I’m all too aware that my cock is rock hard inside my pants. Thank god I’m wearing trousers thick enough that she shouldn’t be able to notice. She really does make me feel like a teenager—like I might explode at the slightest touch.
Her full pink lips are trembling slightly. What would it feel like to have those lips wrapped around my cock? She didn’t date much in high school. After I made her a social pariah, the other guys were too scared to ask her out. They knew that if they looked at her, or touched her, they’d feel my wrath turned on them, too. In a sense, Mila belonged to me and me alone.
But I’m sure she’s had boyfriends since then.
I wonder if she’s learned a thing or two.
Somebody needs to slap these thoughts out of my head.
Pull yourself together, Roman. You’re not fucking Little Miss Lois Lane.
But there is something else she could do for me.
“I’ll give you an interview,” I say to Mila.
She lets out a sigh of relief. This is obviously important to her—she’s trying to keep her job.
“Good—“ she says, before I interrupt her.
“BUT,” I say, “you have to do something for me, first.”
“What’s that?” she asks, nervously.
“Does Clarion have press passes for the Paris Opera Gala?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” she says. “Probably.”
“Get them,” I tell her. “You’re going to take me. Tomorrow night.”
“Why?” she asks hesitantly, her voice trailing off.
“Because I want to go,” I tell her, sharp and imperious. “Those are my terms. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night, eight o’clock sharp.”
“And if I get us into the gala, you’ll answer all my questions?” Mila says.
“Yes,” I lie.
I’ll only answer the ones I want to, obviously.
“Fine,” Mila says, nodding her head once. “See you tomorrow, then.”
Before she turns away, I can’t resist adding one more thing.
“Hey, Mila.”
She turns around slowly, knowing it won’t be anything good.
“What?” she says.
“Borrow a dress from someone so you don’t embarrass me.”
Her eyes narrow into slits and her fists ball up at her sides. Now she’s the one who looks like a teenager, furious and almost reduced to tears. Just the way I liked her, back then.
But she, at least, has gained a little self-control. Because this time she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even shout anything back at me. She just turns on her heel and marches away.
5
Mila
Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants.
Karl Lagerfeld
Nothing with Roman Turgenev is ever easy.
I was hoping I could just show up at Vivre, surprise him, and convince him to give me an interview. Simple enough, right?
Wrong.
Now he wants me to take him to some gala, for god knows what reason. All I know is that there is a reason, something Roman wants.
Come to think of it, this could be a good thing. I know he’s not going to answer my interview questions honestly. All I’m going to get out of him is a bunch of nonsense promoting his casino. But if I can figure out what he’s doing at the gala . . . that could be useful information. Something worth knowing.
First, I have to get the tickets.
Which means I have to talk to Monsieur Bisset again.
I make sure to arrive at work nice and early, which turns out to be almost an hour and a half before he shows up. Janine has set me up with one of the less-desirable desks on the main floor—a little too close to the bathrooms, as well as the water cooler, which makes an irritating glugging sound at odd intervals.
Whoever occupied this desk before me obviously loved cats. There are several pictures of snoozing cats tacked on the wall, as well as cat-shaped magnets stuck to the side of the metal desk. Not to mention a brass paperweight of a curled-up kitten, weighing down the messy stack of miscellaneous papers that the old employee never got around to filing. Which might be why they got fired.
The kitschy decor is a positive in my eyes. I love animals of any kind. I always wished I could have a pet, but Mama wouldn’t allow it—too messy. She wanted the house to be perfect. Not that it was ever quite perfect enough in her eyes.
That’s the first thing I’ll do once I’m settled in a place of my own, not bouncing around like I have been. I’ll get a puppy. Or a kitten. Or both. I’m already messy, so a pet won’t make much difference.
Even though I’m in Siberia compared to Bisset’s corner office, at least I’m next to Janine. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend at the moment, meaning that she knows who I am, and will answer if I speak to her. That’s about the most I can hope for at Clarion—I’m nobody in this office, and Parisians aren’t exactly known for their chumminess under the best of circumstances.
Janine did me a favor yesterday, calling Roman to book our interview. I knew he wouldn’t agree if he recognized my voice.
Besides handling some of the basic HR duties for the office, Janine is Clarion’s fact-checker. That bleeds through in her no-bullshit approach to conversation. She loves to correct people if they say something that isn’t a hundred percent accurate. She’s the type to google what you’re saying, while you’re still saying it. Honestly, I like her bluntness.
My mother always tried to teach Sasha and me to be ladies, to be gentle and charming and polite. Sasha, ever the responsible older sister, absorbed those lessons better than I did. I never quite managed it—my mouth has always been five steps ahead of my brain.
So I admire someone like Janine, who doesn’t seem to give a damn what anyone thinks of her.
For example, when I sit down this morning, the first thing she says to me is, “Oh good, you do have some proper clothes.”
I know the coffee-soaked blouse and ripped skirt wasn’t a great look, but I thought since then I’d been doing alright.
“What was wrong with yesterday?” I ask her.
“The yellow dress was very bright,” Janine says. “You won’t see color like that in a Paris office. It’s not chic to be too obvious.”
Glancing around at the other workers, I see that she’s right. Everyone is dressed quite formally compared to what I’m used to—the women in dresses, skirts, and tailored blazers, the men wearing suits or sport coats. But it’s all muted tones of blue, gray, cream, sage, tan, and black. Expensive materials, well-tailored, but conservative cuts.
I can see that my vivid yellow sundress was too much. I probably looked like I was setting up a lemonade stand. The pale gray blouse I’m wearing today is much more appropriate.
Still, I don’t look nearly as sharp as Janine, in her high-waisted navy slacks and crisp white blouse. She’s got a way of making the simplest things look stylish, from her elegant pixie cut to her popped collar to the single gold bangle dangling from her wrist.
“Janine,” I ask, hesitantly. “Could you help me pick out an outfit for the Paris Opera Gala?”