Just Playing House, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Farah Heron
Cover art and design by Caitlin Sacks. Cover copyright © 2024 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Heron, Farah, author.
Title: Just playing house / Farah Heron.
Description: First edition. | New York : Forever, 2024.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023052692 | ISBN 9781538725474 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781538725481 (e-book)
Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR9199.4.H4695 J87 2024 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20231121
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023052692
ISBNs: 9781538725474 (trade paperback), 9781538725481 (ebook)
E3-20240507-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One: Marley
Chapter Two: Nikhil
Chapter Three: Marley
Chapter Four: Nikhil
Chapter Five: Marley
Chapter Six: Nikhil
Chapter Seven: Marley
Chapter Eight: Marley
Chapter Nine: Nikhil
Chapter Ten: Marley
Chapter Eleven: Nikhil
Chapter Twelve: Marley
Chapter Thirteen: Nikhil
Chapter Fourteen: Marley
Chapter Fifteen: Nikhil
Chapter Sixteen: Nikhil
Chapter Seventeen: Marley
Chapter Eighteen: Nikhil
Chapter Nineteen: Marley
Chapter Twenty: Nikhil
Chapter Twenty-One: Marley
Chapter Twenty-Two: Nikhil
Chapter Twenty-Three: Marley
Chapter Twenty-Four: Nikhil
Chapter Twenty-Five: Marley
Chapter Twenty-Six: Nikhil
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Marley
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Nikhil
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Marley
Chapter Thirty: Marley
Chapter Thirty-One: Nikhil
Chapter Thirty-Two: Marley
Epilogue: Marley
Recipes
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
Also by Farah Heron
Praise for Farah Heron
This book is for all my fellow BRCA genetic mutation carriers. We are worthy of happily ever afters, too.
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CHAPTER ONE
Marley
When Marley Kamal was a young girl imagining her future, she pictured fabulousness. Gorgeous clothes, tons of friends, and the most glamorous job in the fashion industry. She wasn’t too upset that reality came nowhere near those lofty expectations, since as an adult she discovered that peopling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, anyway. But she was surprised so much of her adult life would be focused on breasts.
Talking about breasts. Looking at breasts. Worrying about breasts. And corralling breasts was the most challenging of all.
“I need my boobs to sit here!” said Angel Durand, Marley’s customer in fitting room one, with her thick French-Canadian accent. “Center ice! Maybe blue line! Not end zone!” Angel was currently topless with a black vegan-leather jumpsuit unzipped and hanging at her waist, and her long, nude nails were indenting dimples into her ample breast flesh. Marley was skeptical that Angel’s bosom had ever seen that particular gravity-defying resting place since puberty, but Marley had been selling dreams, aspirations, and illusions—otherwise known as luxury fashion—for almost a decade now. She knew how to make the customer happy.
Marley tilted her head with feigned sympathy. “We can try adhesive supports again. We just got a new line—”
Angel made a face of disgust. “Absolutely not. My nipples were on fire the last time I wore pasties. Pink nipples are fine, but mine looked like maraschino cherries!”
Great. The last thing Marley needed now was the painful image of cherry-red nipples in her brain. “I think that jumpsuit might be challenging without shoulder support. Maybe something with transparent straps?”
At that, Angel whipped a strapless underwire bra at Marley’s head. Thankfully, ten years of working with spoiled sports wives had given Marley reflexes as impressive as those of Angel’s hockey defenseman husband.
“I want my boobs to be like yours!” Angel’s hands reached out, ready to grab Marley’s own breasts in her slim white blouse, but again, Marley’s quick reflexes got her out of the way before contact was made.
“I’ll see what I can find,” Marley said, closing the fitting room door. She plucked the expensive bra off the floor. If Angel knew a thing about Marley’s breasts, she wouldn’t want them. Even if they were full and round, no one would want breasts that were silently plotting to kill their owner. Which was why Marley’s breasts were going to be ousted from her body very soon.
Marley twisted the ring on her index finger, reminding herself she was almost done for the day. It had taken six years at this job, but she was officially burnt out from working on the selling floor and dealing with invasive comments and abrasive customers.
She checked on her other customer in the fitting rooms, Paris Mousavi. “How are you feeling in that Armani?”
“It’s too big,” Paris said. “I look like an overcooked eggplant. I cannot be seen in court like this.” Lawyers in Ontario wore robes in court, so no one would be seeing Paris in the eggplant-esque suit in the courtroom. And the suit fit fine, anyway.
Marley smiled sympathetically. “These Armani suits are not meant to be worn off the rack—they always need tailoring. I’ll send someone up.”
