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DREW: Ya think?
PRES: They mean well.
Debatable. I got some hella strong Regina George vibes tonight, but I vowed I would not let my personal shit interfere with my sister’s big day. That means no snarking at her friends.
DREW: How long til this is all over? ;)
PRES: Three weeks. And trust me, I want this done as much as you do.
Unlikely, but I’ll let her have it. I might look like the lovechild of Debbie Harry and Wednesday Addams, but inside I’m a big ball of mush when it comes to my sister. Nothing will get between us. Not even email minutes with footnotes.
PRES: And don’t do that thing where you shut everyone out before they have a chance to get to know you. You might make a friend!
Three hearts punctuate my sister’s text. If ever there was physical evidence of the difference between us, this is it. Shaking my head, I continue down Clarendon Street toward my temporary residence in South Melbourne. 21 Love Street is the most ridiculous name for an apartment building, even one as swanky as this. But I’m grateful to have the cushy place to stay until the wedding is over.
And truthfully, the people heredoseem nice. It’s been so long since I lived in Melbourne that I don’t have many contacts in this city—and the one friend Idohave is away and letting me crash in her apartment. My friends are scattered all over the world, a product of working as a flight attendant all my adult life. Do a stint in Dubai and another in Singapore and one more in London and you’ll end up with a globally fragmented social circle.
But that suits me fine. I make do wherever I go, and my colleagues are always up for some fun when they’re in town.
I enter the building, marvelling as I usually do at the foyer’s softly glowing chandelier that manages to somehownotbe tacky. A couple of velvet chairs are dotted around and some pretty art hangs on the main wall.
CapitalPPerfect!
I stifle a laugh and head to the elevators. The concierge desk is empty, with a sign stating they’re currently “on patrol.” That’s been happening a lot ever since they found out a crime ring was operating out of this building last week. Yeah,thathappened. Doesn’t bother me, though. I enjoy a little excitement in my life.
I tap my foot, waiting while the elevator does its thing. But it’s taking forever. Five minutes pass. Then ten. The concierge still hasn’t returned to his post. Grumbling, I head toward the service stairwell and start making my way up.
CHAPTER TWO
Flynn
“FLYNNANDREWLEWIS,what are youstilldoing here?”
I drag my eyes up from my screen to look at my assistant, Francis, standing in the doorway to my office—arms folded, lips pursed. She’s the only person who can get away with using my full name because she’salsothe only assistant who’s lasted more than five minutes working for me.
Still, I won’t let her get too big for her boots.
“How do you do that?” I wave my pen in her direction.
“What?”
“Channel my mother so effectively.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you calling me old?”
The ironic thing is that if my mother were still alive, she would actually beyoungerthan Francis by a good decade. And while I might be known as “that jerk in the navy suit” to most people who work in this industry, evenIknow not to call a woman old.
“I would say more...draconian.” This gets the result I predict—intensified lip pursing.
“It’s nine p.m.”
“I know how to tell the time.” I turn back to my screen, trying to make the numbers spin a different story. It’s futile, but still more productive than looking at my inbox—which resembles the aftermath of a toddler toy-flinging rampage.
“Flynn.” This time my name is softer.
I know she means business when she talks like that—because to everybody else in this company Francis is a stony-faced, rule-spouting gatekeeper. She’s all:you shall not pass. It’s why she’s so good at her job. ButIknow she’s actually a lovely woman with a heart of gold—a fact she prefers to keep hidden.
Generally, I prefer it when she keeps it hidden, too.
