Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Roland: I wouldn’t dress you in anything I wouldn’t wear myself, Landry.

Damn him, I’m smiling.

So you make a habit of wearing expensive dresses? I fire back.

Roland: A man must be adaptable. If Timothee Chalamet and Harry Styles can do it, so can I.

I burst out laughing, then wince and hush myself as I catch the driver looking at me oddly in the rearview mirror.

Um. Maybe you should be the one dressing up and charming people tonight, I send.

Roland: Why do that when a pretty field mouse is so much more disarming?

My smile drops and my tongue presses angrily against my teeth.

Dick.

I’ve got to figure out how to get him to stop calling me a cheese-eating rodent.

But anything I can say to counter it, right now, will inevitably sound like flirting—especially if I mention how my teeth are sharper than any mouse’s.

No way I’m flirting with that man. That hunting hawk. That snake.

Even if he wasn’t my flipping boss.

We’re pulling up to Dad’s house. Wanda is already there, waiting patiently outside the coded gate with a garment bag slung over her arm and a young punky-looking girl I’ve never seen before standing next to her.

I thank the Uber driver and dig myself out of the back seat, standing breathlessly and offering Wanda a smile.

“Hey! Sorry if I kept you waiting. Traffic in this city...” I wince, then glance at the girl. “Who’s this?”

“My niece, Corinne. She’s a professional stylist,” Wanda answers coolly. “She’ll be doing your hair and makeup.”

“Oh?” I hold back a frown. “I don’t need help with my...”

I trail off as Wanda looks me over sharply, head to toe, quickly but also like she sees every shortcoming in a single glance. “As I said. She’ll be doing your hair and makeup.”

“Auntie, be nice,” Corinne hisses. “She looks cute already!”

Wanda pins her niece with another dead mackerel look. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m fairly sure this one doesn’t swing that way.”

Oh.

Oh, yikes.

Is that why she keeps looking at me like I just ruined Christmas?

She thinks I’ve got designs on Roland freaking Osprey?

Shoot me.

After the way we were acting that day at the office, though...I guess I don’t blame her for wondering. And I don’t fault her for disapproving with the force of a thousand suns.

She seems kinda oddly protective of him. Even if I’m mortified—and so is a red-faced Corinne—it’s also a little endearing.

But I don’t know what to say in protest and don’t want to make trouble, so I just plaster on a smile and fish out my keys.

“Okay, fine. Let me just get inside, and we’ll Cinderella me into shape...”

I punch in the gate code and unlock the front door. I have about ten seconds before I’m being shepherded through my father’s own house into my room.

I’m caught in a Corinne-Wanda whirlwind, bullied into the shower before I’m settled in front of a mirror in nothing but a towel while the niece works her magic.

It takes both of them to zip me into the dazzling dress. I only topple over five times as they stuff me in heels an inch taller than anything I’ve ever picked out.

By the time I get a good look at myself, I’ve gotta admit it was worth the effort.

I look magical.

I look hot.

The dress is like black diamond spun into threads, sleeveless and strapless, its bodice hugging my chest tightly and giving me just the right lift. But it’s a subtle thing, too, making me look alluring rather than brazenly sexual.

A soft bundle of onyx fabric at my ribs trails into cascades of sheer night that flutters to the floor. It’s as fragile and rippled as delicate orchid petals, parting in the front to show off my legs and the glitter of matching open-toed high heels. A slim black ribbon circles my neck, a choker with a single teardrop black pearl suspended against my collarbone.

Corinne pinned my hair up into a wild, swirly tumble that sweeps across my brow with a few tresses flapping to my shoulders.

While my dress and skin are black and white, my hair and lips are all fire, my mouth painted a stark red with coral undertones that match the coppery shade of my hair.

Even my eyelids are accented with rusted bronze eyeshadow that fades at my lashes.

They might be intimidating, but this duo knows their stuff.

Wanda made it clear the dress is outdated from last year’s hot fashion trends and I shouldn’t be too impressed by Mr. Osprey’s generosity.

Whatever. I definitely don’t look like a knockoff in this getup.

I look like a knock-out.

It’s an odd feeling, when—even if I have my own style and I aim for professional but colorful—I’ve never been into cutting-edge fashion, expensive designs, or a wardrobe so massive I’d never wear the same thing twice.

It just isn’t my way, and I didn’t want to live by the skin of my parents’ checkbook.