by Hannah Ford
“For tonight,” he says, that touch of amusement back in his voice, like a panther playing with a baby deer before he devours it.
My heart sinks. This is going to be no easy task. Renew just opened last month, and thanks to rave reviews in both the Globe and The Times, it’s been the hot reservation in town. I’ve heard the waiting list is weeks long, if not months. And he wants a reservation for tonight? Would he also like a golden chariot and a seat in the dugout for the next Red Sox game?
But of course I can’t betray a hint of nervousness. I told him I was valuable. Capable. I can’t show him that I’m already going back on my declaration within ten seconds of uttering it.
And from the way he’s staring me down from behind that desk, I know he’ll be watching every move I make for even the slightest hint of a misstep. Well he’s going to have to look hard.
“Of course,” I say. And then I turn on my heel, glad I’m wearing new, scuff-free patent leather heels that I found for 75% off at the outlet mall instead of the more-comfortable black clogs that I usually wear. Not that I should care what I’m wearing around Mr. King. Or that he cares. Or notices.
Dammit, Quinn, get your head in the game. You have a Herculean task to complete
As soon as I’m back at my desk, I pull up the phone number and dial.
This is my chance to put the awful last few minutes in the rearview mirror and convince Jared King not to have me fired, for he surely has every right to do so.
“Renew,” the clipped voice of the restaurant’s hostess says. Her accent is something Russian or otherwise Cold War-era, and it gives me a shiver just listening to it.
“Yes, I’m calling to make a reservation for two. 8pm,” I say, then swallow to make sure my voice is appropriately authoritative. “For tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence, during which I half expect her to start laughing. Instead, she says simply, “We are completely booked.”
“Is there anything —“ I try, but she cuts me off with a simple, unsympathetic no. I sit back in my chair wondering how much of the paltry sum of cash in my bank account that I would have to offer this woman and still make my rent when my eyes land on a framed article hanging on the opposite wall. It’s the cover of Boston Magazine, featuring none other than my boss, Jared King, in a black pea coat, the collar popped, his gaze a picture of smoldering sex. Alongside his chiseled features are the words “Boston’s Most Eligible Billionaire.”
I can feel myself smiling as I lean my elbows onto the desk, preparing to lay my trump card. “The reservation is for Jared King,” I say, and that’s all it takes. Suddenly the hostess’s tone isn’t so clipped. I wouldn’t call it warm, because warm is just not done in Boston’s trendiest restaurant, but it’s definitely accommodating.
By the time I hang up I not only have a reservation, but the promise of one of the best tables and a personal welcome from the chef. It sounds like it’s going to be an incredible night.
I don’t let myself wonder who else is going to be eating with him tonight, sharing this incredible night with him. That’s not my job. I work for Jared King, and whatever beautiful model or actress he is courting at the moment, I needn’t give it a second thought.
What do I care? I don’t. I got the reservation. That’s all that matters.
And yet I do find myself picturing them together, and feeling a surge of inexplicable jealousy at the thought that I can’t be her—whomever her is.
I don’t qualify.
But maybe if I were just a few inches taller, and thinner, and able to afford the best clothes and the best trainers to get my body tight and toned…maybe I would qualify. Maybe I would be worthy of his time and attentions.
But I don’t qualify and that’s why he doesn’t even see me.
As much as I want to march back into his office and declare mission accomplished, I don’t want to risk another crash and burn like I had earlier.
Instead I fire off an email confirming his reservation, closing with yet another apology.
His response is swift, and surprising.
My office is all the email says. No please. Not even a complete sentence. Just a fragment of an order.
And as much as I want to be angry, there’s a flutter inside me that has me standing from my chair, pulling my shoulders back, and striding into his inner sanctum once again. This time he’s waiting for me, his elbows resting on his glass-topped desk, his hands clasped beneath the subtle cleft in his chin.
My mind immediately goes to Caitlyn’s assertion that Jared King could bend her over the copy machine, and I think about sinking beneath that glass-topped desk of his. Thank god he can’t read my mind right now, or I’d be both fired and facing a sexual harassment lawsuit.
“I assume you’re still feeling the need to prove yourself?” Jared asks.
My heart catches in my throat at the gravelly tone in his voice. “What do you need?” I can see that my determination is surprising him. I’m sure I look like a girl who should be in a puddle of tears right now. I’m cursing my choice of baby pink cardigan over a white oxford and a knee-length black skirt. I look more librarian than head bitch in charge. But I will not let my wardrobe define me right now. I imagine myself wearing the slim black suit I saw at Nordstrom’s that I was too afraid to touch, much less try on.
That’s probably what the woman dining with Jared King tonight will be wearing.
He nods. “There’s a little shop on Newbury Street. Délicat.” His French is flawless and sounds like rich butter melting on a baguette. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes,” I reply, though familiar is about all I am with it.
Délicat is an upscale boutique selling dainty, yet dangerous, lingerie. Beautiful and expensive and meant to be ripped from your body, preferably by someone’s teeth. I’ve walked past it on my way to brunch, peered through the window as I passed, trying not to get caught staring in at the little pieces of lace and satin.
