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I mean, yes, the CEO of Egorov Industries also happens to be my husband. And yes, maybe that teensy little detail factored into him giving me that initial design job in the first place.
But I worked hard to achieve the rest. I worked from the bottom rung up in the design team and it helped that my immediate superior, the one solely responsible for giving me the promotion, is not my husband.
Speaking of, I maneuver through the crowd until I reach Nancy Meyers. She lifts her glass as she turns to me, beaming ear to ear. “Congratulations, Wren. You deserve this.”
I can spy Jackson Mitchell in the far corner of the room, bitching about something (me, no doubt) to a few other temps and assistants from the design department. “Apparently, not everyone thinks so,” I mutter.
“You can’t please them all,” Nancy says with a dismissive shrug. “And you shouldn’t bother trying. You got this promotion because you put in the time and the effort. The Davidson project and the Langdon Estate were all you. That kind of work ethic deserves recognition.”
It’s hard to keep myself from smiling big enough to match Nancy. “Thank you. I promise, I won’t disappoint you.”
She winks. “I know you won’t.” Then she leans in and lowers her voice. “There’s always gonna be people—jealous, nasty people—who like to spin the story that you got this job because of who you’re married to. Don’t let them stop you from taking charge and being the boss, Wren. This is your job now. This is your team.”
For the first time since Nancy told me what she had in mind, it hits me: I’m the boss. I call the shots. I’ll have a team of two dozen working directly under me. For the first time in my life, I’ll be the one with the P.A.
“Stranger than fiction” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
She gives me a bracing pat on my shoulder and melts into the crowd to mingle. I hear a chorus of giggles and then the ranks part as a three-foot hooligan races right at my legs. He’s wearing a pointy party hat and clutching a balloon that’s bigger than he is.
“Whoa there, little man!” I exclaim, kneeling down to grab my son. He giggles and tries to wiggle out of my clutches. “Mischa Egorov! How much cake have you had?”
“By last count, it was three pieces,” Bee offers, appearing in front of us in her red Louis Vuittons. “I tried to say no to the third piece, but honestly, he was too far gone already.”
I roll my eyes and get to my feet while Mischa makes growling sounds, icing smeared across his cheeks like war paint. “I’m a bear, Mama! A big, scary bear!”
I kiss the top of his dark brown mop of hair. He smells like cake, too. Bathtime is going to be a knock-‘em-down, drag-‘em-out affair tonight, I can already tell. “Okay, you big, scary bear—off you go!”
I release him and he proceeds to jump back into the crowd, growling louder and louder as he goes. “This sugar high is your doing, so you’re putting him to bed,” I inform her icily before my face breaks into an irrepressible grin.
“Let the child live.” Bee giggles fondly. “He’s having a blast.”
Yvonne appears at Bee’s side and wraps an arm around her waist. According to Dmitri, this is the longest relationship Bee’s been in since… well, ever. Next week will be their first anniversary and I can tell that Bee’s both excited and freaked out by that milestone. Which is why I think Yvonne, a perpetually calm serial monogamist who’s been in two other super serious relationships before Bee, is perfect for her. They balance each other out.
“You know we’d be happy to babysit if you need the night off,” Yvonne offers generously.
“Jesus Christ, Yv, are you out of your mind?!” Bee screeches. “He’s all hopped up on sugar! We’ll take him tomorrow when he’s docile.”
“You slacker,” I tease.
Bee laughs and looks around. “Speaking of slackers, where’s your husband?”
“Um…” I bite down on my bottom lip guiltily.
“Uh-oh. What did you do?”
“I might have asked him not to come tonight—” Bee’s face goes taut with shock, so I continue quickly. “—but he was totally fine with it! And I promised to make it up to him.”
Yvonne pats Bee’s arm gently. It’s her way of calming down Bee whenever she gets worked up about something and it works like absolute magic every time. “Everyone already knows he’s your husband, Wren. I’m sure it wouldn’t matter if he were here.”
“I know.” I sigh and my shoulders slump forward. “I regret it now. I guess I just didn’t want to remind people of the whole thing we’ve got going on here.”
Bee rolls her eyes. “Fuck the doubters. You got this job because you’re fucking awesome. Not ‘cause you’re fucking the boss!”
“Will you keep your voice down? And watch your language?” I yelp. “These are my colleagues.”
Bee looks immensely unimpressed. “Nuh-uh. They’re your subordinates now. You’re the boss, remember?” She winks at me. “Own the title, baby. You deserve it. Besides… you don’t even have to feel bad.”
I frown. “What makes you say that?”
