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Gabriella
There was a second there when I’d been almost tempted to tell them about my poker debt. Not because I want them to help, but because I thought they might understand how you could want something so badly that your desire overruled your common sense.
That seems to be the pattern of my life.
I wanted to start my own company so much that it made me reckless, and now, I’m further away from my goal than I ever was.
I want Carter and Dominic so badly that it’s making me ignore common sense. Dinner in Dominic’s apartment? That’s an invitation to sleep with them if there ever was one, and I knew it, and I still said yes.
Once again, reckless.
My focus should be on work. I’m digging myself out of one hell of a hole. This morning, Anna suggested Nicky Z as a client. I should be researching the singer and coming up with ideas on how to get her to the next level. That way, I’ll be ready if I ever get an opportunity to pitch to her.
Instead, I’m thinking about Dominic and Carter. I’m thinking of their hard, muscled bodies blanketing mine. I’m wondering what tonight might hold, and my body is flush with anticipation.
I get into the elevator and ride up to my floor. I wonder what the big deal is about the Rose Room. The woman who’d upgraded me—Katrina—had acted like I was being knighted. Carter had as well, and Dominic had definitely ducked his question about it.
Entering the room, I place my apple pie on the desk. Less than five minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. It’s a waiter wheeling a cart. “Room service,” he says.
“I didn’t order—” My voice trails off as I realize what the tray holds.
Ice-cream for my apple pie.
My heart melts. The room upgrade, the flowers, and now ice-cream. I’ve never been treated like this. I’ve never been with anyone who noticed the details. Who got the small things right.
I am in so much trouble.
Paul seemsrelieved when I tell him I’d like to stay for the duration of Nicky’s run at the casino. “I didn’t think you’d want to be away from Manhattan for that long, which is why I didn’t suggest it myself,” he says. “Yes, of course. Clients hate when we have turnover issues, Nicky more than most. She is a creature of routine. How has she been to work with so far?”
“Pretty low maintenance,” I tell him honestly. “It’s an easy gig.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he warns. “I’m going to assign you a couple of other accounts next week. You can work on them remotely.”
“Three accounts?” I raise my eyebrow. “Jennifer Prosser manages three accounts, and she’s an Account Manager.”
“Gabby, I’m well aware of the situation,” he sighs. “I’m working on it.”
Paul’s been working on it for three years. He’s a nice guy, but he’s never going to go out on a limb for me. He’s not going to risk his own job. I don’t even know why I bother mentioning Jenny.
“Nicky’s rehearsal starts in thirty minutes,” I tell him. “I need to go.”
Nicky Z’ssuite must take up a quarter of the floor. It’s huge. “My previous suite was pretty nice,” she says. “But this is something else.” She looks bemused. “My studio in the Bronx was smaller than the bathroom. I have to keep pinching myself. I still think I’m dreaming, you know? And one day, I’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone.”
“You worked hard to get where you are.”
“Sure,” she says. “I did. But I’m not the only one who hustled. Most people work their asses off. I got lucky.” She scrolls through her Insta. “I like this.”
In the black-and-white photo she’s looking at, Nicky’s laughing with her drummer about something. It’s the sort of candid behind-the-scenes photo that fans love. “It set off quite a war in the comments,” I reply. “Half your fans are Team Fernando.” Judging by the way he’s looking at her in the picture, Team Fernando is onto something.
She looks up. “Who else is in the running?”
“There’s a Jorge contingent.” Jorge Almeida is Nicky Z’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Their stormy relationship is catnip for the tabloids. Almeida recently posted something cryptic on his Insta about not knowing what you have until it’s over, and of course, everyone immediately decided he was talking about Nicky. “And an Oscar one.” Oscar is her trainer. They went to one party together, once, after the last time she broke up with Jorge, and that’s all it took to activate the shippers.
“Oscar?” She laughs. “The man doesn’t let me eat sugar. Bread. White rice. Flour. All I’m allowed is kale. I assure you, Oscar is not in the running.” Her expression turns pensive. “And I’m done with Jorge. No more.” She’s still looking at Fernando on her phone. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
She rolls her eyes. “Karpis sent me a bunch of losers before Anna. I didn’t know what to expect when they sent you.” She switches topics. “Have you seen the guy that owns this place? Dominic Crawford?”
