but I don’t want her to automatically assume that either.
I force my face to relax into a smile, hoping it’s not a grimace. I need to act like a regular girl, the kind who buys dresses on her much older billionaire boyfriend’s credit card. “Now, if you don’t mind my asking, where is the best place to go to get my hair done today?”
She slides the receipt into a crisp paper bag with a design on the outside—the shop’s logo. “Glitter is the best day spa in town, but they’re usually booked out months in advance.”
I deflate a little at her words. Of course they won’t have any appointments. This is why I don’t get into all this girly girl stuff. I’m all about planning, but never seem to make the time to prioritize my own needs.
The woman waves a hand at me. “Just let them know you’re Tate’s girlfriend. They’ll make time for whatever you want, I promise.”
I tuck the bag with the gown over my elbow and swallow down a knot of guilt. I know it’s wrong to pretend, but I panicked when she looked at his black credit card and then stared at me with questions in her eyes.
Lots of questions.
Well, maybe if Glitter is as busy as she said, they won’t even notice Tate’s name on the credit card. Or maybe they’ll be more willing to overlook it and not ask too many questions.
There’s only one way to find out I guess.
Once I stow the gown and accessories over my elbow, I head toward the day spa with a renewed sense of purpose. If I can sell myself as Donovan Tate’s girlfriend here, then it will work everywhere, including the charity fundraiser.
The door to the spa swings open to a heavy eucalyptus scent and soft instrumental music fills the air.
