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It’s too bad. I was thinking he’s kind of nice in addition to being hot, in a master of the universe sort of way.
Not usually my type, but I’ve been like a dog in heat lately, reading the sexy stuff I found in my desk. I’m getting lonely down there, between the legs. If I don’t get laid soon, I might lose my mind.
Not that I’d do it with Levi. He’s a client. Big conflict of interest and all, at least that’s what it says in the employee handbook.
“Oh hey, Amalia?”
I look up, startled to see he’s returned.
What now?
He puts his hands on his hips and looks around. “I was thinking. I know a lot of people in this business. I’ll put my feelers out to see if I can find anything out about an anonymous manuscript being submitted to you guys. Maybe I can help in some way.”
I perk up, big time. “Really? You would do that?”
God, I am pathetic.
“Hey, I know what it’s like to be on the losing end of a company layoff, and I’d hate to see that happen to you.”
I’ll be damned.
I reach into my pocket, where I always have a small stash of business cards—you never know who’ll you meet in New York City—and hand one to him after jotting my cell number on the back. “My cell’s here. Text me anytime. It’s the best way to get in touch with me.”
He looks at the card, then tucks it in his jeans pocket. “Great. Hey, the room’s filling up. Wish me luck tonight.”
“Break a leg,” I giggle, like an idiot.
What?Luck? He doesn’t need luck. He’s the very definition of the word. He’s probably always gotten exactly what he wants, whenever he wants it.
Me, on the other hand? Not so much.
Levi skips up to the podium to meet his many admirers and I wonder for a moment if giving him my number is a mistake. Last time I did that, to a creepy book critic named Julius, I said I’d never do it again. The guy texts me all the time with ‘industry questions’ that masquerade as a way to ask me out. I’m so not down with that.
But on the other hand, were Levi to text me… well, that might be a different story altogether.
9
AMALIA
“Why isyour bare ass on my sofa?”
My BFF and temporary roommate Daisy looks down like she’s surprised to find herself naked. But she’s really surprised I brought it up.
Unclothed is a natural state for her, at least when she’s at home. Which is fine, honestly, but if you’re going sit around naked, you’ve got to put something under your bum.
I’ve asked her before to be careful with my sofa, the one nice piece of furniture I have, which came from my mom’s house. Everything else I have is a hand-me-down from people moving out of the building, or things abandoned on the street corner. In other words, crap. So, I try to take care of the piece I snagged from Mom’s castoffs.
Although Daisy’s been sleeping on it the past couple weeks.
She twists her curly red hair into a struggle bun, then gets to her feet and brushes off the sofa where her bottom was. “Sorry. I should have kept the bed sheet over it like you asked. How was your work thing tonight?”
Daisy moved in with me after her last break up. I love having her around, she’s my best friend and all, but two people in a tiny apartment—one of whom rarely leaves—gets old. Fast.
“It was fine, but I had to skip the gym. Hey what’s that you’re reading?” She has in her hands what looks remarkably like the manuscript that’s going to save my career.
She runs her fingers over the title page like it’s velvet. “This is some good shit, Amalia. Is this something you’re going to publish at Empire?”
I snatch it out of her hands, probably hastier than I need to. But I have a lot at stake here. She has no idea.
