Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Pippa
Sandra appears in the doorway like the devil herself, her grin so wide, I’m surprised it doesn’t split her face in half. She takes one look at me and grins with satisfaction.
“Oh, darling. You look phenomenal.”
I look at her with amazement. “What?”
Her eyes glitter with excitement as they move all over my body. “You look absolutely stunning, Pippa.”
“No, I don’t. I look ridiculous.”
I tug at the Jessica Rabbit dress for the millionth time, which is pointless because there isn’t actually any extra material to tug into place. The neckline, if you can even call it that, is already hanging on for dear life.
“I’m not going out there dressed like this,” I say firmly.
Sandra rests her hands on her hips dramatically. “Oh yes, you very much are going out there. You look great. Much better than I did in it.”
“No, I don’t, but that’s not even the worst part. I hardly dare move in case my boobs fall out or I flash my panties through the split.”
Sandra waves away my concerns with a careless wave of her hand. “You worry too much. I worked an entire Halloween shift in that thing last year and nothing popped out. I did get a much better than usual round of tips, though. Now come on, let’s go.”
I shake my head so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t roll off. “Absolutely not. No way. I’ll do another forfeit. I’ll do anything else. Make me clean the bar’s toilets for a month. Make me eat a raw onion. Just not this.”
Her grin sharpens. “If you refuse to do this, the next penalty is worse.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Worse? How could it possibly be worse?”
Sandra leans against the doorframe, her blue eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Let’s see. It would be to walk down Oxford Street. Dressed exactly like this. In the middle of the day, when it’s full of sober shoppers.”
I stare at her, horrified at the very thought of it. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would,” Sandra says. She crosses her arms, her expression smug. “So, what’ll it be, Pippa? Embarrass yourself in front of a few drunk strangers, or strut down Oxford Street in broad daylight like you’re auditioning for some questionable cabaret?”
I groan, pressing my forehead to the cool wall.
The image of me in this dress parading past Zara and Boots while mothers shield their children’s eyes is enough to make me want to sink into the ground.
She’s right. I’d never live it down. I’d probably end up on someone’s TikTok compilation titled Cringe Moments in London.
At least here I’m at least half-drunk and capable of Dutch courage.
“Fine,” I mutter. “The bar. I’ll take the bar.”
Sandra claps her hands and does a little shuffling dance. “That’s my girl.”
“I hate you.”
“No. You love me.”
I give her a dirty look. “Not at this moment, I don’t.”
Ignoring me, she sweeps out of the break room and demands that I walk towards her. “Right. Shoulders back. Chest out, though you don’t need much help there.” Her eyes flick down, and she whistles. “Bloody hell, Pippa, those things are defying gravity.”
She is behaving like she’s my personal drill sergeant or something. I cross my arms, which only makes the neckline plunge lower. “Sandra,” I say in a pleading tone.
“Own it,” she says firmly. “Every man in there has fantasized about Jessica Rabbit. Now you get to make their dreams come true.”
I groan. “Do you really think this is boosting my confidence?”
“Yes. Trust me. Walk tall, swing your hips, and I promise you that you’ll have every man in the place drooling.”
I want to argue the point, but then Peter’s face flashes through my mind.
That look he gave me was a look full of shock, yes, but there was also something else there.
Something I’ve never seen from him before, not in all the years we’ve been coming here.
His eyes had lingered, darkened even, like he was seeing me for the first time.
The memory sparks the tiniest flicker of confidence. Maybe Sandra is right. Maybe I can pull this off. That thought, plus the alcohol buzzing through my veins, makes me nod.
“Ok. Fine. I’ll do it,” I say with a resigned sigh.
Sandra claps again and whoops like a delighted child.
“That’s my girl. One last thing.” She pulls a tube of lipstick out of her pocket and proceeds to apply the chili red lipstick on my lips.
She leans back to inspect her handiwork.
“Hmmm … you really do have the perfect Jessica Rabbit pout. Come on then, let’s find your lucky victim. ”
We reach the end of the corridor, and she stops. I wait while she peeks out of the door leading into the bar, and scans the room like a hunter surveying his prey. I hover nervously behind her, resisting the urge to bolt back into the break room and barricade the door with the mop bucket.
