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Then I have a meeting with my design department. That will be tough, given how underprepared I feel. We’re supposed to nail down the final cuts for next year’s spring looks, and there will be many decisions to make, all of them with high-risk, high-reward potential.
But I can handle the pressure.
Time to go into attack mode and make some of the quick, money-making decisions I’m known for.
Amanda’s abrupt departure threw a kink in my Monday morning, for sure, but I handled it. I’ve dodged the damage that would surely come if I went without an assistant for any time.
That Gwen woman will bridge the gap, and I’ll soon have another assistant on board… One who’s better suited to the job than Gwen Temple.
A person who doesn’t take annoyingly long pauses between sentences. Someone more efficient with communication, and more confident.
Better-dressed would be a plus, too.
A person’s wardrobe says a lot about them, and Gwen’s didn’t inspire confidence.
Those mismatched socks spoke volumes—not in a good way. Did she get dressed in the dark or something?
Also, her brown sweater was awful, and I saw a mysterious tan flake nestled in the yarn.
Wood chip?
Sawdust?
I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.
The elevator arrives, and I step inside. Time to get this day back on track.
Chapter 4
Gwen
I now know several things about my boss that I wish I didn’t know.
One: He gets his eyebrows waxed. Weird.
Two: His house is ridiculously big. As in, it should shelter multiple families, not one bachelor in his late thirties.
Three: He wears silk boxers with little hearts printed on them.
This last fact is the one that I really wish I didn’t know. Because what if, the next time I come face-to-face with him, I picture him in heart-printed boxers?
I don’t want to think about silk boxers the next time I see Brock Benson.
I really don’t.
But right now, as I sift through the basket of garments his housekeeper directed me to, I can’t stop imagining him in the pair.
Thanks to all the workout videos he’s filmed, many of them shirtless, I know exactly how his ab muscles ripple perfectly. My job includes staring at the webpage that sells those workout videos, and I pretty much have all the contours in his eight-pack memorized.
So, I’m all too aware of what his perfectly chiseled body must look like in the white-and-red shorts. And that is exactly what I don’t want to know.
“Is it in there?” the housekeeper, Leena, asks while she folds a towel.
This laundry room is as big as my bedroom. If that construction zone can be called a bedroom, that is.
I lift a shirt off the pile and spot a hunter-green string and a gold bead. Ah ha. Here it is: The all-important Dior bikini bottom.
It’s ridiculous how many texts Vanessa has sent since this morning. It’s only lunchtime, yet I feel I’ve suffered through a whole day’s worth of text conversations about this one measly slip of polyester and nylon.
