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She looked at me like I’d just admitted to hatingSons of Anarchyand thinking Charlie Hunnam was icky.
“Are you serious, right now? TheBrokenseries is onlythe bestmurder/mystery series to be written ever, since the beginning of time.” She ignored my little snort, laughed and continued on. “He’s the number one New York Times best seller. The man is legen… wait for it… dary.”
“First of all,” I started, holding up one finger. “No moreHow I Met Your Mothermarathons. And secondly, I’ve never heard of him. I’m not a big murder/mystery fan. Sorry.” I gave her a shrug that said anything butsorry.
“Ugh!” she grunted in frustration, “Whatever. The guy’s an icon, and hot as hell apparently. And you get to work for him,” she squealed, bouncing up and down on the couch, causing me to nearly fall off.
“Cut it out. Look at this,” I said, pointing to one of the most recent articles posted about Rowan Locklaine. “Apparently, he got into a Twitter fight with a reader who left him a bad review.”
“What? Let me see?” Harlow snatched the laptop from my hands and began reading the article I’d pulled up. Her face scrunched up, her top lip curling as her eyes moved back and forth. “Oh…oh…ohhhhh, that’s not good.”
“What?” I asked anxiously. “What’s not good?”
“Well, it looks like this guy’s kind of a douche.”
“Fantastic,” I harrumphed, flopping back on the couch. “I get to work for an asshole. Just what I need.”
“Jeez, Navie. There are pictures of this guy everywhere. Drunk in public, getting into a fight in public, having sex in public. Damn, doesn’t the dude do anything in the privacy of his own home?” Her head tilted to the side, her eyes squinting as she studied a picture intently. “Wow, he’s got some serious upper body strength.”
I sat up and slapped the lid of the laptop shut so I wouldn’t be subjected to a visual of my boss having sex. Serious upper body strength or not, that was just something I didn’t need to see, even if hewasfine as all get out.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admitted sullenly. “How the hell am I supposed to keep a job working for a man like that? I’ll be fired within a week!”
“Stop,” Harlow demanded, propping one leg up on the couch so she could face me full-on. “None of that. You’re awesome, and you’re going to kick ass at this job.”
“Harlow—”
Her hand shot out and slapped over my mouth. “Nope, none of your negativity. You’re going to be fantastic, and Rowan Locklaine isn’t going to know how he survived without you.”
I mumbled a question, her hand over my lips muffling each word.
“Huh?”
Shoving her hand from my mouth, I rolled my eyes and repeated the question. “What if he doesn’t like me?”
“Impossible,” she said confidently. “There’s no way anyone in the world can’t like you. You’re so tiny and adorable,” she finished in a baby voice while pinching my cheeks.
“Gah!” I laughed while batting her hands away. “Stop, asshole! That hurts.”
She wouldn’t give up. Her cheek-pinching quickly turned into tickling until I was rolling around, trying my hardest to get away as I laughed hysterically.
“Not until you admit you’re going to rock that shit!” she demanded, her fingers digging into my side, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from me.
“Stooooooop!”
“Say it!”
“I-I’m gonna rock this s-shit!” I yelled through giggles.
Harlow finally stopped her attack with an enthusiastic, “Yeah, you are! Now, let’s go shopping in my closet for something to wear on your first day. You’re going to have that douche-y, sexy-as-sin exhibitionist eating out of the palm of your hand before the day’s over.”
Two more glasses of wine later, Harlow and I had managed to relocate every article of clothing from her closet onto her bed. It took a thousand and one failed attempts, but we finally managed to pull together a cute outfit that somehow fit me--a soft, swishy, pleated skirt the color of coral and a sheer aqua top with a matching lace camisole underneath. Matched with a pair of her tan peep-toed heels, it said sassy without coming across as unprofessional.
By the time I fell into my bed, slightly buzzed, I felt much more confident. I was going to be the best damn personal assistant there ever was. And Rowan Locklaine wasn’t going to know what hit him.
“Best assistant ever. Best assistant ever. Best assistant ever.” I repeated the mantra over and over, trying my best to psych myself up as I stared at the cream-colored, wooden door before me.
Sucking in a fortifying breath, I gave myself one last mental high-five and lifted my hand to knock. Then I waited… and waited… and waited some more. Pulling my phone from my purse, I opened the text Lauren had sent that morning, double checking that I’d gotten the address right. Sure enough, I was in the right place. I’d woken up an hour early that morning just so I could Google the directions and plan which route to take from Murray Hill to Rowan’s opulent building on the Upper East Side. I had the right address, the right apartment number, and a quick glance at my watch showed I was even a little early. Lauren said to be there at 8:30AM. It was only 8:20. I made great time.
