Page 29 of Howl You Doin?
“I think there has been some miscommunication. Don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one who didn’t start the email with ‘cannot breathe, need adjustments’—that is all you had to say.”
He stands inside my bedroom, telling me how I should have worded my email to him?
“If you could keep your mouth shut and listen for five minutes, this wouldn’t be a problem,” I yell, snatching up my bathrobe and wrapping it around my chest.
Piercing blue eyes darken, his lips thinning as he straightens his suit and starts adjusting his tie. “Go on?”
“You’re upset with how I worded my email.” I stab at the ground with my pointer finger, uncaring that I probably look like a lunatic and should tell him to piss off so I can get dressed. “When you’re not the one being forced to try to do your job wearing a corset.”
“It’s only for a few hours a couple of days a week. What’s the big deal?” He holds his hands out, his gaze wild like he can’t believe what I’m saying. “It’s for playacting. Most everyone thinks it’s fun, except for you.”
“I didn’t sign up for being put on display for people. This”—I gesture at myself—“was never in the fine print.” I am far more comfortable in my uniform and my sweats, but not only that, it really is a fire hazard—I wouldn’t joke about that. “Not to mention, I don’t know how I’m expected to cook in it when I can’t see over my own boobs.”
“Ah. I can see how that would be an issue.”
I turn and his gaze lands on the open cleavage of my robe, as I pull the corset out from under it. I shuffle to hide my breasts, on the verge of having a nipple slip out.
“I hate you,” I yell, throwing the next thing in my hand, the destroyed corset.
He catches it and flips it around. “See you did up the laces incorrectly. And, if you hadn’t tied it so tightly—Oh my.” His eyes go round as they focus back on me.
I can just imagine how I look with my boobs almost out for him to see.
I have never been madder in my life. “Get out.”
“Fine. I will meet with the stylist to discuss what we can do about your wardrobe,” he says, still standing in my bedroom, his gaze squarely on my chest.
“Get the fuckout, Connor!”
At his name, he tenses, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He doesn’t say anything else, just pivots and strides to the door, his shoulders straight-backed, rigid anger lining his frame.
My body is shaking, my heart thundering in my chest with rage.
Chapter 9
Whitley Whitt
Rich pompous asses.
“So,is it true? Connor tore your dress off and had his wicked way with you?” George says in way of greeting, as he comes into the kitchen.
I turn around to look at George, who takes a seat at the kitchen counter with a meddlesome grin on his face.
“Who said that?” Oh my god, this better not be what’s going around the castle.
“One of the waiters told me you two were arguing, but then you looked mighty cozy, and all of a sudden, he’s holding your dress together and heading up to your room.”
I laugh and shake my head with my eyes practically falling from their sockets. “No, George. He did not have his way with me.”
Although I’m not so sure I would mind it—if he could keep his mouth shut during.
“Then what happened?” he says, cupping his chin under both of his hands and propping them on the stainless counter.
“Where is FiFi?” I ask him.
“He’s napping. We went for a long walk today and yesterday, and he is still recovering. Now spill.”
I go back to stirring the tomato sauce to hide my growing blush. “There’s nothing to tell. I tried on that silly dress and couldn’t breathe. Well, could barely breathe in it. And then I got mad.”
