7. Willow
7
WILLOW
I splurged a bit on the dress.
While small and relatively new, Eros Corps is a bit of a fancy company, with a head office spanning five floors of a premium Manhattan skyscraper. Lucy’s starting salary in the research team had her staring at the offer speechless for a whole five minutes, and the party’s in a luxurious hotel overlooking Central Park.
We can’t exactly go in Shein dresses.
I’ve just started my first grown-up job; and the Ruby Red cash makes sure I can afford it.
The hardest part was to convince Lucinda to buy the deep green, velvet empire dress. She may make six figures per annum, but she’s not yet used to it. Her tall, statuesque frame looks incredible, while that sort of fit would have made my curves look downright lewd. In contrast, I’m in a pink, flirty cocktail dress, with a full skirt.
“I don’t know.” Lucy pouts, wrinkling her nose. “It’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
I roll my eyes. “You look incredible.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? This is work . People are used to seeing me in a lab coat. Will anyone even recognize me?”
“Between the hair and the glasses, there’s no chance of anyone not recognizing you.”
Like me, Anne and Lucy are redheads, though theirs are a couple of shades darker and deeper. She couples her flaming waves with large Ray-Bans somewhere between a rectangle and a circle. They take over almost half of her face.
Lucy bites down on her lips shyly. I know she’s not used to being looked at. I’d bet anything she and Anne are late bloomers; I doubt either of them were popular in school, and now, they’re gorgeous, and don’t quite know what to do with themselves. Anne hides behind her books, Lucy, her lab coat.
I wrap my arm around her and squeeze. “There’s no such thing as too much for a New Year’s party. But if there were, you still wouldn’t cross the line.”
She smiles. “At least no one’s going to gape at me. They’ll be too busy drooling over you.”
I laugh, not denying it.
I know what I look like. I have huge tits, a fairly small frame, wide hips, a nice ass, and yes, every creep I’ve ever met has been staring at my body for years. I don’t even dislike the looks. But they rarely ever bother to go past the boobs. Lucy’s the kind of graceful, elegant woman they actually bother to look in the eyes.
I’m the kind of woman people want as the mistress. She’s the wife.
“Guys, your cab is here!” Anne calls from the lounge.
Great. It’s too late for Lucy to change now. We snatch our coats and clutches, and we’re out in the early evening traffic.
It’s a short enough drive at this time, and Lucy keeps wringing her hands through it all. I’m glad I decided to go with her; she likely would have had a panic attack on the way otherwise. Or more than likely, she would have removed the dress, kicked the high heels underneath the sofa and changed into her PJs by now.
We’re welcomed at the entrance by a tall, dark, and panty-meltingly hot man in a sharp white suit who shakes both of our hands.
“Glad to have you here,” he says with a smile that would likely let him get away with murder.
Then we’re moving on, and he’s greeting the middle-aged couple right behind us.
“Who was that?” I whisper to Lucy as she blushes.
A server offers us a tray of drinks and I grab two.
“The CEO. Caleb Cole.”
I whistle. “The CEO of my company definitely doesn’t look like that .”
I’ve never met the guy but from the picture on the company website, he’s in his sixties, with a Santa-size pot belly and the kind of red nose one only acquires after drinking far too much wine on a daily basis.
“No wonder his sex toy company’s successful. He should sell a dildo modelled after his own cock. I bet all the ladies would jump on it.”
She snorts her bubbly. “I’d suggest that at the next team meeting, if it wouldn’t get me fired. And you know, sued for sexual harassment.”
“Spoilsport,” I snigger.
The guests are from various demographics, but all are dressed in elegant, expensive suits and dresses. I was right: Lucy’s gown is absolutely not too much in this setting.
I don’t miss how my roommate tenses the moment we enter the room.
“Although,” I continue, “if he got into sex toys, maybe that’s because he has a tiny cock and was trying to supplement it…”
“Willow!” she whisper-yells.
“You’re right. He kinda holds himself like he has a big one,” I say, glancing back at the beautiful man.
With another giggle, Lucy starts a lecture. “Actually, Mr. Cole owns night clubs—the kind with an exclusive, impossible-to-get-onto list. It has theme parties, and each guest receives a swag bag. Generally, fun, sexy gifts. He started Eros Corps to create his own unique swag. They were extremely popular, so he extended that into a full-scale business.”
I’m glad to say, she’s stopped glancing around nervously, like someone might jump out of the shadows to scream at her that her backless dress breaks the almighty law of STEM nerds.
“Impressive.”
“Isn’t it? I suppose once you’ve gone through the trouble of hiring a full team to research and produce inventive things, it just makes sense financially to extend the production. We still do exclusive swag for his clubs, of course—and release some of the products early there.”
I reach for the tray of hors d'oeuvres passing by. “Surprising the party’s not at one of his clubs then.”
