That's a pity but it's not. This is exactly the type of man I envisioned in my mind's eye when I arrived in Manhattan. I graduated from high school less than two years ago and my dreams of attending Julliard on a scholarship had vanished as quickly as my clean record when I broke one too many rules in high school.
"Is there something in particular that you're looking for?" I catch the faint wave of the hand of one of my co-workers across the aisle. I ignore it because when a customer is ready to buy, the store could be engulfed in flames, and I'm not moving an inch. The commissions here are the highest I've ever earned in retail and the secret to guarantee a big sale is to make the customer feel as though they're the only one in the boutique.
His eyes scan the various bras we have displayed before they move to the lace panties and garters. "If I asked you to try something on for me, Isla, would you do that? Would you take me into one of the change rooms with you?"
I've read the employee handbook. No, I skimmed it briefly while on my way to work that first day weeks ago. The number one rule is to never take a customer into the rooms. Men who lead you into those quiet spaces are craving more than a private fashion show. I know that. "I'm sorry, Gabriel. That's against company policy."
He studies my face carefully. The dark shadow around my blue eyes looks hideous in the alarming bright light of the morning, but in here it's sensual and alluring. My shoulder length blonde hair is straight today, a sharp contrast to my high cheekbones. I'm here to sell lingerie and the light pink wrap around dress I'm wearing accentuates everything it needs to. He hasn't walked away yet, so he's still primed to buy.
He closes the short distance between us as he steps towards me. "You don't strike me as the type of young woman who follows all the rules."
It's tempting. Not just because of the extra money I'd find in my pocket. "I don't follow rules, Gabriel. If you want a private show, I can come to your office after work."
His brow cocks with the suggestion. "Is that something you offer to customers often?"
I've never offered it before. "I only offer it to the ones who peak my interest."
"I'll give you my card." His hand dips into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
I take it from his long, elegant fingers and look down at it. I don't have time to read the details before my boss is upon us.
I turn to look at her but she's staring at Gabriel. Her hand leaps to his shoulder.
"Mr. Foster," she says slowly. "I see that you've met our newest girl. Isla, you're explaining everything we offer to Mr. Foster, yes?"
I look down at the card of Mr. Gabriel Foster, the CEO of Foster Enterprises and the man who owns this boutique.
"Isla has been very cordial." He glides the tip of his index finger along my wrist. "She's coming by my office today. I'll expect you at four, Isla."
"At four," I repeat back. "I'll be there at four, Sir."
His eyes skim slowly over my body before they stop on my face. "Don't be late and bring those samples we spoke of."
I freeze as his hand runs up my arm before he brushes past me towards the front of the shop.
Coming Fall 2015
Preview of TORN – The Standalone
––––––––
Featuring Asher Foster
"Are they low enough?"
"Pull them up." I wave my arm in the air towards one of the three female assistants he walked in with. "I need them higher."
He pushes their eager hands away as he adjusts the waistband of his button-fly jeans. I'd told him to strip down to just his pants as soon as he stepped foot into my studio. He had done that effortlessly. His hands tugging the white sweater he was wearing over his head to reveal a toned chest and stomach covered by the expected tattoos.
I'd walked closer to ask him to remove the bracelets and necklaces he had on. His eyes had been glued to mine the entire time.
I admit he's much more attractive than most of the men who traipse through here. His hair may be a tousled mess of brown but his eyes more than make up for that. They're framed by long lashes, the irises a shade of chestnut I haven't seen before.
It's no surprise that he warrants the attention he does in the media.
Asher Foster has the number one song in the country right now. On top of that, he wrote it. I listened to it on my phone before he arrived. It's moody, soulful and surprisingly brilliant.
I look through the lens of my camera. "I need that light moved to the left."
My assistant, Remy, darts into action. She pulls it over just a touch. I'd be lost without her, especially right now, given that the small space is filled with at least ten people, all part of the entourage that arrived with the Asher.
I take another glance. It's almost perfect save for the fact that when I asked him to show me some skin, he took it to a level that's bordering on obscene.
I step around the tripod and walk back towards where he's standing in front of a pale, grey canvas hung from the ceiling.
I point towards his jeans. "You can button those back up."