PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Shapeshifter Romance: The Vampire's Stolen Bride (BBW Fantasy Alpha Male Romance Books) (New Adult Vampire Fun Mature Young Adult Billionaire Steamy Love and Romance Novella) (31 page)

Chapter 2

              “Chantelle, I’d like to see you in my office.”

              For the most part, the day has been normal and predictable: proofreading his email drafts, picking up lunch, syncing his city calendar with both his campaign and personal itineraries.

              “You’re going to the Parramore event.”

              “I’m sorry?”

              “You’re going to the Parramore event, and I’m going to meet you there.”

              “Are you asking me?”

              “I’m mandatorily insinuating.”

              “I hope you’re remembering that I can’t work a campaign event. That’s unethical.”

              “You’ll be my plus-one then. I need someone there with me since all of my other staff is busy. Bryn’s with the phone bank, Troy’s with the Rosen Plaza dinner, I’ve got some volunteer sign-up sheets and chum that may need handing out…” he doesn’t complete his sentence, and I can tell by the stern look he gives me that he won’t be—that I really have no choice in the matter.

              Great.

              “Why don’t I just call myself a volunteer? I can just go as myself supporting your re-election. I
am
voting for you, you know.”

              His mouth twitches. I’ve amused him.

              “Don’t give me that look. You know where I stand.”

              “It’s just nice to hear it from you. I was beginning to worry that you were mad at me.”

              “It’s that obvious?” I joke, kind of.

              “Go. Get out of here. I have to make a cameo at the other fundraiser first, but I
will
see you there.”

              And here he goes again with the stare.

              “I will be there.”

              “Good.”

Chapter 3

              When I get to my car, I head straight for Macy’s at the Millennia Mall. It’s the only budget-friendly store near my apartment that has a moderate selection of fashionably relevant attire available in my size. It still baffles me that designers think every plus-sized woman is looking for mom jeans and grandmother-of-the-bride dresses.

              My cell phone chimes. I see the Congressman’s image flash up on the screen. I’m used to him contacting me throughout the day, but never when I’m off the clock. There must be some emergency.

              I pull into the first gas station I get to and park to see what’s going on.

             
Congressman Dave
– What is the attire for this evening?

             
Me –
Semi-formal.

             
Congressman Dave
– What will you be wearing?

             
Me
– Not sure. Headed to Macy’s now.

             
Congressman Dave
– Macy’s?

             
Me
– Yes.

             
Congressman Dave
– Go to Neiman’s

             
Me
– Can’t

              My phone rings before I can reply, it’s him.

              “Sir?”

              “You can’t go to Macy’s.”

              “I can, and I kind of have to.”

              “If you’re going to be my plus-one I want you looking your best. There may be press there.”

              “I’m not your plus-one this evening, I’m your volunteer, remember?”

              There’s silence on the other end and… what is that, a growl?              

              “Humor me, Chantelle.”

              “Need I remind you I’m making an assistant’s wage?”

              “That’s why I’m calling my stylist and personal shopper now.”

              “Honestly, sir, this really isn’t necessary.”

              “Go to Neiman’s. When you get there, ask for Genoa on the second floor. Whatever you find, tell her to put it on my account.”

              “But—“

              “Thank you. I’ll see you at eight.”

              My phone does the disconnect chime. Did he really just insist by hanging up on me? I have no idea what’s in the water he’s been drinking today, but I’m not appreciating his tone with me one bit. I’m doing this tonight as a favor—nothing more, nothing less. He’s paying for it, so fine. I’m sure it’s a write-off anyway.

              Neiman Marcus is shiny as hell, and smells like money that I don’t have. The people shopping there seem surprisingly unaffected by a place this pristine. I, on the other hand, am intimidated by the orderly appearance of the display cases alone. I stop at this super cute stiletto in the shoe department. My blood pressure rising as I flip it over to find a four-digit dollar amount. I have the burden of setting the shoe back down as if I’m not interested, a look I have no idea how to pull off when the real issue is that I can’t afford it.

              “May I help you find something?” A tall woman with an angular bob pops into view. Where did she come from?

              “Um, no. Well yes, I’m looking for—oh wait, hold on.” The woman is still as I dig to the bottom of my tote for my cell. I need to scroll back through my texts for the right name, “Genoa. I’m here to see, Genoa.”

              “Genoa?” the woman repeats back in a tone reserved for five-year olds looking for their mommy.

              “Yes.” I say, “A personal shopper I believe?”

              “Ooh, you mean Genoa.”

              “Yes.” That’s what I said the first time! What’s there to correct?

              I smile politely in place of an eye roll. She proceeds to give me directions and tells me that I need to have an appointment to see a personal shopper. I smile and nod as if I’m learning all of this for the first time. Why would I tell her I’m there to meet someone if I wasn’t? Sometimes people just aren’t worth the added effort. I thank her for her help, ignoring the assessment she keeps giving me with her eyes.

****

              “You must be Chantelle.” A small, thin, fragile-looking woman is waiting for me as I push through the glass double doors leading to minimal reception area. She gives me a hug as if we’ve known each other for years, a far cry from the stoic woman who greeted me earlier. “Dave told me to take very special care of you.”

              “Cool, I’m excited.”

              “How long have you two been dating?”

