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“Hey, baby. I was—”

“What’s your email campaign rate?” I demand.

“What?”

“What are your click and open rates?”

“As your fake boyfriend, I have to say, this isn’t really turning me on. You wanna know a secret? Men love when you say ‘hello’ to them, instead of barking questions at them like you’re trying to use Siri. We’re sensitive like that.”

“Zack.”

He sighs. “I dunno. Me and Josh are both at a printing press. Hang on, he’s a nerd like you, he probably has them memorized. Let me check.”

“What?” I frown. “Why are you at a press?”

“We’re testing merch quality. All of these t-shirts look great on me. If you were wondering. Hang on, I’ll send a pic.”

I rub my eyes. It’s all so easy for them. They can record and edit a podcast, and film behind-the-scenes footage, and do bonus episodes, and update their website and social media every day, and stay on top of emails, and make new advertisements, and put out new merch every month — and I’m struggling to send a bloody email.

“He says fifty percent open, and eighteen percent click,” Zack says eventually. “Dunno if that’s good or not.”

I sputter. “Fifty percent? Are you sending people treasure maps, or something? How is that so high?!”

“I put grey sweatpants pictures in some of them.”

“Jesus.” I lean back against the wall, breathing hard. “Right. Okay, then.” Clearly, I’m really messing something up. I just have no idea what.

Zack’s tone changes. “Hey. You okay, honey? You don’t sound so good.”

“I’m fine. Just. Having some issues on this end.”

“Luke’s at home. I’ll see if he can come over and check it out for you.”

“No. No, it’s fine. I’ll work it out myself.”

“He won’t mind—”

“I said no,” I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I meant it. The line falls silent, and I sigh. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just stressed. But I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

“Okay, gumdrop.” There’s some muffled speech in the background. “Listen, we gotta go. We’re still on for our date at eight tonight, yeah? Surprise location, wear something pretty.”

My eyes widen. I completely forgot we were due to have another date.

Anxiety clutches at my throat again. I can’t do all this. I take a deep breath, and it comes out more like a hitched sob.

“What is it?” Zack asks, sounding alarmed. “Hey, are you crying? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing. Bye.” I hang up and turn back to the computer. My pulse is beating in my throat. I can’t breathe right. My inbox is filling up with more and more complaints, and the invoices scattered on the ground stare up at me. Before I can work out which problem to handle next, my phone rings again.

I take a deep breath and pick it up. “Her Treat, this is Layla speaking.”

“Miss Thompson,” a woman says on the other end. “This is Vivian White, Anna Bardet’s assistant. I contacted you on behalf of Anna Bardet Couture a few days ago about her latest scholarship scheme, but we’ve had no response from you.”

My eyes widen. Anna Bardet is a huge lingerie designer. Every year, she holds an exclusive scholarship programme for up-and-coming indie designers, where they have to enter design ideas for her upcoming collections. The winning applicant gets to do a collaboration with her.

It’s a massive deal. The kind of thing that could move my career onto a whole other level. I just don’t remember being emailed about it.

I glance at my inbox, my heartbeat speeding up. “I… one sec.” I scroll down, trying to find the message.

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