“How did your meeting go?” I ask, putting an end to thesilence.
She pulls the tip of the straw to her lips, taking a sip of soda, then says, “Alright. I’ve gotta pull off a feat before they give me a contract. But I’m hopeful. Gotta pursue mydream.”
“Haute Couturewasn’t adream?”
“Of course it was”—she wipes her mouth with the napkin—“but I want to take that dream to the nextlevel.”
“Whichis?”
She scoffs and folds her arms. “Anyone ever call younosy?”
“Curious.”
“Okay,Curious George. If you must know. I thinkHaute Couturewould make a great title of a free digital fashion magazine, featuring my line of clothing, worn by models of all shapes and sizes, where subscribers can flip, click, and purchase the outfits featured on thepages.”
I raise my eyebrows and nod, showcasing how impressed Iam.
“And…the magazine will also have three print editions peryear.”
“Well, that actually sounds fabulous. What’s the feat you need to pulloff?”
She rakes her fingers through her hair and squeezes her eyes shut momentarily. “I need to find my first advertiser. A guest designer who will occupy a fewpages.”
I smile. “Your idea is brilliant and I’m sure you won’t have any issues finding someone to jump on board. What publisher did you reach outto?”
She takes another quick sip of soda.“La BoutiquePublications.”
My eyes widen. That’s the publisher ofAlpha Male Magazine. The magazine that named me most eligible bachelor. The one where I was featured on the front cover not only once, but fivetimes.
“Very popular publisher. I’m sure it willall—”
“OMG, Lauren,” whines a male voice in thedistance.
Both Lauren and I whip our attention to the voice of a guy wearing glasses, a scarf draped around his neck, carrying a small stack offolders.
“What’s up, André?” Lauren asks, then turns to me and says, “This is my personalassistant.”
I raise my chin up and down in acknowledgment, and he looks at me, doing a double-take before he turns his attention back toLauren.
“I found a list of designers you can approach, all right here in these folders. I figured you’d want to look through them while eating your late lunch”—he looks at her empty bowl of soup—“but I see you’re all done with yourfood.”
Lauren lightly chuckles. “Thanks, André, I can still look throughthem.”
André eyes me again, tapping his index finger against his chin. “I’m sorry, are you her new driver? You look familiar.” He interjects before I even open my mouth to answer, “Ever been on a realityshow?”
Fuck.
