Wardrobe Malfunction(10)

Madonna’s “Dress You Up” starts to play on my phone.

I love this song! It’s my anthem.

Putting my pad down, I turn the volume up.

Then, I’m singing along and getting to my feet. Picking up a lint roller to use as my mock microphone, I’m singing my heart out, dancing around, twerking my ass off to Madge, and— “Shit! Fuck!” I yell mid turn, the lint roller dropping out of my hand and to the floor.

Because Vaughn West is standing in the doorway—arms folded, his shoulder leaning on the doorframe—watching me.

Oh my God.

I dart over and silence the music, closing my sketchpad. “God, you scared me.” I’m breathing quickly. I press my hand to my chest, my heart pounding. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

His voice…dear God. Deep and raspy and sexy.

I take a good look at him, and he’s even better in real life than he looks on-screen.

He’s beautiful. And tall. I know he’s six foot two and a half. And, no, I’m not a stalker. I read it in a magazine once.

He’s dressed in blue jeans and a simple black tee that highlights the golden tone of his skin. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. And his lips, so full and kissable…and his eyes…they’re like melted chocolate with caramel in the center…

Then, I realize he’s laughing at me. Well, not laughing, laughing, but there’s definitely mirth in those gorgeous eyes of his.

And I’m back to planet Earth with a bang. Where I’ve just made a complete fool of myself in front of Vaughn West.

Someone, please kill me now.

“I am sorry about that.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting you for a while, and when Madonna comes on, you just have to sing along, you know?”

“Oh, yeah. Every time I hear Madonna playing, I have to drop what I’m doing and shake my ass to the beat.”

“Right?” I exclaim, sounding a little shrill.

I might be a tad flustered and flying high on adrenaline right now, which is why it takes me a beat longer to realize he’s actually taking the piss.

“So, anyway”—I brush it off with a shake of my shoulders—“embarrassing moment aside, I’m Charlotte Michaels; everyone calls me Charly. I’m your new dresser. I’m replacing Millie. It’s really great to meet you, Mr. West.” I walk over to him and stick my hand out to shake his.

He seems even taller up close. I’m not exactly short at five-eight, and I’ve got my three-inch wedges on, giving me extra height, but I feel like a little girl standing in front of him.

Vaughn glances down at my hand like he can’t quite figure me out, and then he looks back up at my face with an expression that says he thinks I’m mentally impaired—which isn’t surprising, considering he just walked in on me wailing out to Madonna and twerking.

Honestly, I question my own sanity at times.

“Vaughn’s fine,” he says but makes no move to shake my hand.

“Okay.” I awkwardly pull my hand back, trying not to feel like a complete moron. “Vaughn, it is.”

Then, we’re just standing there, staring at each other.

“So…” he says.

“Right. Clothes.” I snap myself to attention.

I turn to the table where I left the clothes I need to alter for him, and I pick up the pants off the top of the pile. Black Armani suit pants. He’ll look super hot in them.

“To start with, I need you to try these on. Ava’s notes said they don’t fit properly. I just need to see them on, so I can resize them for you.”

He takes the pants from my hand. “In here?” He gestures to the curtained-off area.

“Yes.”

Vaughn goes into the changing area, pulling the curtain across. I turn to the table and bend over, dropping my head on it with a silent groan.

Ugh. God, I can’t believe I was just twerking to Madonna, and Vaughn West walked in on me and saw me. I’m such a fucking loser.

I hear the rustle of clothing from behind me. I pick my head up, righting myself.

Vaughn West is undressing and quite possibly naked, only ten feet behind me.

Holy crap.

I’m actually starting to sweat a little.

I fan my face with my hand.

Jesus, get it together, Charly.

A minute later, I hear the rail rattle, telling me the curtain is being pulled back.

I turn around, and…holy shit.

He’s shirtless.

He’s just wearing the pants.

No shoes. Just bare feet.

Sweet baby Jesus.

Bare feet and ripped chests are my kryptonite, especially if the man has nice feet—which, of course, Vaughn does—and his chest…man alive!

It’s the kind of chest you want to spend days licking all kinds of melted sweets off. To be honest, I’d happily lick his sweat off his chest. Run my tongue over those abs and ridges, down that happy trail— “Where do you want me?”

Is that a trick question?

I cough. “Just over here, please.”

He walks toward me, and my vagina thuds in time with his footsteps.

When he reaches me, I get a whiff of male. He doesn’t smell like I expected. I thought he’d be all rich cologne and expensive fabrics.