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“I’ll be in touch about your alternate space. Get me those questions by five tonight.”
That was his parting shot, because after he said it, he turned, opened the door, walked through it and out of my studio.
So when I muttered my irate, “Bye, bye, bossman,” he wasn’t around to hear it.
CHAPTER2
STEP ASIDE
Elsa
My phone was off the hook pinging.
And it wasn’t my work one. It was my personal one.
I was on the M, heading to an address Hale Wheeler’s assistant, Brandi, sent me that was where we’d be relocating while they sorted out security and HVAC at the warehouse.
I supposed it should come as no surprise someone of Hale’s stature could secure space in Manhattan in a little over twenty-four hours.
Even so, it was a surprise.
Now I was on my way there, considering Brandi had also told me my current accommodation would be closed starting Monday, and my friends, who knew I was interviewing Hale the next day, were deciding how I’d look when I did it.
The red Prada. That was Felicity.
Too harsh. The flowy Zimmerman print. It’s her brand. That was Carole.
Then immediately more from Carole.Hair up.
NO!From Fliss.Hair down! And I’m doing it so shut up about it.
Half and half. Carole haggled.
I’ll consider it. Fliss replied.
I let them duke it out, even though I wasn’t wearing the Zimmerman. It was very much my brand, but it was far too flirty and girlie and feminine for a sit down with Hale Wheeler.
I was going to wear the structured Valentino. It had ruffles at the sleeves and hem, and a bow belt, so the femininity of it fit my brand, but there was nothing flirty about it (okay, there was alittlebit of flirt to it, but not like the Zimmerman).
And I was going to have a chignon at my nape, no matter how Fliss would argue against it. I was going to look put together and professional, not like I was out on a date.
The train arrived at my stop, and I hustled out and up to street level, where I then headed toward Rockefeller Center.
My phone kept going, in fact, both of them did, and I ignored them, walking the streets of Manhattan, feeling like I’d felt all my life when I was there.
This was where I was meant to be.
Make no mistake, I was a proud Brooklyn girl.
I was also an ambitious one.
I dressed the part in a camel, sleeveless, mock-turtleneck sweater dress, a brown statement belt cinching my waist, camel trench hanging from my shoulders (not with my arms in), and chocolate-brown suede high-heeled boots. Gold accents, not many (one didn’t over-accessorize when they were riding the subway). Last, a slouchy, suede tote.
I had my Celine Triomphe sunglasses on my nose and the pep in my step that always seemed to happen when I hit Manhattan.
And I was determined to be in a good mood.
I had a number of reasons to be so.