“They’re likely booked solid this time of the year. Besides, it’s not the kind of club you invite your employees to. Parties there don’t even start until ten, not six.”
“I can imagine the guy must be busy, between the clubs and the business.”
“That kind of man delegates.” Lucy waves as we pass a slender man, a head shorter than her, with a date at least two feet taller. He waves back enthusiastically. “He’s almost never at the office.”
“Too bad. He’d make for a nice view.”
We’re still chuckling when someone calls her name.
“Lucinda.”
We turn to see a short, stout woman, frowning disapprovingly as she looks between us.
“Miranda.”
“I’d hoped to catch you here,” she sneers. “You have submitted your findings before clocking out, yes?”
Lucy’s jaw tightens. “Naturally.”
“Good, good. Well, don’t enjoy yourself too much.” Her eyes rake over my friend’s lovely dress judgmentally one last time before she walks away.
Suddenly, I see why Lucy had an issue with her dress.
It looks like I’m not the only one with an asshole boss, though Lucy hasn’t yet complained about hers.
“Your supervisor?” I guess. “Dreadful cow.”
She shakes her head. “She’s the head of the admin staff, actually. She’s not quite in my department, but they process our files. She’s higher than me in the hierarchy, but not technically my superior. Though she likes to pretend she is.”
“And she causes you problems,” I guess.
“I don’t know why, but she’s just constantly complaining about the way I submit things, or when I do it. I’ve just started bypassing her office altogether, uploading my own documents directly on the main server. She doesn’t like that one bit, and constantly checks in on my projects like she just did, in front of an audience. I think she’s trying to make it sound like I’m always late to everyone.”
I snort. “I bet. Power-hungry shrew. She’s jealous of you.”
“I…I mean, we’re in vastly different areas. That can’t be it.”
“You’re younger than her, prettier than her, and probably have a better job. More fun, better pay, in all likelihood. Maybe not now, as she’s head of her department, but I’d bet as a researcher, your pay is similar to hers, and it’s your first year. I’d bet on jealousy.”
“I hope that’s not it,” Lucy says. “You’d think as some of the only female staff, we’d actually have each other’s back.”
“If only. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of wonderful women, in and out of the workforce. But there are just as many terrible ones. Basically, people, as a general rule, suck, regardless of their genitals.”
“So jaded,” Lucy says, shaking her head. “Let’s see if we can find some optimism at the bottom of another glass of wine.”
Damn. We’ve both already finished our flutes, and we’ve only just stepped into the large, packed hall.
“Doubt it. But I’m happy to check, just in case.”
Another server offers us another drink, and we switch our empty ones out. No one asks for my age, so I don’t have to retrieve my fake ID from my clutch.
“We’re going to get smashed if we aren’t careful.”
“Is it a New Year’s party if we don’t get smashed?” I counter.
“It’s a work party,” Lucy retorts. “I have to stay professional.”
That makes complete sense for her. “Good thing I don’t work here, then. I fully intend to have many of these yummy bubblies.”
I’m true to my word, though I wouldn’t get too drunk—I’m not about to embarrass my friend at a work event. Like so many people, I prefer to spend this time of the year as drunk as possible, given the memories associated with end of December. Besides, in a couple of days, I’ll be in Cali, playing the innocent little sister. I certainly won’t be able to drink my fill at Morgan’s. I may as well have fun while I can.
Lucy and I join her friend Tom from the graphics department, and his fiancée Natasha, a ballet dancer, and we chat over the petit fours, occasionally interrupted by other colleagues we come to greet.
Lucy’s actual superior looks like a mercurial drum player in a rock band, with dark long hair and a vaguely confused expression, like he’s not quite sure what he’s doing there. He seems nice enough, unlike Miranda, but I see why a boss like that doesn’t protect her from the likes of Miranda. He likely has no clue anything’s going on.
I’m on my seventh drink, starting to feel a pinch in my toes, when I decide I have to probably switch to water. The drinks are tiny, and I honestly don’t feel much of a buzz, but I must be asleep. And dreaming.
It’s not the first, and likely not the last time I close my eyes for a moment and imagine him , thinking of his long, dark blond hair, those incredible muscles never quite concealed by his custom suits—off the rack could never fit those large shoulders. Not to mention, those thick thighs. No man who isn’t a professional athlete should have the right to look like that clearly.
And if I’m hallucinating Dimitri, drink number seven should definitely be my last one.
Dream Dimitri is chatting with the hot CEO at the hall’s entrance, a smile on his face.
And then his eyes fall on me. A shiver runs through my spine.
I watch him excuse himself, and then walk—or stalk—right to me, with the gait of a predator.
Until he’s right here.
In front of me.
It’s only when I smell him, inhaling that familiar mix of fresh apple, white musk, and ocean’s breath, that I realize I might not actually have made him up.
He’s here.
“Hello, petal.”
Fuck .