A Taste of Peace - J. J. Sorel Page 0,4

I was being paid a handsome sum to attend, and for that amount of money, I would have worn a clown’s costume.

Picking up the voluminous garment, I noticed that it had so much fabric, I wasn’t sure how I’d find my body. I grimaced.

“What’s the matter?” Britney asked.

I gritted my teeth and said, “Well, it’s really horrible. I mean, I’ll look like a color-blind idiot wearing it.”

“Need I remind you you’re being paid over and above what anyone in your position would earn?”

I took a deep breath. She was right. Where was that clown’s outfit?

“Okay,” I said, clutching the weighty dress to my chest. “I’ll try this on.”

Britney walked over to the painting. I wanted to wait until she left, but she hung around. I was a little insecure about my body, and my underwear had a few holes. That first paycheck couldn’t come soon enough.

“What makes you think this is a fake?” She turned to face me, and her eyes widened slightly.

I stood with my arms crossed to hide my chest, which wasn’t easy considering my D-cups. All the late-night bingeing on chocolate, my preferred way of dealing with stress, added more than a few pounds to my figure.

I lifted the brown dress and slipped it over my head. It was so heavy, I stumbled.

“The brushstrokes give it away,” I replied. “And the color of the vase isn’t the same yellow.”

“It could have faded,” she said.

“It’s too recent for that to have happened. Even exposed to sunlight.”

Her frown deepened as she watched me struggle with the zipper. She didn’t even offer to help.

Staring into the mirror, I wanted to puke. I wasn’t vain like Harriet, but I was human. I hated the idea of being seen in a dress the color of poop brown that looked like a hand-me-down from some eccentric aunt.

Although it nipped at the waist—a small mercy—it bagged out around the chest, making me look larger than my size ten.

“Perfect,” she said, looking at me in the mirror.

The longer I stared at myself, the more I wanted to cry. It looked as though I’d been invited to some bad-taste hipster party where everyone was expected to wear ugly outfits for the irony.

She stared at my face. “Leave your hair up in a bun like that. And perhaps little or no makeup.”

“Will that be acceptable?” I asked. “Don’t people usually get glammed up at these things?” My spirits sank. I thought I’d at least receive a makeover.

She shrugged. “Lachlan’s trying to keep a low profile. He doesn’t want the paparazzi all over him. The less glamorous his date, the better.”

“What should I tell people when they ask who I’m with?”

“Just smile and remain quiet.”

As someone who had made a sport of blending in with the furniture, I was the perfect candidate for playing Ms. Invisible.

But wouldn’t wearing the most hideous dress in LA draw attention? As for acting brain-dead, that wouldn’t be difficult, I thought. I’d already struggled stringing together a coherent line around my very sexy boss, whose twinkling blue eyes and chiseled features made it difficult to think straight.

The following day, Britney let me go home early to prepare for the charity event.

“At least wear some makeup,” Harriet said, also appalled by the gown.

“Britney told me to keep it minimal. Something about keeping the paparazzi off Lachlan Peace’s back.”

“That’s kind of strange,” she said, looking into the mirror.

“That’s what I thought. Why would an attractive woman by his side be any different than a plain one?”

“You’re not that plain, Andie. You just don’t make the most of what you’ve got.” She paused. “And your new boss is really fucking hot.”

I nodded pensively. Lachlan Peace was seriously sexy. I’d only met him for a few minutes, but with that buff body and dazzling smile, he had “Hollywood hunk” etched all over him. Even his woody cologne weakened my knees.

“He used to be a bad boy,” she said. “I looked him up on social media. Tattoos, always partying. And a musician.”

Now that, I hadn’t expected. “Really?”

“He was a drummer before taking over his daddy’s empire. Very sexy.”

“You’ve done your research,” I said, pulling the fabric taut around my chest.

“That does look better,” she said, tilting her head to study me in the mirror.

Before I had a chance to respond, Harriet threaded a needle, and a few stitches later, the bodice fit me tightly.

When she brought the scissors out, I stopped her from making further alterations. “You better not. Britney’s set on a certain look.”

“A little cleavage wouldn’t