A small balloon of terror expands in my chest as I squeeze my rump into a pencil skirt I have no business getting into, not with my ass. The eye-watering price alone has my heart in its grip. I can't afford it, let alone rip it, and still pay for the 'damages'.

I wiggle my butt, shimmy if you will, to move it further without stressing the expensive fabric. My fingers gingerly hold it while I concentrate on the task like my life depends on it. In a way it does. I listen carefully for the telltale sign of a seam ripping over my bum. A chasm of dread.

After an excruciating minute of self-assessment on the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I concede. This skirt is far too small for my physique. It was made for a woman not yet grown into her curves. Someone like my sister, Karanina—small, lithe, proportioned. Not like me with my medium boobs, round booty, and solid calves that could rival a marathon runner's, not that I'm much of a runner. (Or was, I should say. There was no way to avoid running during our training.)

"You sure you didn't get me the wrong size?!" I throw the curtain open, not a bit phased that I'm only in my boring black T-shirt bra and the halfway-up skirt. I turn to show Neil the skirt yawning at the back. I'm pretty sure my peach-coloured briefs are on display but there's no one in the shop other than us—the height of midday lull in shopping malls. Besides, Neil's practically seen it all, perks of growing up with the guy. And no, he's not my brother, nor is he my boyfriend, though there was that brief moment when I was twelve and he went out with Nina that I got unreasonably jealous. I mean, I met the guy first the day he moved into the neighbourhood! He was mine—not in a 'I want to kiss him,' way, but still. Now, all I see when I look at him is a guy who could have been my brother-in-law if things had gone well between them.

"I mean, I want to make an impression. Not perform striptease right there at the interview, in front of the panel." I glare at him.

"That would make an impression though." He wiggles his lush black eyebrows at me, a devilishly handsome smile splitting his face. His white teeth sparkle against his flawless dusky skin—a perpetual tan I'd kill for. Mine is a full-body tan, straight out of a booth in a tanning salon. $80 to look like I've basked in the sun too long and forgot to apply sunscreen. (When I can be bothered of course.) Right now, I'm the colour of a croissant—before it's baked.

"I need this job." I stare him down.

"Don't worry. It's already set. You'll be one of the top candidates. What happens after that is upto you though, hence the insurance." Neil eyes the skirt pointedly and rises from the settee.

He twirls his finger in the air, asking me to spin for him. I do. I'm thankful he's come out shopping with me instead of sitting at home playing Call of Duty in his dungeon dark room. I have a horrid sense of high fashion. Or at least he keeps telling me this. I mean, what's wrong with a comfy pair of jeans and a tank? Nothing. But noooo, 'You wanna impress a millionaire into hiring you as his PA, then you can't turn up like a MILF at a school pick up.' I mean, most young, virile men, who are notorious for being a 'ladies' man' would love a MILF under them, no?

Apparently, not.

"Hmm..." He considers me now like I'm a Project Runway model wearing an outfit with 'potential', but has fallen flat on the stage. "Perhaps the next size up, and we'll pair it with that classic-white-shirt-and-a-crop-top-had-a-baby number they have on the display mannequin. Accentuate your assests."

"Shall I buy a pushup bra too, in nude?" I ask as he nods and twirls his finger again—spin—missing my dry-as-dandruff tone.

I oblige. This game of ours is at least three hours and four shops old. I know the drill by now: Enter a high-end shop, browse the aisles like it's second nature for me (it's not), let Neil pick out a minimum of three outfits or the 'visit isn't worth it', and then try them on and parade it in front of him for approval like I'm Julia Roberts and he's Richard Gere in Pretty Woman (none of which is true). Neil and I are best friends, since I punched a kid square in the face during recess for picking on him, the new kid in school. That was grade 5. And I'm happy to say I'll still punch an asshole in the face if they slight him in the least. Neil would do the same for me. I mean, the man even enrolled in the academy so I wouldn't do this 'shit' alone.

Quit pro quo, the dude is single and ready to mingle, if only his opening lines didn't veer too close to, "Hey baby, I should arrest you because you must be a thief; you've stolen my heart."

