You wonder if this could ever actually be your look as you adjust the silk cuffs of the Tom Ford suit in the full-length mirror. The fabric clung to your shoulders in a way your normal department store blazers never did. The investor’s closet smelled like money—wool, leather, and something faintly citrus.

Mister Stephens had only been gone six hours and you were already pretending to live his lifestyle by playing dressup in his master bedroom. But you had to admit, you looked damn good doing it, thanks to havng a near identical build as your temporary employer.

You had jumped at the chance to house sit his dogs at the request of your mother who was his personal assistant. Being able to live in the lap of luxery for three days? Yeah, you weren't going to pass up this opportunity.

And then you spied a set of keys in fine.vhina bowl on tje dresser. A key fob on the ring with a gold inlay of a bull. "No way..." you say to yourself

You pocket the key fob and make your way towards the five car garage. And there it was... a perfectly waxed and glossy lipstick red Lamboghini.

The engine growled as you tore out of the cliffside ocean view home and down the winding road, the ocean on your left, windows down, the wind making a mess of your hair.

Twenty minutes later you stopped in front of a five-star seaside hotel to think, wondering where to go to next. You only had a few hundred dollars of soending cash Mr. Stephens gave you, and about $17 in the bank. What can you do? Where could you go? He didn’t know where he was going—just somewhere that suited the lie he was living. The hotel’s valet stand loomed ahead, all marble and gold trim. You grip the wheel, twisting your hands against the warm leather. Thinking.

Then you saw her. A woman in yellow, leaning against the hotel’s stone pillar, one long leg casually crossed over the other. Her long, dark blonde hair in oerfect waves to frame her face, lips glossy and parted just enough to tease a smirk. She turned her head—slow, deliberate—and locked eyes with you. Your throat goes dry.

“That’s quite the car,” she called out, her voice smooth as the whiskey you’d stolen a sip of back at the house. She pushed off the pillar, heels clicking against the pavement as she sauntered slowly closer. The dress hugged every curve, dipping low in the back where golden skin glowed under the afternoon sun.

Reaching the passenger side of the Lambo, she leans forward, her ample cleavage leading the way. Her eyes scanned you up and down, admiring your suit.

You stumble to find the right words in the face of such beauty