I’ve never worked up the courage to go in, not that I could afford anything in there to begin with. Or that I’d wear anything in there. Twenty-two-year-old virgins have no reason to wear anything sold in Délicat.
“Excellent. I’d like you to pick up a gift for my date,” he says. He taps his toe beneath the desk, somehow both impatient and a dare.
When he says the word date, I get another furious twinge of jealousy and my stomach clenches.
Ok, so I guess I’m finally going in Délicat. If that’s what he wants, I’m game. I nod at him, but before I can go, I see the corner of his luscious lips turn up into a hint of a smile. He’s not done. Not even close.
“My date is about your size,” he says, his eyes roving the length of my body leaving a trail of heat wherever they land. “I’d appreciate it if you could try it on to be sure it’s right. If you don’t mind, of course.”
Right? Right for what?
This I don’t ask, because now I know he’s playing with me. He’s like a big game hunter cocking an enormous rifle, the sight set squarely on me. This is a game, and I can’t lose. I refuse.
Still, just the thought that I am even the same size or general shape of his future date tonight has me on pins and needles. It makes me feel warm all over to know that he has seen my body, evaluated it, perhaps not found it totally and completely lacking.
I square my shoulders and nod. “I can do that,” I say. And then, I screw up my courage and dish a little back at him. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
But Jared King is ready. As if he was hoping I’d ask, he casually bites his lower lip, then leans back in his chair, now openly staring at my figure, which is successfully hidden beneath the aforementioned baby pink cardigan. I vow to burn the thing as soon as I get home.
But I should have known that billionaire Jared King possessed a sixth sense or X-ray vision, because without skipping a beat he says, “Let me guess, you’re currently wearing underwear that’s one hundred percent cotton?”
Despite my best
efforts to remain composed, I feel all the saliva retreat from my mouth. He has me dead to rights.
I don’t really wear sexy lace underwear, thongs, or any of that kind of thing. I drop my gaze to the floor as my cheeks flush and the heat rises to my face.
When I finally look at him again, he’s still staring at me.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, and his smug smile would be maddening if it wasn’t so goddamn sexy. He shakes his head. “Maybe you’re not the right person for this job.”
“I can do this,” I say, too quickly for my liking. But suddenly I want nothing more than to prove myself to him. And if that means buying sexy lingerie for whatever blond trust fund case who will probably only push her food around on her plate (despite the fact that Renew is known for spicy steamed pork buns and a crème brulee so rich it could stop your heart), then that’s what I’ll do.
My insistence seems to only fuel Jared’s fire. He arches an eyebrow and nods towards to the door. “Then you’d better get going,” he says, suddenly back in boss mode, ordering me around like a poorly trained puppy. “My car will be waiting for you downstairs.”
Back in the lobby I grab my purse and start to swap out my heels for flats before I remember that I’m going to Délicat. Those saleswomen will probably toss me out for wearing anything with less than a 4 inch heel, so I leave them on. Downstairs, a shiny black Mercedes is waiting, the rear passenger door held open by an older man with gray hair in a black suit and tie.
“Mademoiselle,” he says. I instantly flush with the realization that this man who just called me “mademoiselle” is driving me to try on slutty lingerie for my boss.
I wonder if this is a task he takes on frequently.
While I’ve never seen Jared with a woman in the office, he’s nearly always photographed for the society pages standing next to this supermodel or that heiress, all size negative with smokey eyes and bored-looking smiles. Those are the women for whom I’m purchasing this lingerie, who are supposedly my size (though, with my full breasts, curved hips and even fuller backside, I’m skeptical).
I climb into the car, the door shutting behind me, and within moments we’re speeding through Fort Point towards Newbury Street in that fast-yet-controlled way that only luxury cars seem capable of. I spend the short drive trying to mentally prepare myself to walk through the door at Délicat, but I don’t have nearly enough time.
In a matter of minutes my driver is opening the door, and I have no choice but to climb out onto the sidewalk.
The store is quiet, not even a low ambient classical soundtrack playing in the background. It’s cold and quiet like a fine art museum, the garments hung like works of art along the pristine white walls.
There are no other shoppers when I enter, leaving the two saleswomen, both in little black dresses that definitely don’t look like they came from an outlet mall, to focus only on me. They observe me from behind the gleaming white counter, no sign of a cash register in sight, of course, because that would be gauche.
At most stores, a salesperson practically leaps on you as soon as you walk in, offering assistant and guidance and potentially even best friendship. But here, in this gleaming white tomb-like shop full of underwear that makes me blush just looking at it on hangers, I feel like I should be greeting them.
Get it together, Carson, I tell myself, and then stroll as confidently as I can towards the nearest rack. I flip through the satin-covered hangers and, as discreetly as I can, flip over a price tag. $650. For a lace thong. I stifle a gasp, which would certainly echo across the bare marble floors.
I guess this is where billionaire money goes.
“Can I help you?” The salesgirl appears as if by apparition, sounding incredible skeptical that she has anything resembling assistance for me.