Ouch. Am I right? If I'm a work in progress when it comes to fashion and style, he's in desperate need of lessons in 'how to speak to potential sexual partners effectively, without said woman wanting to punch him in his face'.

Anyway, I have learned to decipher his impressions of each outfit by now: the good (a pout and a nod), the bad (wrinkled nose and a shake), and the fuck no (a loud tsk that pulls the corner of his mouth in disappointment). But this is a first. As I spin back around to him, he is pouting, and rubbing his chin the way he does when he's happened upon a crucial piece of evidence in the case (or case study, since we both haven't officially started our duties yet. Neil will soon, in a couple of weeks, meanwhile I have some unfinished business to see to before I promise myself to my uniform and not writhe with guilt.)

Neil means business now.

"So this is the outfit?" I ask, a part of me whooping with joy because ohmygod, who enjoys 'shopping' for hours? Not me. My feet are killing me and I think we went past 'hungry' two hours ago.

He slurps the last of his drink with uplomb. "It needs something more, but yes, this is it. You're gonna slay the bastard, Harlow."

God, I hope so. I mean not figuratively—that would land me in goal—but still. I stare into the mirror, at the reflection that could easily pass for my sister if I dyed my hair platinum blonde and wore a full face of makeup that looked effortless—like I was born with it.

"What do you think it needs? A nice blazer? Maybe a nice necklace that speaks 'I'm trendy'?" I turn to him, hopeful that this torture is almost done. I'm home free. Almost.

But he's gone. Disappeared like a wish-granting genie.

I waddle carefully back into the fitting room to change back into my comfy jeans, when his footsteps clip on the tile. He holds out an identical skirt that refused to fit me, along with a sexy shirt that looks like a play on the traditional boyfriend shirt, complete with a knot at the front. That's the best way I can describe it.

"For size. Just to make sure." The smile on his face is light. "Then we go get you the final nail for this coffin."

"Sexy!" I make a face and snatch the clothes out of his hands, glad that I won't be trying any more for the day. "You make me sound like I'm going for an interview as an undertaker. A very expensive undertaker, with her three hundred dollar skirt and a hundred dollar shirt."

"Oh, baby, if you think these are expensive, you haven't really paid attention to Nina's wardrobe the past couple of years, have you?" A dry laugh leaves his lips before he hiccups to a stop, perhaps realising I'm not laughing. Luna is a sore point for me. He clears his throat and looks away, adding somberly, "All I'm saying is, she had expensive taste. Nothing below a few hundred. Not even her scarves. Either she won the lotto and didn't tell you, or you twin sis had a sugar daddy—"

"Has," I correct him, frowning at his words. For all we know, my twin, as he pointed out, is still out there. Alive. I hope so, so someone going to get killed.

I let out a low hmm. But really? Nina? Our Nina? In expensive clothes? How could she afford any of it on her salary? According to the advertisement, her job didn't pay enough to live in Sydney let alone purchase high-end products. It's why she was still living at home. Why I was still living at home?

I slink back into the fitting room and change into the outfit. A quick spin in front of him to see a smile and a nod, and I'm back in there, finally getting into my own clothes. It feels like I'm wearing my own skin again. The world of pressed shirts and silk blouses and pencil skirts and heels, not to mention the epic effort for fancy hairdos and makeup? It's a hard life. Not one for me.

Fear suddenly snips at my heart as I grab the clothes and step out. Can I really do this? Land the job, her job, even for a few days? Until I get what I need from Carter Fucking Thebes?

"What?" Neil pouts. "You have that face?"

"What face?" I ignore him and strut to the counter in my best impression of a catwalk.

"The I-don't-know-if-I-can-do-this look." He follows. "This was your idea. You begged my help. I even went as far as to ensure you are a top candidate—"

"Really, how did you manage it?" I throw him a look as the shop assistant scans my purchase. My hand shakes as I retrieve my wallet from my handbag. I'm about to spend four hundred plus on two items of clothing I'll probably never wear outside of this job interview. It's more than a week's rent.

