Dressing a Billionaire

By Twist Roberts and Jamie Lee Scott

*this novel was previously published as a serial

Maisy Tucker, Texas born and bred, former "stylist to the stars" in 
sunny southern California, last seen living in her car, wearing the same 
clothes for three days, and sporting an adult diaper.

Seen by, billionaire Hugo Popovits (a Duck Dynasty reject, wearing a graphic 
tee, board shorts, and camouflage Crocs) as Maisy's car dies in front on his at 
an intersection in Dallas.

Maisy needs a break and a job.

Hugo needs a personal and wardrobe makeover.

Will a chance meeting give both Maisy and Hugo what they both need?

Or will it lead to a funny and unpredictable series of events that put Maisy 
and Hugo at odds, while Maisy rebuilds her personal stylist career, and Hugo 
insists his “style” is just fine.

And can Maisy keep herself from falling for the sworn bachelor, or will she become his bride?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jamie Lee Scott
• Release date: Jul 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386083689

Book preview

Chapter 1

Lord, forgive me for the thoughts that have skittered across my fried brain in the last seventy-plus hours. Many have included murder, actually double murder, and other felonies that come wrapped in a bow called life without parole.

It all started with a phone call from my boss.

Please tell me you remembered to pack the scarves. You know Scarlett adores her scarves. I’m trusting you with this one, Maisy, don’t disappoint me, my boss, Marla Townsend, screamed at me through my earbuds. Thank you, California, for hands-free cell phones. Marla’s voice sounded like a four-year-old with an advanced vocabulary. Baby talk with a hint of snotty, and a lot of swearing. Worse through stereo earbuds, and I got to hear way too much of her that way.

I told you, Marla, I’ve got this, I assured her. 

I didn’t have this. Scarlett Little, an aging model, had issues with her turtleneck. I’m not talking sweaters here. I’m talking about neck skin. She wore scarves on even the hottest days. I’d been only about five miles from her house when Marla called. The trunk show didn’t start for over an hour, so I could still get back to the agency, grab the selection, and be back to Scarlett’s in time to set up for the show with some time to spare. 

Marla didn’t want me driving my old Jetta to her client’s house, so I had her metallic yellow BMW, which was last year’s model but still had a new car smell. I suspected she hid a new car smell air freshener under the seat. 

Could I set up the clothes, get everything ready, and still go back for the scarves? What if Scarlett wanted to sift through the clothes and accessories I’d brought just to get a good look at them before her friends arrived? 

I flipped a U-turn at the next light and floored it all the way back to Marla’s office. She’d kill me for getting a ticket, but she’d filet me alive for forgetting the scarves. I’d been with her long enough to know what happens when her clients are disappointed. I’d advanced into my current position as her first assistant because the last first assistant brought white shoes to a client who detested white. 

I had to get from Calabasas to Camden Drive in Beverly Hills, and back to Calabasas in less than an hour. It took forty-five minutes one way on a good day. Having confidence, fueled by my desire to keep my job, I made it back to the office in twenty-six minutes. Thank you, freeway gods, for blessedly light traffic.

Pulling into the parking lot at Townsend Studio, my heart raced. My live-in boyfriend, Miles Overton, was there, his car parked next to mine in the lot. He’d come to see me at work, and I wasn’t there. That was so sweet. How could I tell him I didn’t have time? If Marla busted me sneaking in, I might have lots of time. She’d flip if she saw me grab the box of scarves after I just told her I had everything under control.

Still, I smiled, since Miles rarely visited me at the studio.

As I pulled the BMW into Marla’s parking space, I looked to see if Miles had been waiting in the car for me. I didn’t see him. Poor guy must’ve gotten tired of waiting and gone inside. 

I stepped out of the car, careful not to scratch my newly tanned legs. Marla made sure we gave a fabulous first impression and paid for regular bronzing sessions. After all, a girl looks better with a tan. 

Marla, pencil thin and perfectly tan, needed something to stand out. She sported a little boy’s body, stick skinny, not a muscle to be seen. She used clothes to set herself apart, and her fashion style and sense became the talk of Southern California. She now dressed the finest and richest in the land. Since going to work for her, I did, too.

I considered how my dream job as a personal stylist might be hanging by a thread if I didn’t get in and out of the studio fast. Maybe Miles wouldn’t see me, and I could pretend I hadn’t returned to the office when I saw him at home later that evening.

I pushed through the French doors into the office and started toward the studio when I heard loud grunting. Oh, crap, had Marla hurt her back again? She detested lifting anything over five pounds, but she’d do it. Then let everyone know if she had to do these things. After all, why was she paying us?

