by Amara Kent
“I hope so.”
“I’ll make damn sure of it,” I promise.
Kerri stares at me as I walk into my living room, mouth hanging open in abject shock. A small smile creeps up on my lips. I’m enjoying this. The thing to understand about Kerri is that she’s brutally honest—sometimes to a fault. If she has an opinion on something she’s never afraid to provide you with her thoughts whether you asked for it or not, so when you get reactions like this, it’s high praise for someone usually so vocal.
“I take it you like it?” I ask.
“You’d turn any straight woman lez and any gay guy straight. You look… My God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this good before, Tay. Your hair, your makeup, that dress!”
“It’s an Armond Boucher,” I gush with a shrug.
Her mouth falls again. “Okay, I know you’re well-off, but holy shit, how the hell did you afford a Boucher dress?” she cries out.
“Dean Lukas. I’m attending Boucher’s annual charity ball with him, and he had it organized. This dress has never been seen by anyone but Boucher’s team before. Can you believe it? I’m going to be the one to introduce this dress to the world,” I squeal.
When I had arrived at the store, the dress was hanging up in the fitting room, waiting for me. I thought it was stunning then. Lace up the top with a plunging neckline, it meets lavender tulle that flows out elegantly, while there is some overhang of lace that’s in small flower patterns. It’s one of the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life.
Now that I have the dress on, and with my hair in an updo—something I had to be careful with, because the stylists couldn’t catch on to the fact that I’m wearing a wig—and diamond hair pins placed in a couple of the little crevices, I look as if I was made for the dress. Boucher’s team really knew how to make up a person to match the clothes they were wearing. I was rather grateful for the simple and natural looking makeup. I hate it when women walk around with makeup that looks as if it has been slapped on with a trowel, like they do with cement.
“I kind of hate you right about now,” Kerri drawls, still unable to take her eyes off the dress as she circles me.
I would too if I were her. There’s a certain level of enjoyment I get from these jobs. Most of the time it’s from knowing that you are serving your mark some well-deserved karma. That you are righting a horrible wrong. With this one. I don’t know, there’s something different about it and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Despite the fact that Dean can be an utter nutsack most of the time, there are some moments where he almost appears to be real, and not the persona he throws out to the world. The one where brutality meets narcissist. Where a man will cunningly and skillfully cut you down if need be.
“When is Mr. Sexy Billionaire coming to pick you up?” Kerri asks.
I look at my watch. “Now.”
There’s a knock on my door. Yep, punctual as always. I shoo Kerri into my bedroom, and when she’s closed the door, I carefully make my way to my entryway. I know there’s no chance of me catching this dress on something when I walk. The heels that accompany this dress are high enough that the dress only kisses the ground. They’re damn lucky I can walk in these hooker heels, otherwise I’d be a total mess, stumbling around all over the place like a baby horse. I open the door and my breath catches in my throat. I’m speechless and am a little blinded looking at him. Dean always looks good in a suit. It’s as if he was born to wear one for the rest of his life. There’s something starkly different between a business suit and a tuxedo. Both suits in their own right. Both sexy. However, while one screams dominance and power. The other screams sexuality and elegance. The two can also alter the way the person looks, or is that our mind playing tricks on us? Whatever it is, seeing Dean now in his tuxedo, topped off with a black bowtie, I’m taken aback at how different he looks. How much more sexy he appears to be. I’m rendered mute by this man.
I’m in trouble.
If I’m not careful, I will willingly, and fueled by my raging hormones, throw away everything I’ve built, every rule I have in order to claim him for myself. And I mean for real, not just in business.
His scorching stare, roving over my body as if scanning this moment to store away in his mind, has me heating up. My stomach is in knots and I find it a little difficult to breathe.
“You look beautiful, Tiffany,” Dean rasps. A sound that hits me in all the wrong places.
I need to stop whatever the hell is going on with me. He’s just some guy. Like every other job. Except he’s not. There is something about him that no other guy I’ve worked, had. What is it about you, Dean?
“You look very nice yourself, Mr. Lukas,” I compliment, forcing my mask to slip back on.
