Formal wear. Like a butler in a ballroom. Hair slicked back with wax. Disheveled bushy beard groomed and combed to thick straight lines. Nick looked like a bulldog that so happens to be owned by some posh French fashion judge or something.
But there's no mistaking those giant forearms bulging behind the fabric - like a pig to mud - you can't just simply remove the ruggedness from the Nick.
Thanks to the competition, Nick's reputation has taken a metamorphosis from the staff guy that was unusually large, to the staff guy that was a close second to victory.
Everyone on the table fell into a hush, some sensing danger excused themselves elsewhere. As for me, aside from the initial shock of his bizarre appearance, I was mostly unfazed.
"Wow…" I said, taking it, taking him all in, then blinking once to face his gaze. "Nice suit."
He blinked back. "Nice dress."
