THE HATING GAME meets THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA. When a quirky consultant goes undercover for the Cruella de Vil of men’s luxury fashion, she tumbles into a steamy romance with a CEO candidate she’s hired to spy on. Now she must find a way to mend her reputation—and heart—before her perfectly planned life unravels.
If I had to rate myself, I’d give me a 5.5 out of 10. Nice arse, decent face. The way we look shouldn’t matter, but you’d be foolish to think it doesn’t. Humans are programmed to size each other up in seconds, and by our very nature we favor attractive people.
Heavy glass doors split and a puff of warm air beckons me out of the London winter. As I enter the world of high-end fashion, a salesman twirls on the tips of squeaky leather shoes to greet me. Brown eyes yo-yo over my outfit, snagging on the details he approves of. Knee-high boots, tick. Gucci trench coat, tick.
“Welcome to Ésayyer.” He’s a friendly teapot today. One hand on a hip, the other a spout. “Having a nice morning?”
Two minutes ago, I sat in the gutter dry retching, scraping dog crap off boot bottoms with my unused gym card, which now rots in a bin, like all the other resolutions I ditched over the past year. I’d amputate my contaminated hands if I didn’t enjoy flipping the bird so much…
“Uneventful.” My gaze flicks between his overplucked eyebrows and name badge—swirly engraved letters spell Elliot. The badge is new because last week, when I wore old jeans and a tatty jacket to mystery shop this store, I swear it read Twat. He doesn’t recognize me. Though I had no expectations he would. Call me Chloe Miles—The Chameleon.