Hello (Dressing A Billionaire #1)

by Jamie Lee Scott

  Hello (a romantic comedy)

  Dressing A Billionaire

  Jamie Lee Scott

  LBB Company

  Contents

  Copyright

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Join Jamie’s Tribe

  Other Books By Jamie Lee Scott

  Edge of Glory

  Untitled

  Chapter 15

  Text copyright © 2016 Jamie Lee Scott

  All Rights Reserved

  HELLO, DRESSING A BILLIONAIRE

  Copyright © 2016 by Jamie Lee Scott

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, LBB Company, 1106 Hwy 69 N, Forest City, IA 50436.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Scott, Jamie Lee, 7-12-16. Hello, Dressing a Billionaire, LBB Company. eBook Edition.

  Chapter 1

  Lord, forgive me for the thoughts that had skittered across my fried brain in the last seventy-plus hours. Many included murder, actually double murder, and other felonies that came wrapped in a bow called “life without parole.”

  It all started with a phone call from my boss.

  “Please tell me you remembered to pack the scarves. You know Scarlett adores her scarves. I’m trusting you with this one, Maisy, don’t disappoint me.” That was my boss, Marla Townsend, screaming at me through my earbuds. Thank you, California, for hands-free cell phones. Marla’s voice sounded like a four-year-old with an advanced vocabulary. Baby talk with a hint of bitch, and a lot of swearing. Worse through stereo earbuds, and I got to hear way too much of her that way.

  “I told you, Marla, I’ve got this,” I assured her.

  Fuck, I didn’t have this. Scarlett, an aging model, had issues with her turtleneck. I’m not talking sweaters here. I’m talking about neck skin. She wore scarves on even the hottest days. I’d been only about five miles from her house when Marla called. The trunk show didn’t start for over an hour, so I could still get back to the agency, grab the selection, and be back to Scarlett’s in time to set up for the show with some time to spare.

  Marla didn’t want me driving my old Jetta to her client’s house, so I had her metallic yellow BMW, which was last year’s model but still had a new car smell. I suspected she hid a “new car smell” air freshener under the seat.

  Could I set up the clothes, get everything ready, and still go back for the scarves? What if Scarlett wanted to sift through the clothes and accessories I’d brought just to get a good look before her friends arrived?

  I flipped a U-turn at the next light and floored it on the way back to Marla’s office. She’d kill me for getting a ticket, but she’d filet me alive for forgetting the scarves. I’d been with her long enough to know what happens when her clients are disappointed. I’d advanced into my current position as her first assistant because the last first assistant brought white shoes to a client who detested white.

  I had to get from Calabasas, to Camden Drive in Beverly Hills, and back to Calabasas in less than an hour. It took forty-five minutes one way on a good day. Having confidence, fueled by my desire to keep my job, I made it back to the office in twenty-six minutes. Thank you, freeway gods, for blessedly light traffic.

  Pulling into the parking lot at Townsend Studio, my heart raced. My live-in boyfriend, Miles, was there, his car parked next to mine in the lot. He’d come to see me at work, and I wasn’t there. So sweet. How could I tell him I didn’t have time? Hell, if Marla busted me sneaking in, I might have lots of time. She’d flip if she saw me grab the box of scarves after I just told her I had everything under control.

  Still, I smiled, since Miles rarely visited me at the studio.

  As I pulled the BMW into Marla’s parking space, I looked to see if Miles had been waiting in the car for me. I didn’t see him. Poor guy must’ve gotten tired of waiting for me and went in.

  I stepped out of the car, careful not to scratch my newly tanned legs. Marla made sure we gave a fabulous first impression and paid for regular bronzing sessions. After all, a girl looks better with a tan.

  Marla, pencil thin and perfectly tan, needed something to stand out. She sported a little boy’s body, stick skinny, not a muscle to be seen. She used clothes to set herself apart, and so her fashion style and sense became the talk of Southern California. She now dressed the finest and richest in the land. Since going to work for her, I did, too.

  I considered how my dream job as a personal stylist might be hanging by a thread if I didn’t get in and out of the studio, fast. Maybe Miles wouldn’t see me, and I could pretend I hadn’t returned to the office when I saw him at home later that evening.

  I pushed through the French doors into the office and started toward the studio when I heard loud grunting. Oh, crap, had Marla hurt her back again? She detested lifting anything over five pounds, but she’d do it. Then let everyone know, if she had to do these things. After all, why was she paying us?

  My southern upbringing of helping those in need was too ingrained, so I tiptoed toward Marla’s office. If I didn’t see her writhing on the floor, I’d ignore it.

  I peeked in the doorway. Oh, Marla was writhing alright, but not on the floor. That bitch wriggled and writhed under Miles. She lay flat on her back on top of her desk, and my boyfriend stood at the edge, leaning over her. He pumped her with all he had, and I stood watching. I couldn’t move away from the horror show. My personal horror show.

  When Marla arched her back and said, “Oh, baby, you’re so good,” I gasped. It must have been a loud gasp, because they both turned to look at me.