My southern upbringing of helping those in need was too ingrained, so I tiptoed toward Marla’s office. I peeked in the doorway. Well, bless that monster’s heart. I’d walked in on her doing it with Miles. I stood watching, I couldn’t move away from the horror show. My personal horror show.

When Marla arched her back and said, Oh, baby, you’re so good, I gasped. It must have been a loud gasp, because they both turned to look at me.

Next time, lock the doors! I said, then tried to turn gracefully and go. But the heel of one of my Jimmy Choo stiletto got caught in the carpet and I flew forward, grasping at the looming fichus tree to keep from eating the Berber carpet. Wrong move; I only succeeded in pulling the leafy tree down with me. 

By the time I’d gotten out of the stupid shoes and back to my feet, you’d think Miles would have been by my side to explain or help me. Nope! When I looked back in the office, that stick figure’s boney fingers grasped Miles’ rearend like a lifeline.

Miles couldn’t disappoint her, he didn’t even bother with me. 

I couldn’t help myself I yelled, She’s faking it. I’ve heard her say it this way before. And she’s told me she’s faked it. That’s all I had at that moment.

Barefooted, I walked out the door. The Jimmy Choo shoes didn’t belong to me anyway, and I hoped the witch would trip over them on her way out of her office. The clothes I wore didn’t belong to me either, but I figured since I wasn’t coming back to pick up my paycheck, the Donna Karan suit would be payment in kind.

I ran to the BMW, grabbed my handbag, a Henri Bendel gift from the skinny backstabber, then sprinted to my Jetta. 

As I drove out of the parking lot, I saw Miles in my rear-view mirror. With his skinny jeans still around his ankles and his shirt unbuttoned, he looked scrawny and pathetic. I willed the tears not to come.

The kicker? I’d just sold everything but the clothes on my back and a few necessities to move in with Miles. His apartment, being the size of a shoebox, couldn’t fit all our stuff. He had impeccable taste, so I had deferred to him. Bad move. 

The tires on the Jetta squealed as I turned into the parking lot of Miles’ apartment building. My phone rang. Marla. I swiped my screen to ignore it. It rang again and again. I put the phone on silent and raced inside. I hadn’t begun to think of the apartment as ours yet, but I was getting close. I thought I’d found my happily-ever-after. Now I wondered if there was such a thing.

Just in case Miles cared enough to chase after me, I moved quickly. It took every ounce of willpower not to trash his tidy little apartment as I tore through it. I grabbed my suitcase and a stack of pillowcases and stuffed everything I owned in them. 

By the time I’d gotten to the last drawer of clothes, I looked down at myself. The Donna Karan pencil skirt and jacket rocked, and I looked hot, even with the extra ten to fifteen pounds Marla insisted I lose. But I couldn’t wear it any longer. My skin itched to be rid of it. I stripped down to my bra and underwear, then pulled on yoga pants and a sweatshirt that I hadn’t worn since I started dating Miles. He hated leisure clothes and insisted I burn them. Good thing I didn’t let any man insist I do anything I didn’t want to do.

I guess he didn’t want his boss to see his girlfriend didn’t belong in the world of high finance. Speaking of faking, Miles had a fake it till you make it theory and liked to pretend to be as rich and important as the man who hired him as a personal assistant. He’d talk about their wives and how I could be like them. We can be like them someday, but we have to act like them now to get there, he’d say almost every day.

I left Donna Karan laying on the floor in his bedroom. He could hump her when he got home, because that was the last he’d ever see of me.

I shoved all my belongings in the trunk and back seat of my car and pointed my little Volkswagen east.

My phone sat in the cradle on my dashboard and nearly vibrated off due to the nasty texts blowing it up.

You’d better be on your way back here to get these clothes to Scarlett’s house. 

Where are you?

You thin-skinned little whiner! I should have known better than to hire you.

Yeah, that’s right. I had put up with her bullshit since my junior year at the Academy of Art University in Los Angeles. I’d worked for her for five years. Felt more like ten years, and I’d had a myriad of duties, but sharing my boyfriend was certainly not one of them.

I didn’t even bother to delete the messages, just let them scroll through the screen. Then a message from Miles.

Call me now. Please call me.

Ha! The only time he’d ever hear my voice again, it’d be on my voicemail. And since I planned to change my phone number, so he wouldn’t be hearing it for long. If I wasn’t so afraid I’d wreck the car, I’d have blocked him and Marla right then and there.

Where was I planning to go anyway? All my friends had moved back to Texas. Marla would never give me a reference. I couldn’t go back to waiting tables for a living, at least not without another goal. I drove to the Pacific Coast Highway and found myself in Malibu. I found a parking lot, parked, and walked out on the beach in bare feet.

