“Shit. This is the only work blouse I have with me,” she grumbled, trying to wipe at the mess with a napkin.
Margie stood up and used a napkin to clean the coffee from the table, tossing the remaining trash in the waste bin.
“Damn…sorry about that, Di. I didn’t mean to make you mess up your shirt.” Margie had the good sense to look guilty, but Diana couldn’t stay mad at her friend, especially when said friend was pouting like she had back in the fourth grade. The minx.
Sighing heavily, she offered Margie a slight smile. “You’re forgiven—but what am I supposed to do? I’m expected back in the office at one. I can’t let Mr. Ayers see me in this blouse. The man once narrowed his eyes at me for wearing Minnie Mouse earrings on Halloween. This Rorschach test on my chest will earn me a boo-hiss.”
Margie chuckled. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure you aren’t wearing that shirt when you go back to work,” she supplied, making Diana roll her eyes. As if it were that easy.
“I think Ayers would fire me on the spot if I showed up wearing only my Cacique bra.”
Giggling again, Margie led the way out the door of the coffee shop and stopped by the curb.
“There are lots of boutiques on this street. At least two in walking distance. Why not hit up one of those?”
She shook her head, snorting. “Boutiques? In Manhattan? Where it costs two hundred dollars for a pair of socks? No thanks! And, besides, I only have another fifteen minutes to get back before my lunch break officially ends and I have to be at Ayers’s beck and call.”
Margie quirked an eyebrow. “What’s he got you doing now?” Margie, an environmental attorney at a firm on the floor just below Diana’s, knew how demanding Diana’s boss could be. Hell, the whole building took a collective breath when Mr. Richard Ayers stepped inside.
Groaning, she answered, “He has some client—his name hasn’t been released among the employees—coming in to discuss some paternity suit. Apparently, the guy is suing his ex-fiancée for defamation and fraud. And the only reason I know that is because Janet loves a juicy bit of gossip—though she is devilishly tight-lipped when it comes to details.” Grunting as the coffee on her shirt began to dry into sticky patterns against her skin, she cursed. “What the hell am I supposed to do? I can’t go back to work in this shirt.”
A light went on in Margie’s eyes. “Why don’t we switch shirts?”
Diana snorted—a terrible habit really—and slapped Margie on the arm. “Girl, you are a size smaller than me, and your tits are oranges whereas mine are cantaloupes. I’d bust out of that blouse on my first inhale.” She remembered sixth grade well; it was the year she’d blossomed into womanhood. Started her period, got terrible acne, and grew a pair of tits that seemed to collect the gawking stares of teenaged boys. Those tits turned into torpedoes as she aged, and now they were the bane of her back, her bra budget, and that patch of skin right beneath her boobs where the sweat gathered on hot summer days.
Boob sweat was about as sexy as sweatpants.
Margie rolled her eyes at her. “My tits are easily grapefruits—thank you very much. I have another shirt in my office I can change into, and I have my coat on, so no one would see your messy shirt on me. A quick change in my office and no one’s the wiser.”
Diana shook her head and turned away from the street to hide her shirt from oncomers who were, thankfully, too into their devices to spare her a glance.
“Come on! What other option do you have?”
Diana stopped, spinning on her pump heel to face her friend who was looking at her like she’d just swallowed a firefly. Dammit! Margie was right. She couldn’t take the chance of meeting the mysterious client while wearing her afternoon coffee.
Letting her shoulders slump, she ground out, “Fine. We can change in the café bathroom.”
Margie reentered the café with Diana on her heels, and in less than five minutes, both of them were headed back to the office building, with Diana far more stiff and uncomfortable than Margie, who was wearing a shirt that would fit two of her. Thank God Margie was wearing a coat that covered all but the bottom of Diana’s shirt, where the coffee hadn’t stained it.
Glancing down at the shirt she’d squeezed into, Diana just barely stopped herself from groaning. On Margie, the shirt was smooth, the buttons lined up perfectly from neck to navel. But, on her…well, the buttons looked like they were being choked to death by the button holes as the fabric pulled on them, leaving gaps in the blouse right where the globes of her tits touched. If she’d been wearing a more practical bra instead of the pink plunge bra she’d put on during a flight of fancy that morning, no one would have been able to see it.
Talk about a shit show.
A tit show?
Either way, she was showing more of herself to people than anyone—besides herself—had seen in…forever. Modesty was a thing for her, so it would take some balls—tits—to walk through the city, into work, and face a man known for killing lesser beings with a look.
“Come on, Di, it isn’t so bad,” Margie insisted, taking Diana’s hand. “It isn’t like you meet with clients. Hide yourself in your office until you can get out of there, then head home and change.”
“Now that I’ve seen it, I think I should have just kept the
