“THE dress, honey. We’re going to make you look ‘chef’s kiss’.” Damien actually says ‘chef’s kiss’ before he kisses the tips of his fingers. “I can’t wait to get started. Although,” he frowns. “He did have one requirement. No high heels.”
I smile at the look on Damien’s face. “He’s joking.” He better be joking. I’ve had it up to here with my boss ordering me what to wear. I’m definitely not secretly pleased that my boss is obsessed with my outfits.
A clap of Damien’s hands and a parade of assistants stream in, rolling in more racks of gowns. Each one looks like a runway model. Maybe they are.
I glance down at my phone, where another notification has popped up.
Two pm appointment at DeLuxe.
The address is next door. “Hang on,” I hold up a finger to stay the hordes of fashionistas ready to descend on me like the mice on Cinderella. “I need to make a call.”
I duck behind a rack of dresses, my finger hovering over my contacts. Do I call Indira? She’s too busy swimming with the sharks in her new department, and odds are slim she knows what’s up. Do I call Blackthroat?
A third appointment pops up on my phone. This one’s for tonight.
Blackthroat Family Foundation Ball.
With an extra note:
You’ll be my plus one.
“Oh hell no,” I stab the cellphone button to dial my boss. He won’t pick up, but I plan on leaving a passive-aggressive message.
Thank you, sir, for the last-minute honor of being your plus one to the most anticipated event of the season, but I can’t accept.
I’m rehearsing my pseudo-grateful tone when a voice growls in my ear. “Madison.”
He picked up the phone. For me. He never does that. Indira said he fired three assistants in a row when they transferred him too soon, and he heard two seconds of on-hold music.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath, and a moment is two seconds too long for Brick Blackthroat.
“What is it?” he clips, and his short tone does delicious things to my body.
I recover. “There seems to be some miscommunication about my duties today.”
“You’re at the boutique?”
“I am. An appointment I wasn’t aware of until a half an hour ago.”
“This job requires you to pivot quickly. You know that. You usually keep up.”
“I’m the assistant. I should do the scheduling.” I take a deep breath. “And I can’t accompany you to the Blackthroat Ball.”
“Are you disobeying a direct order?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I dodge the question. “Assistants don’t rate BFFB tickets.”
He uses that scornful tone I’ve already learned is a misdirect. “You’ll be there to work, Ms. Evans. You are my assistant, are you not?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Benson will be there. I need eyes and ears on the ground.”
That makes sense. “But I’m going as your plus one?” I reach out and stroke the satin sash of one of the dresses in front of me, and try to think of how to ask what I really want to ask.
Am I going as your assistant or your date?
In my mind’s eye, I see myself in this dress, waltzing with Blackthroat in front of a glamorous crowd. My heart squeezes so tight, I can’t breathe.
“It’s easier to slip you in that way,” he says, and my Cinderella fantasy pops, even as my breathing comes easier.
What does he mean, slip me in?
He means I don’t belong in a room full of billionaires. I don’t belong with the uppercrust of Manhattan society.
Well, screw him. I’m going to fool every last person there. “You’re paying for my dress?” I ask coolly.
“Company policy.” He sounds bored.
Good. I will go designer, all the way.
“I need you to memorize the guest list while they’re doing your hair and makeup.”
Hair and makeup? That explains the appointment at the spa.
“Understood, sir.” I roll with it, like I’m totally accustomed to getting my hair and makeup done before I go to charity balls.
“This is a public event. I need you looking your best. You’ll be on my arm the whole night.”
“As your assistant,” I clarify because this is sounding more and more like a date.
“Yes,” he clips. “Unless you’re angling to get fired.”
“So my choices are to come to the ball as your plus one or get fired?” We’re dancing close to the edge of what HR will find inappropriate again.
“I’ll pick you up at the boutique.” He hangs up.
The mirror opposite me shows a Cinderella in a very nice coat, two seconds away from steam coming out of her ears.
You’ll never believe this,
I text Aubrey.
Tonight I’m going to the BFFB.
She calls me a second later. “Really?” Sounds of the espresso maker and chattering coffee-shop customers muffle her voice, but she sounds breathless.
She hates pomp and circumstance, but we used to drool over the photos of the BFFB. The foundation is primarily about environmentalism and land preservation, but each year they sponsor a few promising young artists-and rumor has it Aubrey is on the shortlist for the next grant.
“Last minute notice. Apparently my boss thinks my presence is necessary.” I drop my voice. “I’m accompanying him on his plus one ticket.”
“No way,” Aubrey sounds as shocked as I feel. “As his employee? Or his…” She doesn’t say date, but a quiver runs through me. Brick Blackthroat’s date. I like the sound of that. Too much.
