Chapter 9: Lipstick Directive

AVA

I left shortly after that unexpected twist of events. Mr. Brentstone had walked away, and I didn’t see him afterward.

He was due to give some sort of speech later that evening, but I didn’t bother sticking around to hear it.

I was sure it would be some sort of expression of pride or gratitude toward his employees—if he could even feel those kinds of emotions, that is—but I’d only worked there for less than a month, so I didn’t feel too bad about missing it.

I said goodbye to my friends, who tried to talk me out of leaving.

I made up some sort of lame excuse about having to pick up my parents from the airport early in the morning when really I just wanted to be alone.

I desperately wanted to take a shower and curl up in bed. Besides, I really ~did~ have to pick up my parents, just not until one p.m.

I walked to the elevators, realizing just then how much my feet hurt. How did people wear heels all day long?

I pressed the button and looked around. After having made sure the coast was clear, I took off my heels and rubbed my sore feet while waiting for the elevator to arrive.

“Leaving so soon?” a voice behind me called, startling me into my second near-death experience of the evening. I didn’t even have to look up to see who it was.

“Are you kidding me?” I said under my breath and picked up the pumps that I had dropped out of fright. “Do you do that on purpose?”

Mr. Brentstone chuckled—he actually ~chuckled~ at me—as he stepped closer. I took a step back, trying to keep distance between us.

“I don’t,” he said as he stepped closer again.

I took another step back, but my back hit the wall doing so.

Mr. Brentstone reached out his hand toward my waist, making me suck in a breath and panic internally, but he just ended up pressing the elevator button.

“You’re…leaving too?” I asked, trying to hide my misplaced panic.

Mr. Brentstone didn’t answer. He just raised an eyebrow at me. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

“Marcus, Ms. Mayweather is coming down in elevator two right now. Please make sure she gets to her car safely.” His eyes raked over my body lazily and lingered for a second at thigh level.

I glanced down and, to my absolute horror, saw the side of my dress had hiked up a bit, revealing the lacy top of my stocking. I quickly tugged it back down, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

Mr. Brentstone cleared his throat, turned around, and started walking back to the office, where the party was still going strong.

“Merry Christmas, Ms. Mayweather.”

***

Christmas weekend flew by. My parents arrived early Saturday morning, and we spent the entire day just playing board games and preparing Christmas dinner together.

It felt nostalgic and familiar, feelings I’d been desperately craving since leaving Seattle.

I showed them around town the next day, and then it was already time to take them back to the airport.

We said our goodbyes, feeling somehow both lighter and heavier at the same time, but I felt extremely grateful to have been able to spend the holidays together as a family again.

Monday morning rolled around, and I woke up with a heaviness in my chest.

It was the day of my lunch with Mr. Brentstone. I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t even know whether I should consider it a date or a business meeting.

I decided to dress for both occasions, wearing a white high-neck top tucked into a beige pencil skirt that hugged my curves just right.

I spent the morning sketching out illustrations for the children’s book—I was too scared to paint in my light-colored outfit—and before I knew it, it was twelve-fifteen.

I went into the ladies’ room to freshen up. I brushed my teeth, fixed my hair, and checked my outfit. I walked out at twelve-twenty and went over to Mr. Brentstone’s office.

I raised my hand to knock, but he opened the door before I got the chance.

“You look…decent,” he said, looking me up and down.

I couldn’t help but think of last Friday when he’d seen a little more than he had bargained for, and I shuddered.

Mr. Brentstone locked his office door behind him. “Do you have any lipstick on you?” he asked with his back still turned to me.

“I…yes,” I replied, confused.

Mr. Brentstone gestured toward the elevator, so we started walking in that direction.

“Put it on.”

My eyes snapped to his. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

~That prick.~ I shook my head in disbelief as I dug through my purse. The elevator chimed, and the doors rolled open. We got on, and I spent the ride down applying lipstick using my pocket mirror.

When we exited the building toward Mr. Brentstone’s car, I was at least happy to see that Miles would be driving us.

“Good to see you, Ms. Mayweather!” he said.

“It’s good to see you too, Miles.”

We all entered the vehicle, and off we went.