Chapter 8
“Anti-Hero” - Taylor Swift
Maeve
I glare at my reflection in the changing room mirror. This dress is atrocious. It looked great on the rack, but now that I’ve put it on, I look like overcooked pasta. Absolutely disgusting. I take it off and thrust it outside. There’s a three-second delay before Pierce takes it from my hand.
“What’s wrong with this one?” he asks.
“Nothing, if you’re Sydney Sweeney.” I shut the door before he can get any ideas.
“Sydney Sweeney is hot as hell.”
I turn the knob and stick my head outside. “She’s also blond. I, on the other hand”—I grab a fistful of my black, ultra-straight hair—“am not.”
Retreating back into the fitting room, I reach for the last of the gowns I picked out.
Hopefully this one will work, because I’m about to reach my limit with Pierce.
Not that he’s being super annoying at the moment—quite the opposite, actually, which is weird—but because I can’t stop replaying the scene with my father from earlier.
What in the world prompted Pierce to say that I’m smart and talented?
Personally, I prefer “brilliant,” but it’s a start.
Neither of these things are news to anyone, but for him to verbalize them was a surprise.
What I can’t figure out is if he said them to mess with me, or even worse, if he actually meant them.
I wonder if Pierce would have said what he did if he knew it might jeopardize his “golden boy” status with my dad.
Lord Wilson likes people because of what they can do for him, and he’s always liked Pierce.
He views the St. James family as close friends—although I doubt they feel the same—and Pierce as the son he never had.
He has a son, mind you, but Bash is as different from Pierce as a carnival is from a royal ball.
While HavenNet might be our biggest project with a St. James corporation to date, it’s not like we haven’t helped each other over the years. They’ve been one of our biggest donors, naturally, and so my father thinks we’re in each other’s pockets.
But for Pierce to defend me to him? That was a risky move on his part. There’s no telling what my father will do now, but I’m sure I will bear the brunt of it regardless. If there’s one thing a Wilson can’t handle, it’s an attack on their pride.
I shimmy the plum off-the-shoulder fitted floor-length gown over my hips. I had the perfect outfit already chosen for tonight’s charity dinner, but I heard a rumor this morning that Celine Di Laurentis is going to be wearing the same design. The audacity.
So here I am, trying on dresses mere hours before the event, with Pierce St. James waiting for me outside and pretending to be completely fine with the situation.
I’ll admit, I was shocked when the shop assistant told me he had already paid for everything, but I think I did a good job hiding it.
I’ve never had a man buy me clothes before, not because they haven’t offered but because I’ve always declined.
If Pierce had asked, I’m not sure what I would have said. Part of me would like to take him for every penny he has—not that even I could rack up a bill high enough to drain his accounts—but another part of me doesn’t want him to think he has any power over me.
Lucky for me, I didn’t have to make that decision, because he didn’t ask; he just did it. It causes a weird feeling in my chest, one I don’t have words for, because I’ve never experienced it before.
But what am I doing, still thinking about all of this?
I have a dress to find and an assistant to boss around.
I only have Pierce for seventeen more hours, and I’m going to need to get creative if I want to crack him before then.
If I can get him to forfeit this challenge, it’s an automatic win for me without having to do any heinous tasks. God knows what he would come up with.
I tug at the zipper of the gown, but it’s in the back (stupid) and not the side (why?).
I can only get it up so far before my arms refuse to go any higher.
If this were a normal shopping trip, I’d simply ask the shop assistant to help me with it.
But I’ve brought my own assistant, and this feels like a good task for him.
Sticking my head out of the fitting room again, I look for Pierce, half expecting him to have abandoned his duties already.
Instead, he’s sitting in the same chair as before, phone pressed to his ear.
His eyes catch mine instantly, a tiny frown creasing his brow.
He ends the call before I can say a word, then stands and walks toward me.
I turn around so I don’t have to look at those ridiculous eyes any longer. Holding my hair away from my neck, I say, “I can’t reach the zipper.”
Without a word, he grips the dress in one hand and the pull in the other. Before I can stop him, he’s unzipped it the entire way.
