“I need to help Zoey pick out a wardrobe for MIP since she’s coming with me.”
Well, she sure as hell knows now. In the blink of an eye, the expression on Katrina’s face goes from questioning to cold fury. She slaps her manicured hands onto her jutting hipbones as her jaw drops to the marble floor.
“What!? You’re taking that fat peon to Cannes?”
“Yup,” says Brandon matter-of-factly. “And please don’t ever call her that again.”
“Are you out of your mind? She’s a total embarrassment.”
I clench my hands by my sides so I don’t punch her in the face. Or pull out a clump of her hair. A catfight with America’s “It Girl” at Barneys would not look good. It would definitely be all over the Internet by noon.
“She’s going to assist me,” adds Brandon. He refrains from telling her that I’m attending the red-carpet premiere of the Kurt Kussler season finale.
Katrina calms down with a haughty fling of her hair. “Very well. But you’re wasting your time here. There’s nothing in this store that would fit her fat ass.”
“Katrina! Apologize! Do it now!”
“Puh-lease.”
Gucci growls at her.
I feel myself reddening with rage and want to scratch her eyeballs out. But dammit, she’s right. I don’t belong here. And I don’t want to be ridiculed by some obnoxious salesperson. I need to get out of here as fast as I can. And then ping! A light bulb goes off in my head. Why didn’t I think of this before?
“C’mon, Brandon. Let’s go.” I step back into the elevator. Brandon follows me. I pound the ground floor button.
“Brandon, where the hell are you going? We need to talk!” shrieks Katrina.
The doors close in her face, catching her orange dress. She screams, “Open up!” as the elevator descends. So long, bitch!
Five minutes later, Brandon and I are back in his car, heading downtown.
In no time, thanks to unusually minimal traffic and Brandon’s need for speed, we’re in downtown LA at Chaz’s fabulous new showroom. After his former studio, in a rundown building, virtually evaporated in an electrical fire, Jeffrey raised the funds to relocate the studio to the hip Arts District and make his fiancé’s studio a showcase—a sleek, vast modernist space that mirrors the aesthetic of his designs. It’s way beyond what his insurance claim would have covered.
“Zoeykins, let’s get this show rolling,” gushes Chaz after a big hug and learning about my trip to Cannes. “This is so exciting.”
While he scurries to put together a new wardrobe for me, Brandon plops down on an oversized white leather chair. He leans back, folds his arms across his chest, and gives me the once over. My skin prickles everywhere.
“What size are you?”
My heart skips a beat as my eyes flick to the model-sized mannequin in the corner of the studio. I scan her long sculpted legs, narrow waist, jutting hipbones. Katrina!
My eyes shift back to Brandon. Cocking a brow, he shoots me an unnerving look. “Well…”
“I’m a size…”
Six! I so want to say six.
“S-s…”
Brandon taps his foot impatiently.
“S-s…” The number is on the tip of my tongue.
“S-size…” I vomit the next word. “Ten.”
To my horror, I swear he mentally undresses me and then to my surprise, smiles approvingly. “A perfect ten.”
The next hour is ripped from the pages of a fairy tale. A medley of Meghan Trainor songs blasts out of concealed speakers, followed by Mark Ronson’s “Uptown Funk.” I parade out of the dressing room, wearing one outfit after another, each one more fabulous than the one before. I effortlessly and sexily move to the beat of the music. Strutting my stuff with hip moves that rival a supermodel’s, I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman though she’s far from my size and four inches taller. Brandon just sits there, sexily slouched, legs spread apart, and either nods approvingly or gives a thumbs up. He’s enjoying every minute of my show. Much more than he lets on. It’s hard to miss the visible bulge between his legs. I’m f*ck
ing turning him on! And the truth is I’m turned on like a fire hydrant. I may need to buy a new pair of panties to replace my drenched ones.
By noon, I’ve line up over two dozen outfits for MIP—ranging from sequined mini dresses and gowns to chic jeans and a super-sexy tux outfit similar to the one Rihanna wore on the Grammy’s.
My brother’s exuberant fiancé beams. “Zoeykins, you’re going to rock it in Cannes.”
Brandon’s eyes travel from my face to my toes, lingering on parts of me he has no right to be staring at. He flashes his trademark cocky grin.
“Yeah, she is.”
Brandon