For Nina. I smile at the cashier, swipe my card, and punch in my pin, my heart pounding to its rhythm.

"One never reveals one's sources." Neil throws the cashier one of his wildest smiles, and she blushes. Poor thing. She's been checking him out since we walked in here an hour ago and he's lapped it up. Asshole.

"Speaking of which"—he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded white envelope and holds it out to me. "Your cover. Avery Honey."

I'd decided to go as 'Avery', because its my middle name and I'm used to answering to it just as easily as my first name, Anna, but...

"Honey?" My brows rise up. "That's the last name you gave me?"

"It's sweet. Like you should be." A lopsided smile plays on Neil's face. "Besides, making an alias without getting caught is kind of hard when the place is crawling with seniors and supervisors."

I take the envelope and peak inside. A legit-looking driver license is tucked inside, with a photo of me I don't remember providing him. At a quick glance I look like I'm sucking on a sour lolly, or fucking twenty. "Where did you get this photo?" I groan, taking the bag the sales assistant hands to me over the counter. I grip it tight. My heart racing. I can't believe I bought this, with my own money. Shit. This better work. "So are we done now?"

"Women are supposed to love shopping. No wonder you're still single. You keep wearing things you owned as a teen." He quirks a brow as we step out of the shop and into the thoroughfare.

"Like you have a fucking girlfriend." Yep, that's my rebuttal. I'm single but so are you. "Where to then?"

"I'm single by choice. There's a difference." He smirks and points across the lane, at a shoe store.

Fuck me. He's gonna make me buy heels that will cost me an arm and a leg, isn't he?

"This better work," I mutter darkly, following his lead.

"It will, as long as you play your part to perfection."

"And what is my part again?" I'm seriously beginning to feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, at least in the glow-up part, not the whole sex-for-money part.

"You want to seem like you want the job"—Neil studies the heels on offer as we enter—"not need the job."

"Okay." I sit on the bench, exhausted already while he does his thing. "So tell 'em again why I have to look like I 'want' the job and not 'need' it?"

"Because, needy women aren't attractive, but a woman who wants a job just to occupy her time and be useful? Sexy. So"—he grabs a few heels off the display and turns to me. "You must seem like you want the job but not need it. Also, be confident, but not arrogant. Competent, but not eager to please. Be professional, but not cold. Be flexible, yet have boundaries. Be approachable, but not a doormat. Be trusting, but not gullible. Laugh, but not too much. Speak, but stay mysterious. You want him to be intrigued. Intrigued enough to want you—"

"For the job?"

Neil laughs. "Sure, let's go with that."

"Anything else?" I ask already feeling like I've signed up for more than I can chew. I'm surprised he didn't say, 'Be sexy but don't look cheap.' I can't help but eye the bag next to me with the most expensive pieces of clothing I've ever purchased.

"Yes, be sexy." He dangles several heels in his hands, one of which is a sleek black stiletto with a red underside I could practically use as a weapon. I can't imagine wearing it let alone walk in it, 'confidently'.

Neil passes them to the assistant when she comes over to help us. "She'll try these, in"—he glances at my feet in plain nude flats—"thirty eight, please."

"But?" I urge him when we're alone again. It'll probably take the girl a while to come out with a tower of boxes, but Neil just says "No buts. Just, be sexy, but don't appear like you're trying to be sexy."

"I thought you said no buts," I grumble. Nina was the 'sexy' one. She was the one boys always crushed on, with her sexy waves, and dimpled smiles, and warm honey eyes; while I disappeared into the background or was just someone the boys could ask about her. Shit. I don't know a thing about being sexy. Guess I'll be watching Miss Congeniality and trying to harness my inner Gracie Lee Freebush tonight.

"Sexy, you say?" I ask, realising I'm probably in way over my head. Is it too late to change my mind about the job? I'm sure there are other ways I can get to Carter Thebes.

"Uhmmm." Neil nods as the assistant appears from the back with a tower of shoes.

Shit. I'm screwed.

A/N: Regular updates will begin as soon as I have a collection of chapters. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek.

What do you make of Avery?

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