“There,” she says finally, pointing across the room.
I follow her finger, and nearly choke on my own tongue.
Seated at a corner table, half hidden in shadow, is a man who looks like he’s been cut straight out of a glossy magazine.
He’s clearly tall with broad shoulders. Even from this distance, I can tell his suit is quietly expensive.
All sleek charcoal with a crisp white shirt beneath.
He looks relaxed just sitting there, one arm draped over the back of the settee, and the other nursing a glass of something amber. Yet he radiates authority.
His hair is dark, slightly tousled in that deliberate way that screams effort disguised as effortless.
And his face - good God, his face. He looks like Mother Nature carved him herself as a gift to women everywhere.
Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth made for sinful things.
But it’s his eyes that really catch me. Even across the crowded bar, I can see the intensity in them.
They are a bright emerald green, but right then, his beautiful face is fixed in a scowl that makes him look tense, dangerous, and – bad news for me – wholly unapproachable.
My heart sinks.
“Not him,” I whisper in a panic. “Come on, San. Not him. Please.”
Sandra smirks. “Oh yes. Him.”
I shake my head violently. “He’s not my type.”
“Are you mad? He’s everybody’s type.”
“I’m not his type,” I counter hotly.
“Well, you won’t know until you ask him out, will you?” she says resolutely.
Lucy spots Sandra peering out into the bar and joins us at the door. Sandra points out the chosen target, and her eyes widen as she spots him.
“Bloody hell, he’s fit.”
“Exactly,” Sandra beams. “He’s the perfect target.”
I grab Sandra’s arm desperately. “No, he’s not.
Not for me. Look at him. He’s … he’s gorgeous.
Too gorgeous. He’s not going to be into me.
He looks like the kind of man who works eighty hours a week, closes million-pound deals before breakfast, and dates women who dare wear silk blouses because they know they’ll never spill ketchup on themselves. ”
Sandra waves my words away with a careless flick of her hand. “Details. He’s the one.”
Lucy tilts her head, considering this. “He does have that executive shark vibe.”
I groan. “See? He’s not for me. He’s probably got some posh girlfriend named Camilla waiting at home with perfect hair and a trust fund.”
“Well, Pippa Fairfax is a pretty posh name too,” Lucy says.
“But I’m not posh,” I wail.
“Ah, you’ll do,” she says callously.
“What if he says no?” I demand.
Sandra shrugs. “Then your forfeit is complete. No harm done.”
“And if he says yes?”
She grins like the Cheshire Cat. Why do I keep asking?
“Then you actually have to go on the date.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
Lucy hides a smirk behind her hand. “Fair’s fair.”
“This is insane,” I hiss. “There’s no way he’ll say yes. Look at him. He’s a Greek god in a suit. I’m just … me. In a bloody cartoon costume.”
Sandra pats my arm. “Exactly. Which is why it’s perfect. It’s not like you’re going to have to go through with anything. Just ask him out, let him turn you down, and boom, you’re done.”
I gnaw at my lip, my heart hammering. She’s right. There’s no way he’s going to say yes to me. Men like him don’t look twice at women like me, especially not when I’m dressed like a parody. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“And no cheating. You have to be seductive, like you actually want to go out with him,” Lucy says.
“Whose side are you on?” I ask.
She shrugs, the picture of false innocence. “No one’s, but I’m the referee, so I have to make sure it’s done right.”
“Flutter your eyelashes and work those baby blues,” Sandra says.
I roll my eyes. “OK, here I go.”
Sandra squeals, grabbing Lucy’s hand. “This is going to be epic. He’s not going to be able to refuse you.”
“Are you quite mad? This kind of grossly unsubtle behavior is guaranteed to scare off all but the most desperate men.”
“Nonsense. Men are quite sick of doing all the chasing,” she dismisses, and gives me a little nudge forward.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I swallow hard, push my shoulders back the way Sandra told me to do, and step out of the corridor and back into the bar.