“Are you ready?”
“Let me just get my purse, and I’ll be right with you.” I turn around, careful not to trip over my shoes.
I collect the simple white Boucher clutch and turn around to see Dean’s eyes searing into me again, and the small bundle of nerves has grown into a hurricane. Annoyingly and destructively flying around in my stomach. I take a few deep breaths, before I put on a smile and walk over to him. Like a gentleman, something he’s never been in the few weeks I’ve worked for him, he opens the door to the limousine and helps me in.
“Do you remember the names of the guests that will be there tonight?” Dean asks.
“Yes. I’ve been studying them ever since you asked me to come with you.”
This event is big. An annual event, it’s one that Boucher holds every single year, and just like the Met Gala, it’s a front-page article. Celebrities and the overly wealthy attended the invite only event. From Lukas Marketing & PR, it’s only myself, Dean, and Donald that will be in attendance.
“Good. Even though you’re not here because of work, I still expect you to know who is important and who isn’t. Who we work for, and who works for us.”
We arrive at the venue. A red carpet awaits us leading up the small set of steps and into the best ballroom in New York. The Mercacchio is even more popular than the Plaza and the New York Public Library. It boasts one of the most beautifully and intricately designed venues and is hugely popular with native New Yorkers—and even some out-of-staters—to have their wedding here. And everything is authentically Italian. Built from Italian stone, the designs etched in the columns that surround the ball room, are of various mythical stories. The venue has a waiting list of over five years. Unbelievable, right?
Dean steps out of the limousine and walks around to my side, offering his hand, which I take, as he helps me out of the car. His hand immediately finds the small of my back, and I’m being led up the red carpet, stopping every so often as the paparazzi and professional photographers take photos of him. I’ve seen many photos of the inside of The Mercacchio. I’ve seen videos of it on YouTube. You can never prepare yourself for real beauty. There’s no way to truly capture just how gorgeously resplendent this place is. We enter into a large foyer. There are two rooms on either side. One is a lounge room with a bar that is reminiscent of a twenties speakeasy, and the other appears to be a simple sitting room. The floor is marble, and the satisfying sound of heels clicking on the surface surrounds me. The doors are left open, as people start to file into the main ballroom.
It’s practically a fairy tale, and I hold in a breath as I gaze around. There are vines covering the ceiling and the tops of the columns with little fairy lights placed in between them as well, lighting up the sky and giving it a comforting atmosphere. There’s a stage on the far wall with a lectern situated in the middle. A screen behind it shows a slideshow of various children with and without Boucher. Some of the children are standing in front of a newly built school. Others have him surrounded by children smiling and laughing. Soft piano music plays in the background, loud enough to create a mood, but not enough to drown out people’s conversations. I catch glimpses of a variety of celebrities. Some I recognize, most I don’t. I think how this event is kind of lost on me. Kerri
would die to be here. That’s her vice. Her guilty pleasure. She always keeps up to date with her celebrities and discusses them as if she were friends with them. I make a mental note to take a couple of selfies with the ones I know she’s mentioned a few times in the background, or with them.
A waiter glides up to us with a tray of champagne. “Would you like a glass?” Dean asks. I accept and he hands me one. Taking a sip, I sink into the deliciousness of it. This is the good shit, and it makes the stuff you get in stores taste like cat piss.
“Not having one yourself?” I ask, testing to see if I was correct in my assumptions the first night I had seen Dean in that bar. It almost feels like a year ago.
“I don’t drink.” I mentally high five myself for being spot-on.
“How come?” I prod, hoping he’ll give me a part of himself.
“Drinking gets you into trouble. It’s a dangerous thing to have in this world,” he responds casually, as if it’s the most natural thing to say. As if it doesn’t hold meaning. To anybody else it would simply be a passing comment. To me, it says everything. It confirms all I assumed. Something bad happened for him to start drinking, and something nearly as bad, if not equally as bad, happened to make him stop.
“It’s so beautiful,” I breathe out, changing the topic.
“It really is.” I turn my head to look at him. He’s looking straight at me and not even trying to hide it. It sets my heart a flutter, pulling me into dangerous territory. One I can’t afford to step into.