  “Next time, lock the fucking doors!” I said, then tried to turn gracefully and go. But the heel of my Jimmy Choo stiletto got caught in the carpet and I flew forward, grasping at the looming ficus to keep from eating the Berber carpet. Wrong move, I only succeeded in pulling the leafy tree down with me.

  By the time I’d gotten out of the stupid shoes and back to my feet, you’d think Miles would have been by my side to explain, or help me. Nope! When I looked back in the office, that stick figure’s boney fingers grasped Miles’ ass like a lifeline and she screamed, “Not yet, I’m coming.”

  Miles couldn’t disappoint her, so he obliged.

  I couldn’t help myself, I yelled, “She’s faking it. I’ve heard her say it this way before. And she’s told me she’s faked it.” That’s all I had at that moment.

  Barefooted, I walked out the door. The Jimmy Choo shoes didn’t belong to me anyway, and I hoped the witch would trip over them on her way out of her office. The clothes I wore didn’t belong to me either, but I figured since I wasn’t coming back to pick up my paycheck, the Donna Karan suit would be payment in kind.

  I ran to the BMW, grabbed my handbag, a Henri Bendel gift from the skinny backstabber, then sprinted to my Jetta.

  As I drove out of the parking lot, I saw Miles in my rear view mirror. His s
kinny jeans still around his ankles and his shirt unbuttoned, he looked scrawny and pathetic. I willed the tears not to come.

  The kicker? I’d just sold everything but the clothes on my back and a few necessities to move in with Miles. His apartment, being the size of a shoebox, couldn’t fit all our stuff. He had impeccable taste, so I deferred to him. Bad move.

  The tires on the Jetta squealed as I turned into the parking lot of Miles’ apartment building. My phone rang. Marla. I swiped my screen to ignore it. It rang again, and again. I put the phone on silent and raced inside. I hadn’t begun to think of the apartment as ours yet, but I was getting close. I thought I’d found my happily-ever-after. Now I wondered if there was such a thing.

  Just in case Miles cared enough to chase after me, I moved quickly. It took every ounce of willpower not to trash his tidy little apartment as I tore through it. I grabbed my suitcase and a stack of pillowcases and stuffed everything I owned in them.

  By the time I’d gotten to the last drawer of clothes, I looked down at myself. The Donna Karan pencil skirt and jacket rocked, and I looked hot, even with the extra ten to fifteen pounds Marla insisted I lose. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t wear it any longer. My skin itched to be rid of it. I stripped down to my bra and underwear, then pulled on yoga pants and a sweatshirt I hadn’t worn since I started dating Miles. He hated “leisure clothes” and insisted I burn them. Good thing I didn’t let any man insist I do anything I didn’t want to do.

  I guess he didn’t want his boss to see his girlfriend didn’t belong in the world of high finance. Speaking of faking, Miles had a “fake it till you make it” theory and liked to pretend to be as rich and important as the man who hired him as a personal assistant. He’d talk about their wives and how I could be like them. “We can be like them someday, but we have to act like them now to get there,” he’d say almost every day.

  I left Donna Karan laying on the floor in his bedroom. He could hump her when he got home, because that was the last he’d ever see of me.

  I shoved all my belongings in the trunk and back seat of my car and pointed my little Volkswagen east.

  My phone sat in the cradle on my dashboard and nearly vibrated off due to the nasty texts blowing it up.

  You’d better be on your way back here to get these clothes to Scarlett’s house.

  Where the fuck are you?

  You thin-skinned little whiner! I should have known better than to hire you.

  Yeah, that’s right. I had put up with her bullshit since my junior year at the Academy of Art University in Los Angeles. I’d worked for her for five years. Felt more like ten years, and I’d had a myriad of duties, but sharing my boyfriend was certainly not one of them.

  I didn’t even bother to delete the messages, just let them scroll through the screen. Then a message from Miles.

  Call me now. Please call me.

  Ha! The only time he’d ever hear my voice again, it’d be on my voicemail. And I planned to change my phone number, so he wouldn’t be hearing it for long. If I wasn’t so afraid I’d wreck the car, I’d have blocked him and Marla right then and there.

  Where the hell had I planned to go? All my friends had moved back to Texas. Marla would never give me a reference. I couldn’t go back to waiting tables for a living, at least not without another goal. I’d driven to the Pacific Coast Highway and found myself in Malibu. I found a parking lot, parked, and walked out on the beach in bare feet.

  I looked out at the ocean, the moon and stars lighting up the whitecaps. “I wanted to say goodbye in person,” I whispered, “because I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see you again.”

  I sat on the edge of the water’s wake and dug my toes in the cold wet sand, daring the ocean to swallow me up. But the sea didn’t want me, either. Maybe I could go home. Maybe I needed a vacation from the real world, and I could hide for a few weeks, then get back on my feet. I jumped up and ran back to my car.

  I drove. I couldn’t even remember how to get to the I-10. My mind froze. I pulled over at the Mobil station and filled the tank, waited for the tears as I leaned on my dirty car, and looked off into the lights of the evening. I’d gone from thrilled to do my first trunk show alone, to exhausted from anger in less than an hour.