I looked out at the ocean, the moon and stars lighting up the whitecaps. I wanted to say goodbye in person, I whispered, because I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see you again.

I sat on the edge of the water’s wake and dug my toes in the cold wet sand, daring the ocean to swallow me up. But the sea didn’t want me, either. Maybe I could go home. Maybe I needed a vacation from the real world, and I could hide for a few weeks, then get back on my feet. I jumped up and ran back to my car.

I drove. I couldn’t even remember how to get to the I-10. My mind froze. I pulled over at a Mobil station and filled the tank, waiting for the tears to come as I leaned on my dirty car, and looked off into the lights of the evening. I’d gone from thrilled to do my first trunk show alone to exhausted from anger in less than an hour. 

I thought about calling Miles, giving him a chance to explain, but my parents raised me with more integrity than that. I thought about calling Marla and telling her what I thought of her, but no need to throw gasoline on a burning bridge. She’d make sure I never worked in Los Angeles or Southern California again. She’d been my only reference in the stylist business, and I doubted her clients would vouch for me now.

Chapter 2

The gas pump clicked . I pulled the receipt, threw it in the back seat with my things, and got in the car to drive home. My real home.

Tail between my legs, I’d admit defeat and go back to Texas. Everything I’d worked for in my career was gone because I’d gone back for those stupid scarves. But what if I hadn’t gone back? What then? I shuddered to think how stupid and naïve I’d been. 

I’d been on the road for three days, which meant I’d heard every song on my iPod about a hundred times, and I had had way too much time to think, cry, scream obscenities at the universe, and contemplate my future. And yet by the time I’d made it to merely a couple of miles from my destination, I still had no idea what I was doing, or what I was going to do next.  

Somehow, driving to Los Angeles from Dallas had been much prettier. The sky bluer, the hills, well, let’s face it, just as brown, there was a drought after all. The route from the City of Angels back to the Big D lacked the same appeal. Los Angeles had been an adventure, where Dallas meant I’d failed, a victim of anger and hopelessness.

It took me a full day to get the nerve to call my parents and tell them, I’m coming home.

Great. Are you getting a hotel? Mom asked. 

No, Mom, I’m coming home to stay. The words caught in my throat and I cried.

Oh, she sounded terrified, not sympathetic.

Can you tell Dad? I hiccupped through the sobbing. But don't tell anyone else.

She’d obviously called my best friends, because suddenly my phone blew up. I ignored it as much as possible. I refused to respond to the calls, messages, and texts, figuring I’d tell everyone at the same time so I didn’t have to relive the nightmare over and over.

When I hit the Dallas city limits, my back ached, my knees throbbed, and my eyes needed toothpicks to hold my lids open, but I was so close to reaching my parents’ place. If I could take both hands off the wheel and still drive, I’d put my hands over my face and scream into them. 

Stopped at a light, just a few miles from home, the reality sank in. I’d left my career over a stupid guy. Three days ago, I’d been in the most fake place in the world, and I loved it. This was home, real home, where even though I knew they’d cringe and pray I’d only be staying for a few weeks at the longest, my mom and dad would welcome me with open arms, and I dreaded it. I waited for the light to turn green, wondering for the zillionth time what I was going to do next.

A horn blared behind me, and I resisted the urge to roll down my window and flip them the bird. I stepped on the gas. Nothing. No problem, this had happened before. The Jetta groaned and almost caught life, then fizzled. 

No, no, no.

I tried again. 

Nothing. 

No! I slammed the heels of my hands against the steering wheel.

More horns blasted a symphony behind me. The urge to flip them off overwhelmed me, but I had a stronger urge to cry. I searched around the steering wheel and dashboard for the hazard light thingy. I’d never had to use it in the decade I’d owned the car. You’d think they put them in the same place on every car. I knew where it was on my mom’s Ford Edge. But no, stupid Volkswagen had to be different. 

My hand trembled as I looked, because now I heard shouting as well as honking. Okay, Maisy, stop and think. I tried to start it again. I heard a chug, chug, chug sound, but nothing actually happened. I grabbed my phone to call my dad, and as I picked it up, I saw the battery read one percent. I didn’t think I could get the number dialed before my phone died. And with my car lifeless, I couldn’t charge my phone. Why hadn’t I plugged it in when I’d started driving earlier that morning?

Ah, the triangle doodad, that must be the...I pressed the button. Both blinker lights started blinking. Good, now maybe everyone would stop honking and hollering. Besides, we’d sat through the green light to another red light. I took a deep breath, then looked out my driver’s side window.

I screamed, Holy crap!