“Where’s Donald?” I ask, changing the topic of conversation, hoping to quell these annoyingly ramped emotions of mine.
“Donald is on his way with whoever it is he has decided to bring tonight.”
“Is it just us sitting together?”
“We have been invited to sit with Armond Boucher tonight.” He says it so casually, as if it’s a regular occurrence. I guess for someone of his stature, it would be. For the rest of us plebs, to get even a glimpse of the man is in the realms of fantasy.
“Dean Lukas, my dear friend. It’s so nice to see you again.” Armond Boucher walks toward us with open arms. I nearly choke on my sip of champagne.
I smile like a damn idiot as he embraces Dean in a brotherly hug.
“It’s good to see you again, Armond. How was home?”
“Wonderful. I got to spend some time with my mother and father in the vineyards,” Armond replies in his strong French accent that has most girls—including me—weak in the knees. It doesn’t hurt that the man attached to said accent is as stunning as they can get. At age forty-five, he’s been labeled the world’s sexiest designer.
Dean’s relaxed as he continues to talk to Armond. Smiling and laughing along with him. I like this side of him. There is no hostility, no arrogance, no dominating behavior. All of it is washed away here. It’s as if he’s an entirely different man.
Don’t, Tay. Don’t romanticize him. It’s dangerous.
“And this must be Miss Tiffany Dunlop, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure, wearing my brand new design.” He envelops me in a loving hug, as if we’re old friends. My cheeks heat up with the affection, and a light giggle escapes me.
“Yes, she is. Adam did a good job of choosing this dress,” Dean compliments.
Armond gives me a toothy smile that is blinding and swoon worthy, gently taking my free hand and kissing the back of it. “She looks better than the celebrities themselves in this dress. She’s a beautiful woman, Dean. You should be careful. Her beauty has not gone amiss with the gentleman in this room.” Armond winks.
“Thank you,” is all I can get out.
“I hope Dean has been treating you well. I know what this old bull can be like.” He laughs lightly, earning a light smack across his stomach.
“Oh, so you’re saying it’s not just me he’s grumpy with?” I ask in jest.
He throws his head back and laughs. He pats Dean on the back. “Keep this one. I like her. I better get to mingling, it’s my event after all. Lovely to meet you, Tiffany. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again,” he says with a wink thrown to Dean.
“He’s not at all how I imagined him to be,” I comment when Armond’s out of earshot.
“How did you picture him?” Dean asks, guiding me to our table, where Donald sits with a woman that could easily pass off as a model.
“I don’t know… not that though. He’s laid-back and friendly and quite funny.”
“He has wonderful parents that help keep him grounded. He did have his moments though. When I was first awarded the contract for his marketing in America, he was a pompous ass. And then he changed, did a complete one-eighty, and I discovered it was his parents who had a hand in changing his perception of himself and basically told him to get his head out of his own ass.” His eyes wrinkle at the corners with recollection.
“I knew you were beautiful, but goodness, Tiffany, you are too gorgeous to be seen with this ass.”
Don wraps me up in a hug, giving me a light kiss on the cheek.
“Dean, Tiffany, please meet Karmela.”
Dean and I both say our hellos.
Through the course of the night, we make idle chitchat. Some big names approach our table, and while I sit there looking pretty and saying the things I’m expected to say, I remain mostly silent as Dean converses with his clients and friends within the industry.
I politely excuse myself and make my way to the bathroom. I’m checking myself in the mirror, making sure that I still remain presentable to everyone, especially to Dean. I need to make some kind of progress with him, and with the way he’s been touching me and stealing glances at me, this may be the night.
“I see that you’re here with Dean Lukas,” a tall blonde with wine-colored lips states, sidling up to me.
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you his date?” she asks.
I have the sudden urge to tell her to go fuck herself and walk out of the bathroom, but that wouldn’t reflect too fondly toward Dean and there is no way I’m ruining this night because of some nosey she-giraffe.
“I work for him,” I correct.
“Oh, I see.”
