Chapter 32 Amara
AMARA
I am in the middle of picking the blue cheese crumbles out of my cobb salad when someone knocks on my door.
I look up to see Ransome standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Yes, sir?”
“What are you doing?”
“Right now, I’m getting rid of moldy cheese so I can eat my lunch without barfing,” I tell him, wiping my hands on a napkin.
But Ransome isn’t smiling. Not that that’s out of character for him. Ransome only smiles when he’s amused, which is almost never.
“I mean, what are you doing at the office?” he asks and I look up at him, mid-chew.
“I work here?” I state with the lilt of a question.
“Correction,” he says. “You work here from seven to noon. It is now…” he looks down at his Patek Philippe watch. “Twelve thirty-seven.”
I smile and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “For what it’s worth, I’m not really working. I closed my laptop fifteen minutes ago and I’m now taking my lunch break.”
“That’s not really worth anything. You can’t take a lunch break. You’re not on the clock.”
“Alright.” I shrug. “Then I’m just out to lunch. In my office. Because my fancy new swivel chair that my boss bought me has lumbar support and a heated seat.”
Ransome stares at me. I stare back. Then I ice it with a smile and he proceeds to walk over to my desk, staring down at me.
As usual, I crack. “Fine. I’ll go home. As soon as I finish eating.”
“Actually,” he says, “You’re not going home.”
“No offense, Mr. Rozanov, but you’re sending a lot of mixed signals.”
“You’re not going home because you’re going shopping. For a new dress.”
I look down at myself. “Is there something wrong with this one?”
“No. Not at all.” He licks his lips for a second. The motion has me feeling hot all over. “But it’s not exactly Apex company dinner at the Beaumont appropriate.”
I spring up. “Wait. I get to go to that?”
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” he answers casually.
“It’s just that there will be a lot of important people there.”
“Which is exactly why the CEO’s personal assistant will be needed.”
I grin from ear to ear. Then I shuffle myself around my desk and over to him, smashing my pregnant body against his beautifully toned one.
“I’m so excited,” I say, and give him a kiss.
“It’s just a business dinner.”
“It could be a dinner before getting a root canal and I’d be excited. You forget I don’t get to go out much.” I wrap up the rest of my salad and grab my things. “Is there a dress code for this? Oh! Speaking of that, I’ll have your black suit pressed.”
“Just wear whatever makes you feel beautiful,” he says, making his way to the door. But then he stops. “Also. Remember that you will be there as my assistant. Not my date.”
I stare at him.
Right. How could I forget? “Of course.”
He nods and walks out.
Date. Of course I’m not his date. That would be ridiculous. How could I possibly be? His wife will most likely be there. He’s a married man.
He’s not mine.
Suddenly I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach, blue cheese or not.
“Wait. So you’re not his date?” Electra asks.
She was able to get that much out of me, though she is still unaware that Ransome is married. And that he married to keep a family truce. And that the cousin of said wife is at large and tried to kill my brother and probably wants Ransome dead too, so we all have to play nice.
“No, I’m not.” I pull a black dress off the rack, tilting my head to the side to imagine it covering my bulging belly.
“Well, then what are you?” she asks, holding a cashmere sweater up to herself in the mirror.
Electra has always liked name brands, but it wasn’t until her mystery lover came around that she started shopping for said brands at the name stores that actually make them.
She’s usually a find-it-at-a-knockoff-store kind of girl.
“His assistant.”
She rolls her eyes over to me. I don’t look at her though, mostly because I know how ridiculous the words sound.
“Assistant?” she echoes.
I grab a couple more dresses off the rack: a pink one, a purple one, and shiny silver one. “Yes. I work for him. At Apex. I thought you knew this.”
I make my way to the dressing room. Electra follows, slipping inside the curtain with me.
“I’m aware you work for him.” She rolls her eyes.
“But I also know you’ve had your eye on him from the day he hired you.
You’ve also been sleeping with him, obviously.
” She dramatically waves her hand over my belly, which looks even bigger when it’s exposed.
“I just don’t see how he can pretend that you’re not together. Or why he’d want to.”
“Professional face.”
I yank a dress off the hanger—harder than I should, considering the price tag.
It’s not untrue, what I’ve said to her, but it’s also not the full truth.
And maybe it’s the hormones, but I’m growing sick of all the lies that come with the territory of being Ransome’s baby mama. Big ones, small ones, it’s still lying.
“Right.”
“Even if we are involved—”
“Oh, involved. How classy.”
“—he’s my boss and it isn’t proper to show more than that in public. Does this dress make me look fat?” I ask, turning to her. It’s pink and stretchy, but almost too fitted.
“It looks like you’re wearing a tube sock.”
“Help me out of it, then!”
We get to work trying to peel three feet of bubblegum pink polyester off my body.
“I don’t know,” she says as she strains against the material. “I just think he should put a ring on it. You know, since he already put a baby in it.”
I grab another dress. “Yeah, well, that’s not really possible right now.”
I frown at how frumpy the next one looks. It’s black. Black never looks frumpy. Are there no good dresses in this place?
I tug it off and grab the last one.
“Not with that attitude,” she says as she helps me zip the back of the dress.
Then she smiles into the mirror. “You know what I think? Fuck the rules. Even if he doesn’t treat you like you’re his date, be his date.
Make him want you. Make him so hot for you that it’s obvious how he feels about you, whether he likes it or not. ”
“And how do I do that?” I ask as I flatten down the silver sequins on the dress. Honestly, the whole thing looks like it’s made of them. I’m surprised it’s not itchier. I’m also surprised at how well it fits, considering it’s not even a maternity dress.
Electra’s face tells me she sees it too. “Well, you can start by wearing that dress. You look like a million bucks.”
“Yeah?” I turn side to side. The light catches on every sequin.
“Oh hell yeah,” she says. “It’s very Tiffany. Very Cartier. Very Marilyn Monroe. You can’t go wrong there.”
I stare at myself in the mirror. Electra’s right: this dress does make me look like a million bucks. A billion, even. Like the kind of woman worth enough to be on Ransome Rozanov’s arm.
And why shouldn’t I?
Maybe Electra’s got a point. Maybe I should toy with him a little. Make him see what he’s missing.
“No, you cannot,” I agree with a smile.