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“No, that makes sense,” I say, pointing at his feet. “Glinda would have given these to you.”
Andrew looks down at his Rolex watch. “I’ve got to go. Have a good day, Mr. Ramirez.”
“You too, Mr. Mulroney,” Ramon says with a deferential nod. “Enjoy your workout.”
“Yes, do,” I say, turning and watching as Andrew moves toward the front door of our building. “What’s on the schedule today? Treadmill, or just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road?”
Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even turn before pushing through the revolving doors and stepping out into the still-dark autumn morning.
Now come on. Tell me that wasn’t at least a little bit fun, despite the ungodly hour.
I turn back to Ramon, who’s once again picked up his donut. “You don’t have to kiss his ass, you know.”
Ramon gives the slightest smile. “I do if I want a Christmas bonus.”
I lay a hand over my chest in mock affront. “You don’t kiss my ass, and I’ll still give you a Christmas bonus.”
“Respectfully, you’re a bit different from most of our residents, Ms. Watkins.”
“Does that mean you’ll call me Georgie?” I ask hopefully.
He merely smiles wider. “Enjoy your morning, Ms. Watkins.”
I sigh. “Thought so.” I push the box of donuts toward him. “Give these to the other guys when they come in. And don’t forget to take one home to Marta.”
“Will do, and thank you.”
I pluck my cranberry-colored clutch off the desk and walk backward toward the elevator, not even the slightest bit unsteady in my sky-high Jimmy Choos. “Enjoy your ‘weekend,’?” I tell Ramon, knowing that although today’s Tuesday, Ramon has Wednesday and Thursday off.
When I step into the elevator, the button for the eighty-sixth floor is already lit up, courtesy of Ramon and the building’s fancy tech. I give a happy sigh and start to anticipate the prospect of crawling into bed and getting a few hours’ sleep before I have to be at my hair appointment at four.
And if for a second my mind registers the depressing thought that the most exciting part of my day has already come and gone?
I push it away.
Georgie
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
“What are we doing today, love? More of the same?”
I smile in thanks at the girl who just brought me a glass of champagne before turning my attention to Stefan, the guy who’s been doing my hair for the past three years.
“Same old,” I confirm, taking a sip of the Moët et Chandon. “The tiniest bit off the bottom to keep the ends fresh, touch up the honey highlights.”
Now, I don’t want to be vain. But if I were going to be vain…
My hair’s totally my best feature.
See, truthfully, I’m barely passably pretty. Attractive, sure, but not stop-traffic gorgeous like my mom. My features are in the right spot and all. But my boobs, butt, eyes, mouth…more or less, average.
So while I may not wake up looking like a Park Avenue princess, when you have a mother who started a beauty empire, you learn your way around a contour palette and a Tom Ford eyeshadow pan at a
n early age.
My hair, though? Well, I fake that a little bit too with the highlights, but mostly it’s all me. It’s long and thick and shiny, and Page Six actually deemed my distinct “cinnamon-sugar waves” as the hairstyle to watch last year. Based on that write-up, Stefan got a handful of new clients demanding “the Georgie.”
You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, but come on. At least admit it’s a little cool to have a hairstyle named after you. I mean, it did wonders for Jennifer Aniston, right?
