“Uncle Mack is going to spoil his wife, Auntie Layne, with a makeover before tomorrow night’s cocktail party. A couple of fancy dresses, shoes, whatever. I’ll take care of the wedding rings while you get your hair done.” My fingers snap as I think of something. “We’ll make up some story about how we met when you were working for me, so you still treat me like the boss now and then when you’re distracted. That’s perfect.”
She stares down into her coffee mug. “You want me to be your wife for the weekend?”
“Yes. What do you say?”
Layne looks over to the waitress, who is giving her a huge thumbs up, mouthing, “Do it.”
My palm covers her trembling hand. “I’ll pay all your expenses, plus double time for the entire weekend, and give you a few days off next week, or as soon as we can arrange it. And you can keep all the clothes and things. How’s that?”
Her tongue skims across her lower lip. My cock jolts to life at the thought of being close with this beautiful girl all weekend long. Playing the role of her husband, caring for her.
Finally she meets my eyes. “If you really think I can pull it off, okay.”
“I know you can.”
3
LAYNE
Icannot believe this is happening.
Yesterday was a roller coaster. It was a relief to discover that my boss isn't a total ass, just a bit of an idiot about communications. But apparently he really likes my work? And trusts me enough to take me on this assignment? My head is still spinning.
Then there was the slew of late emails quizzing me about dietary preferences, breakfast habits, what I drank, the whole bit. However, I did notice that now he included greetings and signoffs, unlike before. He also asked all my style preferences, so he could book appointments for me this morning.
Now, I’m almost finished with the three shops Mack sent me on today: hair, makeup, wardrobe.
My hair is the same rich brown, just…amplified, somehow? Like it's got its own photo filter going on. They only trimmed an inch off the length, but the way they cut into it, they made the bottom half lighter, so my natural waves bounce around my shoulders.
Since I’m supposed to be a trophy wife, I thought they’d give me lots of makeup. I’m usually just a tinted lip balm kinda gal.
I’d asked the makeup artist if I was going to look painted and she said, “No, darling, we’re going for the luxury high-class look. Breezy. Minimal. As if you’ve just dashed back from Monaco and simply swiped on some mascara on your way out the door. Pay attention – with the right products, and your lovely skin, you can do this yourself in five minutes. Trust me.”
It’s amazing what a bit of brown…sorry, “cafe latte”…eye shadow can do. I barely look like I’m wearing any makeup, yet suddenly I’m polished. My eyes are huge, and even though I’m not wearing lipstick, this liner defines everything. My lower lip looks utterly seductive. Wild.
After hair and makeup, I was directed to the next shop for wardrobe, where apparently they had already been pulling “looks”. I assumed they’d pour me into Spanx or some breath-stealing corset. Instead, everything is relatively comfortable, and accents my curves.
The stylist smiles into the mirror with me. “So much better. You were wearing the wrong bra, honey.”
“I was?”
“Yes. When the girls sit on a shelf, fabric drapes straight down and you’re wearing a tent. When things are fitted properly, you’ve got a waist.” She smiles. “Now your hips flare out like Marilyn’s. Va-va-va-voom!”
Two and a half hours. That's all it took to turn me from a too-casual, bordering-on-frumpy assistant to…whoeverthatwoman is in the mirror.
The saleslady nods with approval. “So, we’ve got your driving there outfit, cocktails and dinner tonight, dressy-casual for Saturday morning, the wedding outfit, dressy-casual again for Sunday brunch, and driving home. Then one extra cocktail dress just in case there’s a rogue glass of red wine situation, an extra dressy-casual outfit because why not, sleepwear, and lingerie for underneath everything. Done!”
I thank her profusely, wondering if she can see my cheeks flaming. Charging undies to the company I work for feels weird.
It was also weird how Mack was staring at me last night. I don’t even want to think about it. Those gorgeous dark eyes. That Greek god physique. The tingle I felt all the way down to my knees when he shook my hand.
The man is intense. And now it’s my job to be with him for the next three days? Yikes.
Mack pulls up in a flashy silver sports car just as the salespeople finish packing up all my things. My toiletries and personal items are in a shoulder bag, and I’m grateful I didn’t pack a suitcase, since the trunk is very small.
“Thank you for all of this. It seems like a lot,” I say nervously, looking up at him as the trunk snaps shut.
He freezes, staring at me in the knee-length, short-sleeved navy dress paired with chunky low-heeled boots that is mydriving there outfit. “Layne. You’re…” His hand reaches out to my hair, then snaps back. But he doesn’t look away, allowing his gaze to drag slowly down to my cleavage, then my hips. Both are much more noticeable than yesterday.