“Yes. I’m looking for, um, something?” I clear my throat and try it again, as a statement this time. “I’ve been sent here to pick out something for a date this evening at Renew.”
The name of the hottest reservation in Boston serves as a starter’s pistol, and before I can tell the girl I will not be going on the date, and that the something isn’t for me, she’s reached for something black and almost completely see-through.
Then she turns on her heel and crosses the store in loud click clacks and plucks what I think is underwear but bears a closer resemblance to a tangle of ribbons. She doesn’t ask my size or what colors I like, just begins shopping for me. And I follow her around the store like a lost kitten while she picks items and hangs them off her razor-thin arm until we stop in front of a velvet curtain. She sweeps it aside with a loud whoosh and gestures me inside. I step in, and the curtain shuts behind me.
Suddenly alone staring at the delicate, lacy, mostly black items hanging on a hook against the wall, I realize what I’m about to do. Try on six hundred dollar lingerie. For my boss.
Holy shit.
This is not how I expected today to go when I woke up this morning.
“Do you need help getting into anything?” comes the voice beyond the curtain.
“No!” I say. And then I hustle out of my oxford shirt before she can come in.
I start with what looks to be the tamest item, a black lace bra and panty set with mesh along the hips and bra cups, delicate lace flowers just barely hiding my nipples.
“You have something on?”
“Yes!” I say, hoping to keep her out, but either she doesn’t hear me or decides I need her assistance regardless, because the curtain flies open and she steps in. I take a step back, using my arms to cover myself, doing only slightly better than the black mesh lingerie. If she notices my shyness, she chooses to ignore it, stepping forward to adjust cups and straps, spinning me around and falling into an effortless squat to tug at the elastic around my thighs. When she’s satisfied with the fit, she stands up and steps back, appraising me up and down.
From the tiny scrunch of her perfect ski slope of a nose, I can tell it’s not right.
“Not that,” she says. She reaches for a pair of hangers hidden in the back of the pile, the items I’d been most frightened of and confused by. It’s black lace and mesh with delicate silver flowers sewn throughout. The bra is a simple bandeau, but it’s merely ornamentation.
The silver flowers will hide nothing, and there’s a wide swath of lace that I have no idea what to do with.
“This. I’ll help you,” she asserts.
As much as I do not want to get undressed in front of this woman, I also know that I will not survive an attempt to put that on my body without assistance, so I decide to acquiesce and accept her help.
It takes about ten seconds before I realize that I don’t need to cover my bare breasts or worry about keeping my knees closed in front of this woman, whose name I do not know. I’m nothing more than a mannequin to her. I lift my arm when she tells me, and otherwise give her hands free access to my body. I bend over and let her tuck my breasts into the bandeau and try not to flinch as her fingers brush my inner thighs.
I discover that the swath of lace is actually a corset, and I suck in as the salesgirl laces it up the back. I sit as she helps me roll on a pair of nylons, a delicate seam up the back, and I watch in wonder as she expertly snaps the garters. When she steps back, I see myself in the mirror for the first time.
“That is what you wear to Renew,” she says as she steps back, her arms crossed over her chest.
I know nothing about lingerie, or dates at hot restaurants, but when I look in the mirror I know for sure that she’s right. This is what’s under all those designer dresses in the society pages. This is what Jared King sees when he slowly lowers the zipper on a woman’s dress.
This is what makes him hard.
And that thought makes me very, very wet.
“Regina, you have a phone call,” says a bored-sounding voice from beyond the curtain.
“Be right back,” she says, and then she disappears, leaving me alone in the dressing room in sexy lingerie that I have absolutely no idea
how to remove.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I pull it out to see a text from a number I don’t recognize.
How does it look?
It’s him. Jared fucking King, texting me!
I don’t even know how to begin to reply to that, but suddenly I’m starting to worry about another woman wearing these panties after me. Because this text is twisting my mind into knots of desire that may just be leaving its mark.
Still, I don’t want to say anything stupid like I said in his office, so I stick with a mostly benign response.
The salesgirl says it’s perfect.
His response is immediate.
I don’t care what the salesgirl thinks.
And then:
Tell me what you picked.
I look in the mirror, trying to imagine how I could describe this without embarrassing myself, but nothing comes to mind. He seems to sense my problem, because his next text takes it a step further.
Send me a picture.
Yes, these panties are definitely going to need to be washed.
I’m simultaneously turned on and frightened. He wants me to text him a picture? Of me? Wearing this? Suddenly we’ve gone beyond playful. Now we’re entering more dangerous territory. This isn’t just some assignment to prove that I’m worth keeping around the office.
This is something else. This is something more.
And I know this must be a mistake, because not only is it stupid and wrong to talk like this with your boss—but I am so not even in the same league as the kind of woman Jared King is interested in.
And yet…here he is, texting me.
Why? Just because he can?
I look at myself in the mirror again, at the way the lace hugs my hips, the curve of the little booty shorts hugging my butt just right. I look at the way my breasts heave, full and round in the bralette. And I look at my nipples, firm and at attention. He wants to see me like this.
Me.