I kid you not, a Duck Dynasty wannabe stood outside my car.  With a full brown beard, matching hair falling over his shoulders, and surfer clothes, he may as well have had a sign that read will work for food. I shook my head. I needed some sleep. Real sleep, like three full days of uninterrupted sleep.

Duck Man knocked on my window. 

Being a single girl alone in a car, I was reluctant to roll the window down. Then I realized my power windows wouldn’t go down with the car off. I’d have to open the door. Get a grip. We were in traffic in a public place. People would see if he hauled me off. I cracked the door open and turned in my seat.

Can I help you? a voice as smooth as Tennessee whiskey asked.

I don’t know. My car died and I can’t get it started. I may have killed the battery. Or maybe the whole car. I knew how to fill the gas tank and change the oil, but don’t ask me about anything else.

Is there someone you can call? He looked past me to my phone on the dash.

I turned back and pulled it down. Dead.

Duck Man gave me a slight smile that was so charming, I could even see it through the hair on his face. Not your day, is it?

He may not have been as homeless as I first suspected. He had beautiful white teeth. Perfect, in fact. Like lots of dollars at the orthodontist perfect.

I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. You have no idea.

Look, I can call a tow truck for you, but we need to get your car out of traffic.

As he said this, a woman walked up and stood next to him. Tall with platinum blond spiral curls and ice blue eyes, she wore a black A-line mini skirt with a peach silk sleeveless shirt that had thin black piping. I wished I could see her shoes. Priorities. But I wasn’t going to fully open the door to see them. I’d take my view from the driver’s side window.

Hugo, I have places to be. Everyone else is just going around. She looked at me and smiled.

I smiled back, even though I wanted to tell her to where to go.

His look shut her up. Take the car. I’ll call Timmy and have him come and get me. I’m not going to leave her stranded.

Suit yourself. She turned on her heel without giving me a second glance and strode away. 

Sorry about her, she’s a little...never mind.

I heard an engine rev, and then a silver Bentley SUV pulled around the passenger side. I may not know much about how cars work, but I know cars. That was a Bentley Bentayga. When you dress some of the wealthiest women in Hollywood and Southern California, you learn about these things.

But that was your ride, I said. 

He looked up from texting on his phone. "No, that was her ride. It’s my car, he said. Then he looked at his watch. A freaking Devon Tread 1G watch, I might add. My driver should be here in a few minutes. Let’s see what we can do to get you out of the intersection."

When I looked at him closer, I realized he may have been unkempt, but he certainly wasn’t dirty. Maybe he belonged to a cult, or ran one. I could be his next recruit. I’d have to keep from looking him in the eyes, because I didn’t like Kool-Aid. 

You mean like push my car? Did I mention my idea of exercise was lifting piles of clothes and putting them on racks? 

I’ll push. You turn your key like you’re going to start the car, but not far enough to start, then put it in neutral. I’ll try to block traffic so we can get you over to the shoulder.

I did as I was told, then waited for him to tell me when to turn my wheel.

He walked out in front of my car, looked around, then held up his hands like a traffic cop and everyone stopped. They probably thought he had a bomb. He looked hella crazy with his beard, graphic T-shirt, and plaid board shorts. But it was the camouflage Crocs that took his outfit over the top.

He ran back to my car and said, Neutral, put it in neutral, as he went to the back and pushed. 

I felt guilty that no one even tried to help us. He pushed my car over to the right, across three lanes of traffic. Once I’d maneuvered up near the shoulder of the road, I put my car in park. As soon as the traffic cleared, I opened the door to get out of my car when I remembered another shitty part of my last few days. Or pissy might be more precise.

Somewhere around the border of Arizona and New Mexico, I got a UTI. I cursed myself for not getting up to pee after the last time Miles and I had sex, less than twenty-four hours before I found him pounding Marla. Ugh! Having a urinary tract infection is bad enough when you have time to go to the doctor and get the pills to take care of it, but when you have to stop at Walmart to get the over-the-counter stuff just to get you through, it’s a driving nightmare. 

Along with sleeping in my car, I’d been peeing carrot juice and wearing Depends pads. Any woman who has ever had a UTI understands. I couldn’t exactly drive the ten thousand miles from L.A. to Texas and stop every five minutes to find a bathroom, or pee on the side of the road. I bought the medication, which didn’t work worth a crap, and a package of Depends pads, and pretty much peed in my pants until the medication took effect enough to let me drive without the constant urge to pee. That was about three hours earlier, and I hadn’t stopped because I was so close to home.

