Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 108650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
****
After the meeting, I slunk into my office and put my head down on my desk. I had about half an hour before the beauty editors would show me every single piece they’d picked to feature in the August issue, and I would sit and make notes and generally not feel like such a failure.
I’d known that running a magazine would be hard. I’d worked at one for long enough. But I’d been an assistant. My old boss, Gabriella Winters, had made the entire process seem effortless. And Neil was more than capable of managing the day-to-day at a magazine; his entire fortune was built on them. What was wrong with me?
Deja knocked on my door before she opened it and stuck her head in. “Hey, do you have the run through coming up? I thought you wanted to pull those Kors?”
“Mel got Patricia to do it.” I propped my elbows on my desk and rubbed my temples. “Deja, why am I such a fuck up?”
She sighed and closed the door behind her then leaned on it. “You’re not a fuck up. You’re just…really bad at coming to work and doing your job.”
“But I shouldn’t be!” I exclaimed. “I worked for the most demanding editor-in-chief at the most demanding fashion magazine in the world, and I survived for two years. I know how to do all of this.”
“You know in theory,” she reminded me. “Not in practice. You were Gabriella’s assistant. You kept track of things for her, but you never had to do them for her.”
“Ugh. She made it look so easy.” I dropped my head to my desk then looked up miserably. “You’re so good at this. I actually feel guilty dragging you into it with me.”
Deja rolled her eyes. “Oh, no, you dragged me into running an extremely lucrative fashion magazine. All of this financial security is unbearable.”
I snorted.
“Besides, I did kind of get the inside track,” she said guiltily.
I’d first met Deja when I was still the assistant to—and not yet girlfriend of—my husband. He hired her, she eventually fell in love with and married my best friend, and yeah, committed some corporate espionage for my old boss at the same time.
Things had gotten pretty messy for a while there.
But Deja was right. Her time as Gabriella’s mentee had prepared her far more thoroughly than my stint as Gabriella’s assistant had me. And that wasn’t something I should have been ashamed of.
What I should have been ashamed of was how little effort I’d put in to the entire magazine endeavor. We were a success, but I had very little to do with that aside from having a rich husband.
There was a lot I needed to think about, but my day was jam packed, and it was always easier to just ignore the big, scary life questions in favor of doing literally anything else. And there was plenty “anything else” that needed doing.
Despite my best efforts, I didn’t arrive at home until quarter to nine.
The solar-powered lights lining the circular drive hadn’t turned on yet; the sun had only barely set. I asked Tony to drop me off under the porte cochere, rather than the front door, so I could go directly to the kitchen. I’d expected to find dinner waiting for me in the warming oven, but to my surprise, Neil waited behind the counter, too.
“Seven-thirty?” he asked with a tilt of his head and a smug smile.
“Like you’ve never worked late in your life.” I kicked my shoes off with a relieved groan and went to him. He looped his arms around my waist, and I leaned my head against his chest to breathe in his familiar scent. “Is Olivia asleep?”
“I had to put her to bed,” he said with an apologetic kiss on top of my head. “She was an absolute tyrant at dinner.”
I glanced over at her highchair, still smeared with food. “Am I the worst Sophie ever?”
“Of course not,” he reassured me. “And not for nothing, you’re my favorite Sophie.”
I reluctantly stepped back, my stomach growling. While Neil leaned down to get a dish from the oven, I hopped up on one of the stools at the island. “I feel like I never see her or spend time with her, anymore. Or you, for that matter.”
“If I had time to feel neglected, I would, I promise,” he quipped, depositing a round white ceramic dish on the trivet on the counter. “Caprese stuffed chicken?”
“Ooh.” I leaned over the dish and inhaled deeply. “Give me a fork.”
“I can give you a plate, as well,” he offered as he handed the utensil to me. Then, chagrined as I dug directly into the baking dish, he added, “Or you could dine from the trough this evening.”
I put up one middle finger as I chewed. I’d taken way too big a bite. When I could get words out around it, I mumbled, “Since when are you Mr. Sixties Housewife?”