Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75481 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75481 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“What the hell is this?” Rowan said from behind me, and I immediately stiffened.
“It’s called thinking fast on my feet.” I wore a smug smile as he inspected my work.
“She can’t go out there like that.” He made a frustrated sound.
“Why not? They look fine. Besides, you use all sorts of tricks to get clothes to look better and stay put.” I’d even seen him attach a clamp on the back of a shirt to pull the material taut for the front view. He was obviously just being a stickler.
“That’s during shoots. This is in front of a live audience.”
Oh. Well, that was true enough. My shoulders slumped. Christ, apparently, I’d made a major faux pas in the world of fashion. How ridiculous.
I lifted the pants and gave them a good shake to prove the tape would hold. The line at the hem remained crisp from the iron. I’d made sure of that.
His jaw twitched. “We look like amateurs.”
I balled my fist, feeling flustered and highly annoyed. “To be fair, you hired an assistant with zero styling skills.”
“To be fair, you claimed to be a fast learner,” he countered.
“Point taken. I’m doing the best I can.” At least he couldn’t complain that I wasn’t a hard worker. “But if you’re dissatisfied, feel free to contact the temp agency and ask them to send someone else.”
It was the first time I’d pushed back instead of stammering an apology, and I thought I saw something resembling admiration in his eyes. Okay, who was the delusional one?
“Don’t be absurd. The show season is in full swing, so that would be too much of a hassle. Maybe at the holiday break. But if you can’t cut it—”
“I can cut it,” I replied through clenched teeth.
Something about Rowan Abernathy made me want to prove myself. Or at least rub it in his face.
Right then, the female guest was shown into the room by Tony after having her makeup done. Rowan immediately plastered on a phony smile and greeted her warmly.
Fake it till you make it. Wasn’t that the saying?
1
“I quit!” I said to myself in the mirror. I’d practiced the words for the six months that I’d held this position. How I’d survived this long working for Rowan Abernathy, I didn’t know. The job had turned from temporary to permanent right under my nose. Since the hem incident—which turned out fine because the celebrity was none the wiser or at least didn’t point it out—Rowan and I had come to some sort of silent understanding. I felt more comfortable pushing back if he was being especially difficult or salty about something. It helped keep me sane.
“Maybe today’s the day,” Casey said, but even he didn’t believe the words.
I adjusted my shirt and fastened the top button, which helped hide my prominent Adam’s apple on my scrawny neck. People might kill for my metabolism and thin frame, especially in an industry of lithe models and celebrities, but it always made me self-conscious; just my own hang-up, obviously, and probably came from growing up with my beefy brothers.
“You never know.” I still wasn’t into fashion the way the entire design industry was—duh—especially my insufferable boss, who was always in the latest Dolce & Gabbana or some other hard-to-spell version of chic, but it clearly influenced me to pass muster.
I had my own style, though, my own taste, and sometimes when I walked into work at the Kendall Jacobs Show, Rowan would still wrinkle his nose as if I’d gotten my outfit directly out of the garbage bin at the Goodwill. Which wasn’t far from the truth. I enjoyed thrift shopping. Not everyone was born with a silver spoon in their mouth.
It was a whole different ball game when I got home and lived in cutoff shorts and crop tops, so I hated that Rowan’s opinion affected me so much. Of course, I had to dress respectfully in my other temp jobs as well, but at least I didn’t stick out like a sore thumb.
“I’m the new face of upcycled clothing,” I’d argued just yesterday when I’d walked in wearing my favorite hoodie under a jacket. “Isn’t that the current trend?”
Rowan had bit the inside of his cheek, a habit I noticed when he was trying not to laugh. And then he ruined it with, “Except in your case, the used clothing wasn’t made into anything remotely fashionable.” But, after all, he was the Rowan Abernathy—Junior—and he had big shoes to fill and a lot to prove.
I, on the other hand, between my job assisting the greatest wardrobe stylist to ever live—the snob—and the marketing course I’d decided to enroll in on a whim, well, I was continuously monitoring my bank account. This city was expensive, and it was nearly impossible to get ahead. Another reason I needed to keep this job no matter how close I’d come to quitting.