              “Oh we’re not together,” I inform quickly.

              “Oh?” She seems confused, “Well he called you his plus-one. Said you were a very exceptional woman in need of something for tonight’s occasion.”

              This is starting to feel weird. I hope he’s not looking at me as some charity case.

              “So how does this all work?” I ask, ignoring the date-like implications. He can’t seem to accept that I’m going as a volunteer.

              “Well, right around here, I’ve pulled some really beautiful gowns. Dave told me you were probably a size twelve—“

              “Twelve?” Does he really think I’m a size twelve?

              The woman reads my grimace, “Is that not correct?”

              “Far from it. I’m actually an eighteen.”

              “Oh,” the woman says as if to feel shock, or pity. “Then what I’ll do is bring a few styles for you to try. See what you feel looks best for your—what compliments your figure.”

              She finds a way to re-work her
almost
unfortunate choice of words. I’m glad she cleaned it up because I’m about two-seconds from walking out of here if this whole ordeal gets any weirder.

              “Do you have anything in a size eighteen?”

              “Um, I think we have a few things.” Her face grows worried. Why am I not surprised that the selection may be limited? I should have just gone to damn Macy’s where I know I can find something I love, and shop on my own, in peace.

              She leaves me to try on dress that leaves little to be desired. She says she may be running out of ideas.

              I take advantage of the alone time to send the congressman a text:

              Me –
This isn’t another one of your charitable contributions is it?

              Congressman Dave –
What are you talking about?

              Me –
Why are you doing this?

              Congressman Dave –
Doing what? Where are you?

              Me –
Neiman’s, feeling like an idiot.

              Congressman Dave –
Is Genoa not there?

              Me –
She’s here, but... I don’t know.

              Congressman Dave –
Don’t move.

              What the fuck? Don’t move? I look around the fitting room. I hear feet hurry over toward the ringing phone I hear outside.

              “Un-huh… Yes... No, sir... Of course, sir… Absolutely, we will find something.”

              Oh lord, that was him. I’m amused that he’s got this place wrapped around his finger like that.

              I wonder what he said? Whatever it was, Genoa is practically throwing garments my way. In fact, this purple one isn’t so bad.

Chapter 4

              Fortunately, my apartment is just a few blocks from the mall. As uncomfortable as the scenario was, I managed to find something I actually liked relatively quickly. I don’t have to be at the Parramore Neighborhood Center for another hour, and even though Congressman Orange is meeting me at eight, I’d still like to get there at least an hour early to assess the environment: see who’s there, if there’s any press, get a feel for how long we’ll really need to stay once he’s shown his face. Tickets for the event were sold in advance, so Bryn should have already collected the contribution. All the congressman literally has to do is show up, demonstrate how honored he is to receive their financial support, eat, then leave.

              I hang my dress up, wondering what on Earth I can do with my hair. I love wearing my kinky twists down, but I’m thinking with an off-the-shoulder dress, an up-do will be just the right finishing touch.

              On my way to the car, I remember a pink rose flower pin I picked up at a thrift store. Rummaging through my tote, I fish the accessory from my purse and attach it to the base of my twisty bun.

****

              “Lord have mercy, Chantelle. Look at you!” Chairwoman Harris makes a beeline over to me. “All grown up and stuff. Girl, come here. I’m just so
proud
of you!” She snatches me into a huge bear hug.

              “Thank you, Mrs. Harris,” I say, gathering myself. “What’s it been, almost five, six years?” She fills me in on people in the neighborhood. Most of them have either moved away, passed, or gotten locked up. I fill her in on some details with me, a Cliff’s Notes version of my gig at Orange Investments, the handful of people I’ve run into, told her how my parents are enjoying retired life in Sarasota.

              She tells me not to be a stranger, not to forget where I came from. The statement jolts me for a second, in it’s simplicity, and it’s reminded me of just how different my world is from before.

              Miss Harris’s eyes widen with sincere delight. I’m happy she’s happy to see me, but she looks as if I’ve just performed a small miracle.

              “Chairwoman Harris?”

              “You look beautiful, tonight,” I hear a deep familiar voice say closely behind me. I whip around, and nearly faint at the unfamiliar sight of him looking… dapper? Maybe it’s the dim lighting, or how tired I am from this long ass day. Whatever it is, he looks very different, and he has literally rendered me speechless.

              “Chairwoman Harris, a pleasure as always.” He places one hand on my shoulder, reaches around with the other to shake her hand. Is he wearing cologne?

              “Are you wearing cologne?” I ask him after Miss Harris leaves us to go prepare for the council’s presentation.

              “I am,” he confirms.

              “I think we’re a little overdressed.”

              He chuckles, “A little?”

              We scan the room. It’s apparent that semi-formal ranges everywhere from jeans with a polo shirt, to couples in their Sunday’s best, to one woman (bless her heart) in an all out, ready-for-the-red-carpet evening gown.

              “Where are we supposed to go?” he says, smiling politely at a cluster of seniors waving from their table.

              “I think we go over to the donation table?”

              “After you,” he says.

              “By the way, there’s no press here.”

              “Good. I’m not in the mood.” I jump out of my skin when he places his hand on my lower back. A polite gesture, I’m sure, but completely unexpected.