Marley left the ladieswear fitting rooms, her black patent stiletto heels echoing over the marble floor of Reid’s Department Store, and headed toward lingerie while calling alterations to send someone to Paris.
Tova, another sales consultant, caught up with her as she hung up her phone. “Did Angel Durand really tweak your nipples in the fitting room?”
“Of course not,” Marley said. “Angel is lovely.” She knew Tova was waiting in the wings to steal the customer out from under Marley the moment she disclosed that things weren’t rosy in the salesperson-customer relationship.
“Oh god,” Tova said, looking toward the customer service desk. “I’m pretty sure Aubrey Ashton got implants while she was on vacation in Mexico.”
Marley’s head shot to Tova. Aubrey was a sales associate in the store, not a customer. It was highly inappropriate to be discussing the body of a coworker like that. Also… Aubrey didn’t have implants, did she?
“I can smell the silicone a mile away,” Tova said. “Highly suspicious that her Insta didn’t have any beach pictures in Cancún.”
Marley took a quick right and straightened the YSL blouses on a rack, mostly to ditch Tova. She really disliked her. Actually, Marley was at the point where she didn’t like most of the people who worked on Reid’s selling floor. Bunch of snooty vultures. Marley was one of the biggest sellers in the store, which meant most other consultants frothed at the thought of dethroning her.
Ruby Dhanjee was working at the lingerie counter. She was Marley’s cousin and easily her favorite person at the store. Ruby had just returned to town six months ago after years away, and Marley had referred her for the position at Reid’s.
Marley gave Ruby a pleading look. “Please tell me you have a bra in a 42G that won’t show under the Alice and Olivia jumpsuit.”
Ruby shook her head. “Impossible. That’s backless and strapless. Why don’t you show her some other jumpsuits? The green Stella McCartney one or the Vivienne Westwood.”
Marley chuckled at Ruby’s suggestion. “You know we do carry lines that aren’t from the UK, right?” Ruby was obsessed with anything from England. Except colonialism, of course.
“I’d put her in Halston,” Tova said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.
“Tova,” Ruby said sweetly, “there’s a woman over there looking at formal dresses.”
“On it,” Tova said, rushing away. She didn’t even thank Ruby for giving her the customer. Marley raised a brow once Tova was gone. Was Ruby handing Tova commissions now?
Ruby snorted. “I saw the girl looking up each dress on her phone on a designer dupes site. She’s not going to buy anything. Erin Prichard was just here with a message for you.” Ruby put on a fake British accent. “Her Excellency has requested your presence in the personal shopping suite at five o’clock sharp.”
Marley’s jaw nearly dropped to the counter. She checked her watch. That was in twenty minutes. “Why?”
Erin was Reid’s personal shopper. She worked by appointment only in her gorgeous private office. There had been rumors in the store for months that Erin was pushing to expand her department and hire a second personal shopper to work with her. Marley would give her left arm for that job, just like every other consultant in the store.
Well, actually, Marley probably shouldn’t be even thinking about removing more healthy body parts.
“Apparently, Her Excellency needs you to consult with a client,” Ruby said.
Erin was notoriously protective of her customers and never allowed anyone to assist her, other than the personal shopping assistant. And Erin was extremely difficult to get close to—she didn’t socialize with the rest of the staff. Marley had been trying to cultivate a friendship with her, but she wasn’t getting anywhere. She wasn’t even aware that Erin knew her name.
But maybe Jacqueline, the store’s general manager and Marley’s boss, finally agreed to hire a new personal shopper, and Erin was testing out the top consultants. Marley nearly shook with the excitement of that prospect. Moving to personal shopping would mean her own office and her own dedicated assistant. She could be selective with her clients. No more hockey wives whipping undergarments at her. No more staff waiting for Marley to lower her guard so they could steal her customers. No more gossip. After Marley had had the absolute crappiest of years, it was high time something went well for her.
Marley knocked on the door of the personal shopping suite at five sharp. Erin’s assistant, Ernesto, wearing a perfectly tailored Thom Browne suit along with his normal bored expression, let her in. As the city’s premier luxury department store, Reid’s was expertly designed, but the personal shopping suite was the flagship. No expense had been spared in the fixtures and decor. Gleaming white walls with colorful designer chairs and the softest white leather couch imaginable. And a pink feature wall that made everyone’s skin glow.
Erin stood to kiss Marley on each cheek. “You’re here. Wonderful. You look radiant as always. Utterly flawless.”
