Zoe:
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU THINK YOU GOT PROMOTED???
Me:
Grayson Sparkks. He took me to his office. Said he’s promoting me to head of the training line with the NFL partnership we’re getting. My designs. I’m not having a stroke, right??
Zoe:
OMG
YOU DESERVE THIS SO MUCH
We’re going out TONIGHT to celebrate
Drinks on me.
Wear something slutty-professional, maybe we can pick you up a new man with all that luck you’ve got today
There’s a little swoop in my stomach at that. Working closer to Grayson means seeing him more, being in meetings with him, having to string sentences together while looking at his ridiculous face. Andbody.
Me:
Deal.
I add a string of crying emojis and drop down onto the nearest chair before my knees give out.
Head of the training line. No pressure.
But all I can think about is Grayson Sparkks’ body when he took off his shirt.
* * *
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, I’ve eaten, I’ve processed, and I’m thirty percent sure the promotion was real and seventy percent sure I’m going to trip in front of someone important in my new role and die on the spot.
The bar buzzes around us as I tug at the hem of my dress. It’s black and fitted and definitely not the kind of thing I’d wear to work, even if it is a sample of one of the tennis dresses I’d sketched. Beneath, I’m wearing sheer tights that bother the absolute hell out of my toes, and heeled ankle boots that are testing my patience. My hair looks exactly the same because I couldn’t be bothered to try to tame it a second time in the cafe’s bathroom today.
“And then he said he’s promoting me,” I finish, still a little breathless from telling her the entire story of the chaotic morning. “Head of the training line. NFL collection. He said my work is the strongest they’ve had in-house in a while.”
Zoe makes a sound that is half squeal, half wounded animal as she sucks on her mojito. “Of course he did. Because it is. Because you’re agenius.” She lifts her glass and clinks it against my margarita. “To Carly Drake, Head of Training Wear.”
I laugh and drink, warmth spreading all the way down to my toes.
“And,” she adds, eyes narrowing shrewdly over the rim of her glass, “to your raging crush on your very hot, very divorced boss.”
I choke on tequila. “Oh mygod,” I hiss, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I do not.”
“Oh, come on,” she laughs, leaning in. “It’s obvious. You’ve been flustered over him since he came to your floor that first time and asked if you had any preliminary concepts on the Nike collab. You know what you told me about themostduring that story? His forearms. His hands. I didn’t even ask about them.”
“Shut up,” I say weakly.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, god, fine,” I admit, feeling my face heat. “A small crush.”
Zoe snorts.
“And now,” I continue miserably, “I have to work even closer to him. Meetings. One-on-ones. Actual eye contact. How am I supposed to do that when half my brain is busy cataloging the way his dress shirts fit over his shoulders?”
