Hayley Marie Coppin arrives through a tall whitewashed doorway with a briefcase in hand, honey blonde waves catching the dappled sun filtering through the trees behind her. A neat black puff-sleeve blouse tapers into a slim black and white houndstooth pencil skirt that hugs the hourglass swell of her hips, sheer black pantyhose smoothing down her lithe, toned legs into patent stilettos. She leans against the weathered door frame with one hand on her waist, a quiet, knowing tilt to her mouth as if the day at the office has gone entirely sideways.

Hayley slips the blouse open to reveal a sweet pale yellow bra cradling her pert, shapely bust, a fine gold chain resting on the soft dip between her collarbones. She tugs the houndstooth skirt down past the rise of her glowing, peachy hip and lets her fingertips slip beneath the waistband of the pantyhose, stretching the sheer fabric away from her luminous skin. Barefoot in nothing but the stretched nylons, she tips her head back against the wooden door with a slow smile that says this is the best kind of wardrobe malfunction.