"What's wrong?" He asks as he pushes through the door.
His eyes sweep the room, wall to wall, searching for something that had caused that little bit of worry in her voice that he'd picked up on over the intercom when she'd asked him in. When he comes up empty his eyes jump to where she's standing in the middle of her office. And he frowns— she's calm. She's calm and standing there half dressed in a white silk slip that cuts off just above her knees.
"You need to get the stylist up here."
He decides to skip over the part where he tries to figure it out on his own, and just ask. "Why?"
"I can't wear this dress," She says as she waves a hand towards the chair that has the ballgown draped over the back.
His eyebrows raise. "You okayed it. What changed?" He asks. She had a tendency to be picky, but she'd never changed her mind about wearing a dress this last minute— they literally were meant to be out the door in a little less than an hour.
"It's too tight."
And now he was even more confused. "You tried it on two days ago," he tells her as he moves towards the dress. He bends down, finding the tag, and… Yes, right size. He straightens up, and— "It's your size." He looks to her. "Didn't Roxanne do alterations too?"
She's holding her hands out in front her chest now. "It's too tight on my breasts."
He thinks after a second try on she had decided the neckline, the way it fell was too revealing… At least for the type of people they'd be dining with tonight.
He runs his palm over the back of his neck. He's fumbling for words, trying to come up with a way to convince her the dress looked fine. He needed to get her down to the car. "I thought your breasts looked excellent in the dress."
She's staring now, lips parted, brow pinched, and he wishes he could take it back because seeing her response, that was apparently not the right thing to say.
And when she ducks her head as she begins to laugh, he thinks she's about to send him to pack up his desk.
"Ma'am I—" He tries to save himself before he can't come back, but she holds up a hand.
"I have pain radiating from the middle of my breasts to my underarms," She shakes her head. "I can't wear something this tight."
He hears the word pain, and his mind spirals. He realizes that it wasn't worry he'd heard over the intercom, but discomfort.
He steps towards her, hands outstretched. "Are you alright? Do you need to see a doctor because—"
She waves off his concern. "I'm fine."
That kind of pain didn't sound fine. He thinks that can't be normal.
His thoughts must be playing out on his face because she tries to explain.
"Just PMSing."
It takes his brain a moment to understand. And when he finally does his mouth forms an o.
"This is making you uncomfortable," she says as she sinks down onto the couch.
"No," he replies, and it must be a bit too quickly… His voice must be a bit too high because she cocks her right brow. He watches as she leans forward and unzips a small bag— it holds all her evening wear. Heels. Fashion tape. Shape wear. "Just because I'm a man doesn't mean we can't talk about these things."
She scoffs. "God you sound like Henry." And now she's laughing again.
"I'm serious," he tells her.
"I'll keep that in mind." She pulls out a smaller pouch and loosens the opening before pulling out a necklace. "Now please go call Roxanne."
"Yes ma'am." He turns on his heel.
And as he plucks the phone from its cradle, he thinks he needs to add yet another something to his list that needs to be kept track of.