  I thought about calling Miles, giving him a chance to explain, but my parents raised me with more integrity than that. I thought about calling Marla and telling her what I thought of her, but no need to throw gasoline on a burning bridge. She’d make sure I never worked in Los Angeles or So Cal again. She’d been my only reference in the stylist business, and I doubted her clients would vouch for me now.

  Chapter 2

  The gas pump clicked. I pulled the receipt, threw it in the back seat with my things, and got in the car to drive home. My real home.

  Tail between my legs, I’d admit defeat and go back to Texas. Everything I’d worked for in my career gone because I’d gone back for those stupid scarves. But what if I hadn’t gone back? What then? I shuddered to think how stupid and naïve I’d been.

  I’d been on the road for three days, which meant I’d heard every song on my iPod about a hundred times, and I had way too much time to think, cry, scream obscenities at the universe, and contemplate my future. And yet by the time I’d made it to merely a couple of miles from my destination, I still had no idea what the hell I was doing, or going to do next.

  Somehow driving to Los Angeles from Dallas had been much prettier. The sky bluer, the hills, well, let’s face it, just as brown, there’s a drought after all. The route from the City of Angels back to the “Big D” lacked the same appeal. Los Angeles had been an adventure, where Dallas meant I’d failed, a victim of anger and hopelessness.

  It took me a full day to get the nerve to call my parents and tell them, “I’m coming home.”

  “Great. Are you getting a hotel?” Mom asked.

  “No, Mom, I’m coming home to stay.” The words caught in my throat and I cried.

  “Oh,” she sounded terrified, not sympathetic.

  “Can you tell Dad?” I hiccupped through the sobbing. “But don't tell anyone else.”

  She’d obviously called my best friends, because suddenly my phone blew up. I ignored it as much as possible. I refused to respond to the calls, messages, and texts, figuring I’d tell everyone at the same time, so I didn’t have to relive the nightmare over and over.

  By the time I’d hit the Dallas city limits my back ached, my knees throbbed, and my eyes needed toothpicks to hold my lids open, but I was so close to reaching my parents’ place. If I could take both hands off the wheel and still drive, I’d put my hands over my face and scream into them.

  Stopped at a light, just a few miles from home, the reality sank in. I’d left my career over a stupid guy. Three days ago I’d been in the most fake place in the world, and I loved it. This was home, real home, where even though I knew they cringed and prayed I’d only be staying for a few weeks at the longest, my mom and dad would welcome me with open arms, and I dreaded it. I waited for the light to turn green, wondering for the gazillionth time what I was going to do next.

  A horn blared behind me, and I resisted the urge to roll down my window and flip them the bird. I stepped on the gas, and nothing. No problem, this had happened before. The Jetta groaned and almost caught life, then fizzled.

  Shit.

  I tried again.

  Nothing.

  “No.” I slammed the heels of my hands against the steering wheel.

  More horns blasted a symphony behind me. The urge to flip them off overwhelmed me, but I had a stronger urge to cry. I searched around the steering wheel and dashboard for the hazard light thingy. I’d never had to use it in the decade I’d owned the car. You’d think they put them in the same place on every car. I knew where it was on my mom’s Ford Edge. But no, stupid Volkswagen had to be different.

  My hand trembled as I looked, because now I heard shouting as well as honking. Okay, stop, think. I tried to start it again. I heard a chug,
chug, chug sound, but nothing actually happened. I grabbed my phone to call my dad, and as I picked it up, I saw the battery read one percent. By the time I got the number dialed, the phone would be dead. And with my car lifeless, I couldn’t charge my phone. Why the hell hadn’t I plugged it in when I’d started driving earlier that morning?

  Ah, the triangle doodad, that must be the…I pressed the button. Both blinker lights started blinking. Good, now maybe everyone would stop honking and hollering. Besides, we’d sat through the green, to another red light. I took a deep breath, then looked out my driver’s side window.

  I screamed, “Holy shit!”

  I kid you not, a Duck Dynasty wannabe stood outside my car. Full brown beard, matching hair falling over his shoulders, and surfer clothes, he may as well have had a sign that read “will work for food.” I shook my head. I needed some sleep. Real sleep, like three full days of uninterrupted sleep.

  Duck Man knocked on my window.

  Being a single girl, alone in a car, I was reluctant to roll the window down. I then realized my power windows wouldn’t go down with the car off. Shit, I’d have to open the door. Get a grip. We were in traffic in a public place. People would see if he hauled me off. I cracked the door open and turned in my seat.

  “Can I help you?” A voice as smooth as Tennessee whiskey asked.

  “I don’t know. My car died. And I can’t get it started. I may have killed the battery. Or maybe the whole car.” Hell, I knew how to fill the gas tank and change the oil, but don’t ask me about anything else.

  “Is there someone you can call?” He looked past me to my phone on the dash.

  I turned back and pulled it down. “Dead.”

  Duck Man gave me a slight smile, so charming I could even see it through the hair on his face. “Not your day, is it?”

  He may not have been as homeless as I first suspected. He had beautiful white teeth. Perfect, in fact. Like “lots of dollars at the orthodontist” perfect.