Screw it, even in dirty yoga pants and a Depends pad that could likely be seen through the tight fabric, I still couldn’t look as bad as the Duck Dynasty guy. I lifted my arm to smell my pits. Gag! How had I not smelled that earlier? I reeked, and I didn’t have time to grab my deodorant from my handbag and sneak some on without being noticed. Not that it would’ve helped at that point. It was at least seventy-five degrees, but I grabbed my oversized sweater from the back seat and pulled it over my head. The added bonus, other than hopefully covering my ripe odor, was that it covered my ass, too.

I adjusted the sweater as I got out of my car and walked to the sidewalk. Duck Man stood a few feet away, talking on his phone. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I kept my distance. This also kept him from getting too close a look at me or smell me. I’m a freaking personal stylist, and I couldn’t have looked worse. Not a good first impression, no matter if I was meeting a homeless guy. The thing was, he smelled like a very expensive cologne, and that watch cost around $30,000. I couldn’t quite put a name on the fragrance, but I’d smelled it before. It didn’t add up.

When he disconnected from his call, he said, Sorry, that was my driver. He’s caught in traffic. He’ll be late.

His driver, right. But then, he’d said that Bentley belonged to him. Who was this guy? 

Standing on the side of the road with a complete stranger, who for all I knew was the Dallas Strangler, with everything I owned in my car that had likely taken its last breath, wearing a Depends, I started to shake. 

May I use your phone? I had to call my parents or my brother. Someone had to come and get me. And my stupid car.

He looked at me, hesitated, then handed me the phone. A new iPhone...wait...had this version even hit the market yet?

I called my dad.

Voice mail. 

I called my brother.

Voice mail.

Now the tears flowed. It was all too much.

Through the blubbering, I said, I need to call for a tow truck, but I haven't lived here in almost eight years, so I have no idea who to call. I gripped his phone in my hand.

Caveman pried it from my fingers and pushed one button. Bobby, get me a tow truck at State and Main. And find out what’s taking Timmy so damn long. A pause. He can’t miss us. We’re standing outside the strip mall by CVS Pharmacy. It’s a white Jetta, looks like the young lady lives in it.

That’s when the reality of the situation kicked in. I looked at my car from his angle. I looked like a hoarder. A bit of a giggle slipped in between my tears. A hoarder or a homeless person. Judging a book by its cover. Hadn’t I just done the same? I guess homeless fit me perfectly at that moment. Homeless and jobless.

It all came out in a rush. I have been living in it for the last three days. I’m moving back here from California. I was afraid if I got a hotel, someone would break in and steal my things. And since this is everything I have in the world at the moment, I wasn't willing to let any of it go. Why was I telling this hairy stranger about my last few days? 

Moved in a hurry? Again, I saw his perfect teeth.

I sobbed. I walked in on my boyfriend having sex with my boss. I’d just moved in with him a couple of months ago, and I really thought he was the one. We had so much in common. Apparently, more than I knew. I went back to the office to pick up some accessories I’d forgotten for a client, and there they were, going at it on my boss’ desk. The sad thing is, I was in love with him and thought he was in love with me. And now my boss is gonna smear my name all over LA because I up and left.

He said, Oh, boy.

Blurry through my tears, I couldn’t see his face, but I’ll bet he was thinking, Where’s my driver, so I can get away from this crazy chick?

I couldn’t stop myself. I kept blubbering. It was the first I’d told anyone. I turned and walked out without getting what I needed. I went straight to his place, packed up all my belongings as fast as I could, then got in my car... I stopped to catch my breath.

Did you get out of there before he got home? he asked. 

Yeah. He should have known I’d go there to grab my stuff and leave his cheating ass, but he didn’t exactly rush home to catch me. I could’ve taken the time to trash the place if I’d wanted. But that’s not me. I wanted to be that person, but I couldn’t. And for the last three days, I’ve mulled over how I could have done it differently.

I took a deep breath. 

He said nothing.

As I was driving away from the apartment, I got a text from my boss. She wanted to know why I hadn’t shown up to the client’s house for the trunk show.

Presumptuous nag, isn’t she? he said.

Right? It felt good to hear someone else say it.

So, you never heard from him. No apology. Nothing?

My voice mail is full and he texted me at least a dozen times, begging me to call him, so maybe. But call him? For what? So he could explain why he was screwing my boss?

He laughed.

It’s not funny.

It sort of is. I mean, what was he going to say? ‘It’s not what you saw. I wasn’t on top of her naked.’

He broke my heart.

He stopped laughing. Very seriously, he said, They don’t really break.

What was wrong with me? This poor guy. He’d been nice enough to help me when no one else would, and I’d nearly cried on his shoulder. I may as well tell him I was wearing a diaper. No, I wasn't going that far. And what did I