Chapter 1
Daniella
You’re a sweet,take-you-home-to-meet-my-mom type of a girl and I’m just not ready for something soserious.
The text message invades my phone like an unforeseen missile strike.Boom.
Is that the best Jacob Ryan could come up with? A pathetically buffed-up rendition ofit’s not you, darling, it’sme?
A breakuptext.
I’ve heard of them. And seriously doubted I’d ever be on the receiving end ofone.
You’d think I’d be hurt, right? Especially since Jacob and I’ve been dating for over a month. Forty-five days to beprecise.
But I’m not hurt onebit.
Seriously.
I mean I sort of gave up on meeting myPrince Charmingages ago. Mr. Charming does not exist and, believe me, every modern-day woman knows this, despite all of the sappy romance movies and novels outthere.
So fuck it. I’m totally swearing off men now. Alpha men, hot men, poor men, rich men, short men, tallmen…
Just men. Period. End ofdiscussion.
And I mean it this time. I—Daniella Belle—do solemnly swear tonevergo out with another damn member of the opposite sex again.Ever.
Well, at least for now,anyway.
Neveris a borderline extreme commitment that I’d surely fail to live up to. For example: Suppose Circa-2000 David Beckham were to strut across this busy Los Angeles Metro station platform wearing nothing except his ripped abs and jeans? He’d seductively squeeze his way through the crowd of downtown-bound commuters, his gaze glued to mine as he makes a beeline toward me, professing Victoria—what’s-her-face—has left him and he wants to be with me. Then, of course, I’d forgo swearing offmen.
Obviously.
Anyway, this epiphany-inducing text could not have come at a worse time. Today issupposedto be a great day. Yet already, my alarm clock failed to go off, I got shampoo in my eyes, there were no more Pop-Tarts in the pantry, and of course now, this gimpy-asstext.
When a day starts off bad, it has a tendency to only get worse. This theory has been statistically proven to be true, which instinctively compels me to internally pray to the good day gods that today doesnotsnowball into an epic-fail-shit-happens sort of day. From this point on it’s gotta be smooth mutha fuckin’sailing.
I am on my way to a job interview that, if all goes as planned, will land me my dreamjob.
Well, myalmostdream job. Let’s just call this the get-my-foot-in-the-door-to-my-dream-job job. A job that is, after all, the sole reason why I moved to Los Angeles from Dallas; to be a fashion designer—a designer of lingerie, to be morespecific.
I graduated the top of my class from LA’s Fashion Institute of Design last year. Except so far, I’ve had zero luck getting anyone to notice mydesigns.
Budging my way through the crowd of busy Los Angeles commuters, I feel my phone’s vibration through my purse. I cringe. It better not be another text from Jacob, the breakuptexter.
I yank my phone out of my purse and peek at the callerID.
Oh. It’s my boss. Well, she’s also a good friend. So what’s the term for that? Boss slashfriend?
“Hey, Stacy,” I answer, slowly inching my way closer to the edge of theplatform.
“Best of luck today, lovely. Have you caught the trainyet?”
Stacy’s actually the one who showed me the Google alert that mentioned: Antonio Michaels, Creator and CEO ofCraveMe Lingerieis actively seeking a professional and experienced Personal Assistant. Honestly, I had never even heard of Antonio Michaels. Sure I’ve heard of hisCraveMeline of lingerie, but seriously…whohasn’t?
“Not yet. Still waiting at the station. Along with a whole bunch of other people. I may have to fight my way onto the train.” I laugh internally at mysarcasm.
“You can’t be late for that interview. I don’t want to lose you as a nanny to Emma, but you can’t miss out on an opportunity sogreat.”
