“Or what?” I asked, opening both my eyes. Toby was messing around on his phone. “What are you looking at? Who are you talking to?”
“The person who’s going to get you to get your act together.”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“She’ll pull you together. Make you presentable. The next best thing we’re going to get to finishing school.”
“Finishing school? What are you talking about? You sound like you want to give me a makeover or something.”
“That’s just what you need. That and a full personality transplant.”
“What is this? Queer Eye? You’re not giving me a makeover,” I scoffed.
“I’m not. You’re gonna need a professional,” he said.
Shit, he was serious. “I’ll wear a different shirt next time. It’s not that serious.”
“This is business, Easy. This is our retirement, our legacy, this is make or break.”
I shook my head. He was high strung to say the least. Neurotic to say the most. My fucking shirt choice wasn’t going to be what got us our contracts or not. Our work, our product, our reputation was what was going to do it. He’d calm down. He always did. He was going to complain a little more, have a drink and then he’d be back to normal.
We pulled up to the place and went inside, sitting up at the bar. Toby got a scotch and I got a beer. I whistled.
“Scotch? A little strong, no?”
“Another year with you and I’ll need a doctor to shoot me up with morphine after client meetings.” He got back on his phone.
“You’re such a drama queen,” I said, picking up the beer that was placed in front of me.
“It’s you or me and I’m nominating you,” he said. “Here.” He held his phone out to me. I took it. It was a news story on some website. Artemis James: The Stylist Behind the Best Dressed. I frowned.
“What the hell is this?”
“That’s her. She’s going to save me from embarrassment by cleaning up your act.” I wrinkled my nose scrolling down the article. Picture after picture of people I didn’t know but were allegedly famous. A stylist, huh? Guess you could pay someone to do anything for you.
“You’re crazy,” I said, handing the phone back, and then stopping, looking at the screen. I clicked on the picture of the woman with brown hair and arresting grey eyes, enlarging it. She was smiling with red lips, wearing a modern, stylish suit. Her body had curves in all the right places. She was beyond sexy. A fucking smokeshow. Fuck, please let her be the one. Please let her be the one.
“Is that the woman you’re talking about?” I asked, handing the phone back.
“She’s called something something James… yeah, yes. That’s her.”
“Okay, I changed my mind. I’m down.”
“That was a quick change of heart.”
“She can dress me,” I said, as long as she undresses me first.
“I was never asking permission but it’s nice to see you cooperate for once in your life.”
I took a swig of my beer. “You’re still crazy but what could it hurt?”
It wasn’t going to hurt. Not with her. Not with the kind of dress up games I had in mind.
2
Artemis
No, they were not a couple, they couldn't be.