Marley smiled. Erin herself was the flawless one. Wearing black wide-legged pants and a frilly, puffy white blouse, Erin somehow looked both luxurious and effortless. With Erin, the devil was in her details. The silver charm bracelet. The oversized vintage brooch. The immaculate platinum-blond hair with nary a millimeter of dark roots showing. Marley knew not to get too excited by this warm greeting, though. Erin treated everyone exactly the same—with polite praise. “Come. Meet Lydia Chambers.” She indicated a small woman sitting on one of the designer chairs. The client in question, Marley assumed.
Lydia stood, eyes narrowed, shrewdly sizing Marley up. She was white, with smooth pale skin and wavy brown hair reaching her shoulders. She could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five, but Marley assumed midthirties, and she was dressed in slim ankle jeans paired with an army-green T-shirt and a black blazer with the sleeves pushed up. And she had her phone clipped to her belt with a hideous leather harness.
Marley put on her client smile and held out her hand. “Marley Kamal. Are you looking for something for an event, or a new wardrobe?” This client would be easy enough. She seemed unassuming and had a proportional figure, if a little small. She would be a breeze to dress.
“Oh, no,” Lydia said, shaking her head and sitting back down. “This isn’t for me.”
Erin sat gracefully at her glass-topped desk and indicated for Marley to sit next to Lydia. “Lydia is a celebrity handler with a film studio. She’s come to contract with Reid’s to exclusively style a VIP for several upcoming appearances, but you’ll need to sign her NDA before we go any further. Ernesto and I have already signed. You must also sign the standard Reid’s NDA for personal shoppers.”
Marley’s brows furrowed. She served wealthy clients all the time, and she liked to think she had a reputation for professionalism, maintaining privacy, and of course, making the impossible happen. But A-list celebrities… true VIPs who needed NDAs—those were usually brought in through the secret back door straight into the personal shopping studio. Marley had never signed an NDA in her six years at Reid’s.
Lydia immediately slid a thick agreement to Marley, and Marley started reading it while adjusting her initial impression of the celebrity handler. Lydia was actually formidable. Her agreement was terrifying. The clauses and stipulations were… intense.
“Do I need a lawyer for this?” Marley asked.
“There isn’t time,” Lydia said, voice dripping with impatience. “This is a standard agreement. You sign this or we go elsewhere. There are still plenty of stylists in this city.”
“Of course, there are more consultants in this store, too,” Erin added. She gave Marley an annoyed look. Marley bit her lip. If Marley ever wanted to move to personal shopping, she needed to play along.
Marley flipped to the next page. The actual VIP’s name wasn’t on the agreement—they were only called the subject. “Will I find out who the VIP is before signing?”
Lydia shook her head. “No.”
Marley read the next clause, which was about the use of recording devices. Marley’s mind was racing. Who could the VIP be? Whoever they were, she kind of felt bad for them. Imagine having to go through all this to buy a pair of jeans. The verbiage about big lawsuits, fines, and even employment termination if Marley broke the confidentiality agreement was alarming. She looked at Erin, but Erin’s expression was blank.
“Any questions?” Lydia asked once Marley was on the last page.
Marley nodded. “Yes. There are separate clauses here for before and after an event. What, and when, is the event?”
Lydia shook her head. “You will be told after you sign.”
This could be a problem. Marley had surgery scheduled in a couple of weeks… Would she even be able to take this client?
She reached the final page and noticed it had been printed with her legal name, Mahreen, instead of Marley. Lydia had done her research.
“The studio has a considerable wardrobe budget here,” Lydia said. “If this goes well, we’d consider bringing more talent to Reid’s.”
The situation was crystal clear to Marley. If she refused to sign and Lydia walked, Reid’s would lose thousands of dollars in sales. And Marley would likely lose her job. If she signed, then learned the timing of this event didn’t work with her surgery and recovery, Marley might not be fired, but it would be unlikely that she would get promoted to personal shopper anytime soon. If she signed it and was able to take the client, she’d have to work her ass off for what sounded like the biggest client of her life. If she failed, she could expect never to get an opportunity like this again.
But if she succeeded… this could be amazing.
“He’s waiting outside,” Erin said.
Marley looked up from the contract of doom with one brow raised. “He? I’m a ladieswear specialist.”
“We’ll be needing menswear for this,” Lydia said.
Erin frowned, crossing her arms in front of her. “Marley, personal shoppers are specialists in all areas of the store. You can learn what you don’t know.”
Marley exhaled. She didn’t have a choice. She needed this job—and, importantly, the health benefits and paid sick time that came with it. With a shaking hand, she signed both copies of Lydia’s contract, then opened the Reid’s NDA. It was considerably shorter—and simpler. It basically said she must keep the identity and any private information about any personal shopping client confidential, or she would lose her job. Marley signed it as well and slid both agreements across the desk.