I gasp as the cool shop air hits my lower back. “Up, not down, you idiot,” I hiss, hoping there’s no one around. But Pierce is more than enough shield from the rest of the store, so even if there is, they can’t see a thing.
I hear him smirk. I know you’re thinking you can’t hear someone smirking, but have you ever seen Pierce St. James smirk? Then you know what I’m talking about. There’s a sound to it. Maybe a fully internal one, but it’s there all the same.
It takes him much longer to get the zipper up than down, and I know what he’s doing, the bloody bastard.
He’s taking in a full view of my back, the lack of bra, the smoothness of my creamy skin.
It’s nothing the whole of Wesbourne hasn’t seen before—hello?
Backless dresses?—but it still makes me feel as though there are a million tiny ants crawling over my entire body.
Sounds unpleasant, but I’m not sure that’s quite the word for it. Anxiety inducing, maybe?
Once he’s done me up, I move in front of the mirror, turning so I can inspect the gown from different angles.
It’s not the best I’ve ever worn, but it’ll do.
I catch a glimpse of Pierce in the glass.
He’s watching me, and there’s this expression on his face I can’t place.
I frown as I try to discern what he’s thinking.
His eyes have gone soft, the lines on his forehead smoothed out.
“Well?” I say. “What do you think?”
His gaze snags on mine in the reflection. “Perfect.”
“I meant the dress.”
He watches me for a few more beats. “I didn’t.”
* * *
Tonight’s event features a dinner, followed by a bridge tournament, and if you’re thinking that it must be one of the most boring fundraisers on the Wilson Foundation’s annual calendar, you’re right.
If you’re also thinking it’s mostly attended by the city’s oldest and wealthiest citizens, I might have to call you Einstein.
This year promises to be much more entertaining for all persons attending, though. Particularly for those who identify as female. The idea came to me this morning, after Pierce left to get my coffee—I still need to know how he knew what to order—and before my father barged into my office.
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t keep a running list of ways to make people’s lives miserable.
They usually just come in a flash of inspiration.
As I sip my champagne, I take note of everyone’s reactions.
The plan was for Pierce to spend the evening escorting patrons to their seats.
As stoic as he is, and as good looking as most people consider him—with the exception of yours truly—I assumed it would be entertaining for the ladies and absolutely hideous for him.
After all, the CEO of Luminara Tech acting as an usher? It’s positively snort-worthy.
However, things are not shaping up quite the way I anticipated. The women are certainly having the time of their lives. But instead of looking miserable, Pierce looks fucking . . . delighted. Delighted.
I watch as he walks slowly, escorting a lady who looks as old as my great-grandmother to her seat.
My nan wouldn’t be beaming up at him as though she planned to snack on him later, though.
Pierce laughs at something the woman says, and I imagine the flirtatious conversation they’re having. Positively disgusting.
Dame Adelaide Mansfield, one of our long-time donors, sidles up next to me. “Where have you been hiding this one?” she says. “They’ll never be satisfied again.”
We both glance at the long line of elderly women who are waiting on Pierce to take them to their seats. There are other ushers, but hardly anyone will accept their help, preferring instead to wait three times as long for the man of the hour.
“I think it’s time for him to go back to his hidey-hole,” I mutter.
When he comes to escort the next guest, I grab his arm and tug him aside. He’s wearing a dark gray tuxedo and a matching bow tie. His muscles feel as hard as rock through his sleeve, and I quickly let go.
“What are you doing?” I hiss under my breath, even though everyone in attendance wears a hearing aid.
“What do you mean?” he says. “I’m helping these women to their seats like you told me to.”
“I didn’t tell you to flirt with them.”
Shaking his head, he laughs. “I’m just being friendly. You should try it sometime.” Then he fucking winks at me.
“Betty White over there is practically eye-fucking you as we speak.”
He looks over at the ladies waiting their turn like kids at an amusement park. “Hmm. She looks less flexible than I prefer, but I bet she’s great with her mouth.”
I cough out a gasp, but by the time I have a retort ready, he’s already gone.