I know what that “Oh, I see” means. It’s an “Oh, so you’re working with him by sleeping with him.”
“And how do you know Mr. Lukas?” I ask.
She finishes up, and places the lipstick back in her bag, snapping it closed for emphasis. Straightening up, she turns to face me, and I hate that she’s a good couple of inches taller than me, even with the shoes I have on.
“I’m dating Mr. Lukas,” she bites back, as if it’s the most known thing in the world.
This must be that woman he was talking about before. The one he’s on the radar of.
“Really? I would think that if you two were dating, it would be you with him, not I.”
I seem to have hit a nerve, because the she-giraffe’s nostrils flare and her eyes turn into fire as she walks me backward until I hit the toilet stall.
“You are nothing to him. Don’t you think that you can weasel your way into his life. He’s mine… got it?”
I’m about to put her in her place, because I don’t appreciate, or respect bitches who come at me with the attitude she’s sporting, until the door swings open and Karmela steps in. Her beautiful face pulled into a frown that looks so foreign on her. Even though I’ve never met her in my life, it seems as if this woman rarely shows the world this side of her.
“Tiffany, are you okay?” Karmela asks.
She-giraffe’s attitude changes and a smile appears, as if like magic, on her face and she spins around. “Karmela! It’s so nice to see you again!”
Wow.
“Get out, Natashya, and leave Tiffany alone. Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you, so you can quit acting as if you two are an item,” Karmela drawls.
With a huff, Natashya storms out of the bathroom, leaving Karmela and I together.
“Thank you for that. She’s—”
“A nasty bit
ch? She sure is.” Karmela smiles. “I’m sorry you had to deal with her. She’s been after Dean for as long as I can remember.”
“You’ve known Dean for a long time, haven’t you?” I ask.
“Only for a few years, but I’ve seen her sniffing around him like a dog in heat the whole time I’ve known him.” Her laugh is light and airy. It’s infectious and has me laughing along with her.
“Now that is an image I could have done without,” I joke.
“I know, right?” She smiles. She places her purse down and takes out her plum-colored lipstick, applying a healthy layer of it on her full lips.
“Thank you for the assist.”
“You’re welcome. Us women have to stick together. Especially from self-entitled women like her. She thinks that because her family comes from wealth, and they are friendly with Dean, that she owns the rights to him.” She rolls her eyes.
“Have they ever dated?” I ask.
“No. They hooked up once. She bragged about it for months on end.” Good to know. “Are you ready? We should head back before Natashya tries to claim your man.”
“Oh, we’re not together,” I correct.
A single brow shoots up her forehead. “Maybe you should tell yourselves that. You haven’t been able to keep your eyes off each other. I don’t know Dean well. He’s an awfully private person, and I’m not the kind of person to pry into anybody’s personal life, but I’ve been around him long enough to pick up on a few things. Believe me when I say that I have never seen Dean look at anybody else the way he’s been looking at you.”
I stare at her with disbelief. She hooks her arm around mine and we make our way back to our table.
I don’t have to see her to know that she’s back next to me. Her intoxicating scent flows over to me. It’s inviting and begging me to do things to her I know I shouldn’t, like grab her and take her hard in the bathroom. She’s my assistant, and no matter how physically attracted to her I am, I can’t go down that road. I promised myself that it wouldn’t happen again, but she’s making it awfully hard on me with how she looks tonight. She’s not the meek little girl I had pinned her to be in the beginning, either. She’s strong and fiercely independent. And a passionate worker. I’ve seen glimpses of her feistiness. She never fully gives in and allows me to see it, but I can during the times where I know I’m pushing her to her limit, and she clenches her hands into fists. The way her jaw tics, and the slight grind of her teeth. I find it humorous, and I’m now doing what it takes in order to see her snap. I don’t want her to hold back on me. Why? I don’t fucking know. For some reason I need her to aim her contention at me. I would never ask for it from anybody else, but I have this mental picture of her in a glorious show of strength, and it only makes me hard. It’s why I’ve been pushing her to do things I know I can do myself. It’s why I had her go to a dry cleaner fifteen blocks away, instead of my usual one, just a few blocks away.
