Chapter 12
Ellie
“Ilook like a hooker,” I mutter at my own reflection as I look into the mirror at home.
I’m getting dressed for work, day three, and it’s getting a little tricky to figure out what to wear.
My normal dresses are too long; my new dresses are too short (according to me).
My pants are unflattering (according to Damien) and the rest of my closet is better suited for play dates or movie nights at home.
In other words, I have jeans, leggings, hoodies, t-shirts, and not a whole lot else.
At this point, it’s either a shiny dress that has less material than a tube top or business casual, a look I am entirely certain Damien will absolutely not go for.
Since I have to drop Luca off at school on the way to work and walk him to his classroom door, I’m not about to go strolling around in option number one.
I make it to work with five minutes to spare.
I spent a good portion of the morning explaining to Luca that he will not be allowed to stay home just because his pet hamster stopped eating.
Considering the morning I had, I am in desperate need of coffee myself, and I use that extra five minutes to order an iced vanilla latte while I pick-up Damien’s morning order.
I also snag a croissant because I didn’t have time to eat breakfast between arguments about Harold the hamster's dietary issues.
I go to my office which is drenching in morning sunshine.
I can’t complain about my office. Honestly, at this point, I don’t think I can actually complain about much.
The work is doable, the accommodations are amazing, the pay is unreal and my boss is…
pleasant. I don’t know what other word to use right now because I’m doing my best not to think about just how pleasant he is.
Was. At least not during daytime work hours.
The last thing I need is to need to change my clothes, considering my lack of wardrobe options.
I leave my coffee and my other things in my office and make my way to Damien’s office, his Americano in hand.
Then, I wait. Exactly three minutes later, he walks through the door, and I bite back a smile.
He’s in gray slacks; a white button-down shirt and his hair is slicked back.
I’m not sure how long that will last. The natural curl in his dark hair is bound to get unruly, and I doubt any hair gel can actually withstand.
“Good morning Mr. Graves,” I say as I hand him his coffee.
“Miss Bates,” he says curtly. The sharpness of his words cut a little, even if he is just saying my name. “I have a lunch meeting with Towers today, Miss Bates. That needs to be on my schedule,” he says as he walks over to his desk.
“Of course, sir. I will get that updated right away. Is there anything else, sir?” I ask.
Damien looks up at me with a sharp jaw and a slack mouth. “Yes. What the hell are you wearing?”
I swallow hard, but keep my head high. I’m in slim fitted gray slacks that cut off above my ankles, black pumps and a white, capped sleeve button down, tucked in. The heels were my Hail Mary at Damien not hating the outfit entirely.
“The only thing I had in my closet that is work appropriate, sir,” I answer.
“It’s not work appropriate. Not here. Not for your position. What did I say about pants?” he snaps.
But I’ve only had three sips of my latte, and I’m in the mood to snap back. “Well I’m sorry, but it was either this or a jogging outfit. I know you like your coffee fast, but you don’t strike me as a legging fan.”
Damien’s expression tells me he’s not in a joking mood. Shocking. “What happened to the dresses I bought you the other night?”
“The silk ones with glitter and plunging necklines? I doubt you want anyone seeing my bellybutton,” I say. “I assumed those dresses were only for the night shift.”
Damien chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. “You’re right. I’d send you back home if you showed up in one of those. So, that’s really all you have?”
“Yes, sir,” I admit.
“Well you know my expectations,” he says.
“I do. It’s just…I can't. Payday isn’t for two more days.”
Damien studies me before he clicks his tongue. “Fix my schedule. Keep it up to date. It’s always subject to change throughout the day, and be back in my office at 3:00.”
“What’s at 3:00, sir?” I dare to ask.
“The end of your shift,” he says before looking at his laptop and my stomach hits the floor. My shifts are typically longer than that.
I mutter out a shaky yes sir and make my way out the door.
Who would have thought a pair of pants would equal early termination and a broken contract?
The rest of my workday goes by uneventfully and slowly.
Unfortunately, I’m impeccably good at my job, and I stay one step ahead of him at all times.
Usually that would make my life easier, but right now all it’s doing is giving me more time to think.
By three in the afternoon I am sulking as I walk into his office. Damien gives me the silent treatment while he clicks away on his computer. No, have a seat or I’ll be right with you just silence. After at least a solid four minutes of silence, I take in a breath.
“Should I gather my things, sir?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers, closing his lap top. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Listen, Mr. Graves. If it’s about the pants, I know you said they’re not acceptable, but I really don’t have anything else. I am planning on going shopping this weekend, though, I prom–”
“No need,” he says as he rounds the desk and stands in front of me.
“No need?” I ask shakily.
“No. We’re going shopping right now.”
He walks out the door and waits for me, eyebrows raised.
“Shopping?” I ask. “Again?”
“That was for evening attire, but obviously you need daytime outfits as well. So, let’s go.
” Damien waits for me to walk with him, and we head out of the building wordlessly.
Once we are in the parking lot, he takes me to a red muscle car.
I stop as he opens the door, looking at the white leather inside, a gorgeous contrast to the cherry exterior.
“You drive a Mustang?” I ask.
“Only when I want to go fast,” he says. I can’t tell whether or not he’s joking, but I don’t ask questions, I simply get inside.
As we pull out of the lot, he reaches for the volume knob on the restored stereo system and 80’s music pours out of the speakers. “38 Special,” I say softly with a smile.
Damien’s eyes shoot over to me momentarily. “What?”
“The song. Hold On Loosely. It’s 38 Special,” I tell him.
“You like classic rock?” he asks. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I hit a soft spot. Who would have thought there was one hiding under all those scales?
“I like all kinds of music,” I answer.
“Yeah? What’s your favorite?” he asks.
