Page 66 of Scandal
I hate that thing.
Almost as much as I hate her.
Okay, that’s not true. I don’t hate her. I just dislike how good she is at her job, especially at babysitting. A trained operative could give her the slip, and she’d probably be able to find them in ten seconds flat.
It’s incredibly annoying.
“Nothing,” I lie, slamming my laptop shut. After etiquette lessons, I tried to sneak away for a few moments before lunch, but clearly, that isn’t going to happen since my babysitter found me.
She eyes me suspiciously as she takes the seat next to me and sets her iPad down. She’s still clad in all black, as she has been since the moment I met her. It makes her pale skin look ghostly, but she sort of pulls it off.
Considering the shitty week I’ve had, I don’t really think before I find myself saying, “Is this a fashion statement or a uniform?” I gesture toward her black slacks and blazer.
God, Merc, rude much?
Luckily, she doesn’t seem offended. In fact, she seems genuinely amused—an emotion I hadn’t realized she had until now—as she leans forward, chin on palm. “What do you think?”
I let my eyes sweep over her fashionable bob, expertly applied cat eyeliner, and shiny mauve lip gloss. “I think you hate it.”
A small smirk curves her lips. “What makes you say that?”
“Because despite your weird ability to find me even when I try to hide?—”
“You’re not as good at hiding as you think you are.” She smirks.
And here I thought I was improving. But no matter where I go, like today, when I just wanted a few quiet moments to myself to use my laptop, there she is, materializing out of thin air. “Anyway…” I roll my eyes. “I think we’re strangely alike.”
“We’re not?—”
“We are,” I go on, folding my arms across my chest. A second later, I realize I’m looking into a mirror because she’s in nearly the same position.
She looks down at her tightly folded arms, lets out a frustrated huff, then drops her hands into her lap. “Go on.”
“We both like research and organization. We both like schedules and plans. You’re just a bit more…” I try to think of a nice way to phrase it as I glance down at her trusty iPad.
“Anal?”
I press my lips together to hide my smile, but I end up laughing. “Yes,” I answer. “Very.”
She shrugs, as if this information doesn’t bother her in the least. “Maybe I like black. Maybe it suits me?”
I tilt my head, regarding her. “Maybe, but I doubt it. I think you’d prefer something with a bit more personality. Perhaps something designer?” Her eyes widen. Now I’ve got her attention. “A pair of wide-leg Chanel pants and an adorable Dior blouse, for example.”
“Like the one you wore last week?”
I shrug. “Perhaps.”
She folds her arms across her chest again. “The countess is in charge of my uniform.”
“I figured as much.” I pretend to act unconcerned. “I could talk to her for you. You aremypersonal assistant, after all.”
Her brows lift in surprise. “You would do that?”
“Sure.”
Her pointed gaze roams over my features until she finally says, “What’s the catch?”
I stare at my nails, the same French manicure I’ve had since I moved into Blackstone House. Nude or French manicure, those are my only choices. My days of hot pink and teal are long gone.