“He said I would be there to act as his assistant, but… he’s paying for my dress. And hair. And makeup.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. I’m at the boutique now.” I name one of the designer labels I saw.
“Are you serious? I love that designer! They did the costumes for the new jukebox musical, the one with all eighties bands. Maybe you can score some go-go boots for our act.”
“We already have go-go boots. I’ve got to go. Big Bad Boss requires me to pick a dress.” I’ve found a slash of red satin in the sea of jewel tones, and when I pull out the dress, I see it’s perfect. When I describe it to Aubrey, she cackles. “Do it. My God. I wish I could see his face.”
I walk out carrying the ball gown. Damien whirls to greet me and raises his brows when I hold up my choice. “I want this one.”
“Red? The theme is black and white.”
“Then I’ll stand out.” Blackthroat wants to slip me in.
He can forget it.
I’ll be there like I own the place. And I won’t let him forget it.
I let Damien take my coat and lead me to a dressing room, where I shimmy out of everything but my panties and let the dress pour over my head. It’s soft and stretchy. Drapes perfectly over my curves and falls to the floor where it flares at my ankles. But of course the best part-the only part that matters-is the peek-a-boobs. It’s a perfect window. This one isn’t tasteful and classy like the versions I wear to work. It is exactly what Blackthroat has been accusing me of-a full on framing of my cleavage.
Eat your heart out, Brick Blackthroat.
* * *
Brick
I text Madison the single word here when the limo pulls up in front of Ruby’s favorite dress boutique.
If this were a date, I’d get out of the limo to greet her when she comes out, but since it’s very specifically not a date, I stay in the limo and let Tony, my driver, open the door to the back.
As it turns out, it was forward thinking of me because I sprout a chub the moment I see her.
Fuck. Me.
I should fire her on the spot. After this morning’s phone call, she has it coming.
It’s the cut of her dress that slays me. Brick red-fuck
-did she do that on purpose? With a cut-out window to her breasts, and this time, it’s a genuine peek-a-boob. The plunging triangle cutout ends well below her breasts and gives me a view of-holy hell
-at least half of her breasts.
And what gorgeous juicy handfuls they are. As beautiful as I suspected.
Her bob, which is normally sleek and straight, has loose, beachy waves in it, and her make-up is movie-star worthy. Dark red lipstick that matches the dress and dramatic black eyeliner that extends behind the outer corners of her eyes.
I exhale through my nose as she gets in, so I don’t take in her scent at the same time I’m recovering from the sight of her.
“Are you testing me, Madison?” I snap.
She gives me her fake-innocent expression. “I’m sorry?”
I will myself not to look below her eyes.
Not below.
Don’t look dow-fuck.
I want to pull her onto my lap and fondle those sweet breasts until I find out what she likes.
I’m guessing rough. She likes it rough.
And that thought did nothing for the boner in my tuxedo pants.
“Like what you see?”
Since I’m incapable of conversing about her breasts-I mean the scandalous cut of her dress-I give a brief nod. “It’ll do.”
“My goodness,” she pretends to fan herself. “Such flattery.”
“I don’t pay you six figures to flatter you.” I risk looking toward her ankles. It should be safe enough.
Except it’s not.
She’s wearing strappy high heel sandals that wrap around the ankle and across the toes and her toenails are painted in the same, glorious, brick red.
I don’t even like brick red, but my wolf fucking loves that she picked my name as the color.
I don’t think it was an accident. Very little with Madison seems uncalculated.
“I told you specifically not to wear that sort of dress. Or shoe. Are you testing me?”
“Ah…” I realize she’s nervous. I failed to notice when she got in because I was holding my breath, but there’s a whiff of anxiety to her scent that agitates my wolf. Me being a dick by not getting out of the limo and berating her the moment she got in probably didn’t help. “Yes.”
I have to admire her honesty. And reward it. “You look beautiful.”
A blush stains her cheeks and throat. I fight from looking lower to see just how far down it travels. “You didn’t have to buy me a dress.”
“Yes, I did.”
Her scent takes a sour edge. She stiffens. Her hands tighten on the tiny crystal-studded silk purse in her lap. “I’ll reimburse the company. You can take a percentage out of my paychecks, until it’s paid off.”
More Kickass Werewolf Reads
Dive into our collection of free werewolf romance novels—where fierce Alphas, daring heroines, and heart-stopping twists await. Every story burns with forbidden desire, loyalty, and destiny. Don’t wait—here’s a world where love bites hard and nothing is stronger than the call of the mate.
Leave a Reply