“You mean when I’m not listening to baby shark on repeat?” I joke, and he gives me an odd look. I giggle before answering the question seriously. “I love Bob Dylan,” I tell him.
“No shit?” he asks with a smile. Not a smirk; not a quarter of a grin. An actual smile.
“No shit,” I repeat his words back to him because it somehow feels safe to do so.
“Bobby’s always been good. Just a little misunderstood,” he says. “What else do you like?”
“Let’s see. Pearl Jam,”
“Eddie Vedder, yes. Go on.” he nods.
“The White Stripes, Billy Idol, Van Halen.”
“Roth or Hagar?” he asks.
“Roth for nostalgia and big hits. Hagar for ballads.”
Damien chuckles. “That’s my girl,” he says, and my heart swoops in my chest. It’s obviously just a figure of speech, but it still catches me off guard. Damien turns up the music, and we don’t talk for the rest of the drive which is probably best.
We pull up to another bougie shopping area that I’ve never been to. As we walk inside, I get flashbacks of the other day. I can’t help but wonder if he was planning on a repeat of that night.
Once we are inside, a thin woman who doesn’t look like she’s ever smiled a day in her life says a few things to Damien under her breath.
Her eyes sweep over me before she pulls out a tape measure and asks me to hold out my arms. Three measurements and another glare later, she walks towards the back of the store.
“Do we have to buy clothes here?” I ask.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asks.
“Nothing. It’s just so…stuffy.”
“This is the kind of clothing you should be wearing, Annelise. It’s classy, but sexy,” he answers.
“I know. I’m just not used to that,” I mutter, turning over a price tag on a fur coat before sucking in a breath.
“Where do you shop?” he asks.
“Recently? Consignment shops,” I answer while holding a yellow dress up to my body and looking in the mirror.
“Did your last job really pay that bad?” he asks before adding, “That’s not a good color for you. It flushes you out.”
“My current life is just that expensive,” I say, ignoring the last part but all the while putting the dress back on the rack.
Damien gives me a look like he’s trying to figure me out, although I’m not sure what figuring out there is to do.
He’s seen my resume. He knows most of my story.
And yet, the lack of empathy on his face tells me he doesn’t care.
“Miss Bates, we’re ready for you in the fitting room,” the woman says. I look at Damien who nods me forward, and I take a breath before following Miss Personality back.
It’s a repeat of the other night, except this time there’s more material involved.
Of course no pants or below the knee dresses.
Luckily, they’re at least long enough that if I bend over, I won’t be showing the whole office my ass.
At least not all of it. Wearing clothes like these feels wild.
I always wondered what it would be like.
As I stare at myself in the mirror, I don’t have to wonder anymore.
One of the zippers is a bit out of reach, and I hit the call button. The curtain opens, but Damien steps in instead of the witchy woman.
“Are you supposed to be in here?” I ask.
“Considering the amount of money I am about to drop, I think it’s safe to say I can do anything I want,” he answers. If he wasn’t one of the richest men in Las Vegas, I might feel bad. “Here, let me,” he says, stepping behind me to zip the dress.
I look at myself in the mirror. It’s a gold dress with a slight flair. The way it hugs my body gives me the perfect shape. It shows off my curves while hiding the areas that have gone soft with motherhood.
“What do you think?” he asks. I almost forget he was standing there.
“I’m not used to wearing things like this,” I admit.
“What kind of things?” he asks. “Expensive things? Pretty things? Things that suit you and are worthy to be worn by you?” he asks.
“All of the above?” I answer.
Damien spins me around to face him. “What part of your body are you worried about.”
“Is this a trick question?” I ask.
“Do I look like I want to stand around making jokes?” he asks.
“You could. I do it every time I look in the mirror,” I say, but Damien does not think it’s funny.
“Don’t do that,” he says sharply. “Don’t put yourself down. Half of why I hired you was because you fit every characteristic of what I am looking for. That includes day and night shifts. Questioning yourself is questioning my judgement. Do you question my judgement?”
“No, sir,” I answer.
“Damien,” he says, and my heart flutters in my chest. So this is a Damien moment…
“No, Damien,” I echo. “But I am a girl, and as a girl, I’m not always going to be comfortable in my own skin.”
“What part of your skin aren’t you comfortable in? Because I’ve seen a lot of it, and I have no problems whatsoever,” he says.
“I don’t exactly look twenty-two anymore,” I say as a starter.
“Why would you want to look twenty-two?” he asks. “Real men don’t want a twenty-two-year-old.”
Tell that to my ex…
“Real men want real women,” he says.
“Even ones with stretch marks?” I ask.
“Women who are with me do not question themselves…or their bodies,” he tells me as he puts his hands on my hips, running them over the curves, around to my ass and pulling me against him.
He’s looking down at me. I look up at him, feeling like I have no other choice.
His very stare is commanding. Magnetic. “You belong in these clothes, Annelise. They showcase you just enough to make heads turn, but not enough to share what belongs only to me.”
My chest rises and falls, and Damien’s eyes flicker from mine to my mouth and back. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Right here in a dressing room. Not at the Opal Room. Not in the Velvet Lounge. But here, in the middle of the day. Not at work.
We stand there for what feels like hours and also only like a few quick seconds, the moment is broken by Miss Personality herself.
“Shall I package everything up then?” she asks and we step apart. I clear my throat and turn my back to him.
“Can you unzip me?” I ask. He tugs it down with much less thought than he slowly zipped it up only moments before. Then he opens the curtain, looking back at me momentarily.
“Annelise?”
“Damien?” I ask and his scowl returns.
“Never wear pants to work again,” he says.
“Yes, sir.” I match his tone before shimmying out of the dress and reaching for my other clothes.
How am I ever going to survive this man?