She nodded her head jerkily then headed to her bedroom. I really wanted to follow her but our date hadn’t had the smoothest start so I just wandered around her living room looking at her photographs and generally checking out the lay of the land.
It didn’t take long bearing in mind that this was Manhattan and a shoebox cost the price of a five-bedroom detached starter castle back home in Derby.
I sprawled on the mocha-colored sofa while I was waiting, leafing through a copy of American Journal of Comparative Law—a thrilling read it ain’t.
I snapped a quick selfie that showed my Windsor knot tie and added it to my IG story, right after the undies shot I’d taken as I was getting ready. My followers loved it and I loved my hundred-thousand plus followers. Sponsorship was up which meant more dog biscuits for the kids and more pennies in the bank for me.
Then Gracie swayed into the living room looking fookin’ fabulous but with an uncertain expression. Stella had loaned me a silver lamé halter-neck jumpsuit that turned Gracie from hot to knockout.
“A jumpsuit?” she said, her voice wavering. “I don’t know … I usually wear a dress at office functions…”
“Nah. They already know that you wear the pants in your office—may as well show them and look fook hot while you’re doing it.”
“I’m too skinny,” she whispered. “All legs and arms. Like … like a stick insect.”
“Nah, more like a Whippet. I like Whippets.”
“Gee, thanks,” she snorted, sounding like Gracie again. “Can’t I at least be a Greyhound?”
“Too short.”
“Thank you, Vincent!” she snapped, her eyes flashing.
There was my girl!
“We’ll look fook hot together,” I grinned at her.
“You’ll do, I suppose,” she said haughtily, trying to hide a smile.
“Nah, you think I’m a scorcher, I can tell. You think I’m a solid ten, probably an eleven.”
“No, you’re more an equine nine.”
“Eh? You think I’m a horse? Nah, luv, just hung like a horse—dick like a donkey, me.”
“I don’t care if you’re a Shetland pony or a Shire horse,” she hissed. “I’m not interested!”
She totally was.
Grace
The jumpsuit was gorgeous and the material felt amazingly luxurious, almost decadent against my bare skin. There was no room for a bra, not that I had much to fill even an AA-cup. One (very ex) boyfriend had described my chest as two fried eggs on a plate. What a charmer.
But this jumpsuit made me feel incredibly sexy. The halter neck covered my front, but left my back bare then clung to my waist, the fabric draping softly against my legs and shimmering like molten silver.
I knew very little about fashion, but even I could tell that the cut and design was sensational.
I’d always played it safe when it came to clothes. In some ways that was part and parcel of being a corporate lawyer—a fitted gray, navy or black suit, and a token color in the shirt or shoes, with very little variation. But this! This was different.
I swung from confidence to concern as the taxi drew inexorably closer to the bar in the Village that Kryll Group had rented for the evening.
“Don’t mention your IG account,” I admonished Vince, “especially not your Fans Only page, and definitely don’t