Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
I love my job. So much.
“Hey Lucy,” I call. “Did we hear anything from FLI today?”
“Negative,” she yells back from her desk across the studio.
Okay. That’s a setback. I’d really been hoping to land a sweet gig with the most influential sports organization in the whole entire world. They told me I’d hear back from them ten days ago.
For the first few days, I’d thought maybe the contract got lost in the mail. Now I think they gave it to someone else.
I’ll be pissed off if they did. The whole campaign was my idea.
But I’m not going to let it kill my vibe today. Whistling along with the Citizen Cope track playing on my speakers, I adjust the color balance of the final shot. Then I deepen the shadows, so that the hockey player’s eight-pack comes into sharper focus. And, wow, it’s perfect now. You can almost taste the tiny beads of sweat on his torso.
Yummy.
“I will be known as the fucking Da Vinci of underwear,” I say to myself as I tap save on the project file.
“You are already,” my assistant says from her desk at the other end of my studio space. “But if you don’t leave now, you will also be known as the Da Vinci of showing up late. Again.”
I whirl around in my chair. “Late? For what?”
Lucy blinks at me from behind her round glasses. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten to check the schedule again.”
“But I thought I was free today before I take off tomorrow for the wedding,” I whine. “I swear the calendar said so.”
She winces. “Check again.”
“Lucy! What did you do?” She probably snuck something onto my calendar. Hell. All I want to do is finish these edits, wipe my own drool off the monitor, and then reward myself with a long lunch of mussels and frites. “Just tell me—what am I almost late for?”
“Your fitting at Angel Sanjay.”
Shit. I open up my calendar and there it is—an appointment at the designer’s showroom, beginning in forty minutes. “This fitting—it’s for the wedding, right?”
“Of course,” she says. “You asked me to book you and a Mark Banks in for, quote, Miami-style beachy wedding attire.”
“Sure, sure,” I babble. The best men need to match their suits. And if I’d let Hannah’s brother pick the clothes, we’d probably end up in some 1955 seersucker disaster.
So this appointment was my idea. But I know it wasn’t on my calendar three hours ago.
Oh, boy. Lucy and I are quite a pair. I’m told that I function as about three quarters of a real adult. Lucy also seems to operate at seventy-five percent. But between us, we’re good for a person and a half. So I figure I’m still ahead.
Plus, even though she dresses head to toe in navy blue Talbots, and her aura doesn’t exactly scream fashionable photographer’s assistant, real talent, though, is telling it like it is to her boss and I need that.
My business has taken off these last couple of years, and before I hired Lucy, I struggled to keep my own calendar.
That led to some regrettable screwups. Just ask my ex-boyfriend. Garrett hated the way I was often late for our dates and all the times I was double-booked, or jet-lagged. It had been a huge transition from the life of a professional athlete in Europe to running my own small business here in New York.
But I wanted Garrett to be happy with me. In a great leap of faith, I’d decided to ask him to move in with me.
I made reservations at the Kimoto rooftop lounge in Brooklyn, left early. But then a truck jackknifed on the Williamsburg Bridge, leaving me stranded for forty-five minutes in an Uber.
When I finally arrived, Garrett was waiting at the corner table in front of the sweeping city views, a designer cocktail in hand. I gave him a big, hopeful smile, fingering the copied key to my apartment that I had for him in my pocket.
But the moment he spotted me, his expression shuttered. The moment I sat down, he said, “Asher, I can’t do this anymore.”
“There was this truck! It will probably be on the news tonight. Seriously—”
He’d shaken his head. “It’s not about tonight. I met someone else.”
That was not what I’d expected. “What? Who?”
When I’d pressed him for details, the breakup turned even worse. He’d met a lawyer, who worked as in-house counsel, and took every weekend off in East Hampton.
“That’s what you want? A lawyer?”
“What I want is someone who’s not a hot mess,” he’d said bitterly.
That was the low point. Even though I knew he was gone for good, I needed a change. So, the very next week I hired Lucy. I couldn’t afford to be known as a hot mess. It had already ruined my chances with Garrett. I wouldn’t let it ruin my business.