Admit You Want Me (Irresistible Billionaires 3)

“The stuff on the floor is supposed to go in there too, bu

t yeah, this is it. What grade are you giving me?”

“I was hoping you had another wardrobe somewhere in this house where you kept your suits, ties and button-down shirts.”

“Well, you’re shit out of luck.”

She looked at me like it was the first time she was seeing me. “Do you even own a tie?”

“Nope.”

“When you get invited to weddings, what do you wear?”

“Ties are uncomfortable. You might as well have a noose around your neck. Suits are the same thing. Why would I wear one when I had to use a uniform for so many years?”

“So, you sit in meetings…wearing this?” she asked, dropping the t-shirt in her hands.

“I co-own my company. I make my own rules. I vowed that I wouldn’t wear a suit anymore now that I don’t have to.”

“How nice. Now tell me how that’s different from a five-year-old being upset that he can't eat ice cream for breakfast, waiting until he gets older, and doing it all the time just because he can?”

“You don’t get to do things just because you’re an adult. I co-founded a business that rose to a billion-dollar valuation in less than five years. If I want to dress like this or eat ice cream three meals a day, I’ve earned it.

“Do you realize how that decision could jeopardize business opportunities?”

“Hasn’t yet.”

“Yes, I guarantee it has. Image is everything in a job where you have to network and attract clients to you.”

I shrugged. “Fuck them then. I’d rather be comfortable. If they judge me by my appearance and not my products, how is it my fault?”

“Your argument against dressing well isn’t strong enough to justify it.”

“I don’t need to argue it. I simply do not want to change the way I dress. End of story.”

She sighed. “Look here, suits don’t have to feel like a uniform, you know. You have a point. The modern men’s suit is very much modeled after military uniform, but designers and tailors personalize them. Make them functional and fashionable, even casual. You might feel that way because you don’t know what designers are working on these days. I could get you into something you quite like.”

It was the accent. I swear it made her sound like she knew what she was talking about. It was also a little hot. I bet she used that on guys all the time. She was making me actually consider putting on a damn monkey suit.

“I got my business to a billion-dollar valuation dressing like this so what’s the truth?”

“That may be true but what do your employees think about you? What about your clients? Do they respect you? Do they trust you? What do they say behind your back?”

I swallowed. “Everyone who works at the company likes me.”

“Yeah, but what do they say behind your back? It's not hard to get people to like you but do they respect you?”

“Of course.”

“Their boss who walks around the office in clothes that look like he slept in them?”

“They're on my payroll. They better respect me.”

“That’s not respect, it’s fear. Do they believe you’re competent? Do you inspire confidence in them? Do they believe your company will last into the future?”

“Of… of course.”

“When they ask for letters of recommendation when they are looking for new work, will they be afraid that their new employers will know who you are and hold it against them?” she asked. Wait, wait, wait, all that from the way I dress? My worn-out shirts were going to do all that? No way. It was a t-shirt, not a blood feud. She was acting like my fucking beard was going to ruin my employees' future prospects. Working for me was the end of the line and they were all fucking blackballed in the industry. Where did she get off saying wild shit like that? Like she even fucking knew better. Unbelievable. She was blowing shit way out of proportion. I hadn’t allowed this woman into my house to talk to me like that. Not on my watch.