Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
But because I know him, it feels more like he’s taking care of me than walking out.
Our history is brief, but it includes quite the set of twists and turns.
One week ago, the three of us were in Boston. And even though I was starting to get a taste of what was coming, I would never be able to predict this.
I like it.
I like this new life, I like these men, I like my job and even though I’m barely two months into my one-year contract, it makes me sad to think about leaving it all behind to start something else.
If they ask me to stay at the end of the year, I will stay.
And it’s got nothing to do with the secrets, or the money, or the power of the people pulling all the strings. That island… it just feels like home.
I make coffee in the small kitchen, pick at a muffin I find in a basket filled with morning pastries, then shower, just as commanded. When I come out of the bathroom wrapped up in a luxurious white towel, there are people in the main room. They are talking quietly. But when I open the door to tell them I will change and be right out, they insist I just sit down in my towel and let them do their thing.
Mercer said stylist. But this isn’t merely a stylist. It’s a team.
By the time they leave, I look like a movie star. I barely recognize myself. It’s not that I’m wearing a lot of makeup, it’s just that they know how to apply it correctly. They do that contour thing with my cheekbones and use the perfect shade of concealer. In fact, when I look in the mirror, despite the fact that I’ve been sitting in this chair for three hours, I look like a fresh-faced teenager who just spent the day on the beach.
My strawberry-blonde hair is long and tamed. They even trim it up, making the ends blunt and straight. It’s a very high-fashion look. Not a style I typically bother with. I’m more of a ponytail girl on the day-to-day.
But I like it.
The stylists are just packing up their cases when the tailor and his team enter with a rack of dresses. I feel like I’m in that Pretty Woman movie. Except they don’t ask my opinion on anything. They are kinda cold, actually. All the people who have come into and out of this room today have that air about them.
But I think they are meant to be that way.
Professional.
This tailor doesn’t even introduce himself. He beckons me to stand up with a single finger, then his helpers remove my towel so I’m naked and proceed to dress me. Not once, not twice, but at least fifteen times.
They make me model every dress on the rack.
Then they have a little huddle near the kitchen and when that’s over, they choose dress number eight.
The funny thing about this is that I learn something I had never thought about before. That dressing, in the proper outfit, at least, is a process. When I go shopping, I look for clothes I like. I try them on and if they fit, I buy them.
Nothing about this little fashion show was about the fit.
It was about the look.
The whole point of having a tailor dress you is to make it fit after you choose your look.
When I am finally dressed and check myself in the full-length mirror, my look says… rich. No. Posh.
I smile at that word as I turn in the mirror and check myself out.
The dress is lavender. The loveliest light purple I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s a gown made of thick satin. Perfectly ironed, slick and sleek satin. It goes all the way to the floor. And it’s got some sort of off-the-shoulder cuff thing going on at the neckline that flatters my upper arms and kinda squares up my hips. There are no embellishments on it. And then when the tailors leave, and the jeweler arrives with an entourage of heavily armed bodyguards, I realize why.
These are the embellishments.
There are cases and cases of jewels. I’m talking this is the kind of stuff you see in museums.
“You are to choose a necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings, and a brooch, Miss Ryan.” This is what the jeweler tells me in his upper-class accent that is not American or British, but something I privately call snob.
I point to myself. “I get to choose?” No one who came before this man has asked my opinion, let alone let me choose something.
“That is correct. These are yours to keep.”
My mouth falls open. “To keep?”
“That is correct.”
I just blink for a moment. “Why on earth would I be allowed to keep these jewels?”
“Because it’s your night, ma’am.”