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)
“You’re a lifesaver.” I turned off the burner. My taste buds would be glad for something different today. I tried not to eat out too much because it was pricey, and between the two of us, our cooking skills were pathetic beyond toast or pasta with sauce from a jar.
He opened the paper bag, set the slices on the table, and we dug right in.
“How was work?” I asked after savoring my first bite.
“The set is awesome. Like, ethereal vibes.” He tucked another bite in his cheek. “I’ll get you tickets for opening night.”
“I would love that.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin.
“Are we still on for tonight?” Casey liked to go clubbing as much as I did, and the city had plenty of gay bars to choose from.
“Absolutely. But I need to run an errand first.”
Besides, we didn’t get going until around nine anyway.
He rolled his eyes. “It’s for your boss, isn’t it?”
“Of course.” I sighed as I threw out my scraps and grabbed my bag. This was part of my job too, no matter what time of day. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Take your time,” he said as I headed toward the door. “It’s my turn for a grocery run anyway.”
“Did I put peanut butter on the list?”
“Even if you didn’t, I know how fast you go through a jar.”
PB&J was cheap and filling, so it was another win-win.
Grocery shopping in the city was interesting. Back home, we’d load the bags in the trunk of my parents’ car. Here you walked everywhere, so you could only shop for what you could carry. But Casey was smart and had invested in one of those rolling carts so he could fit more stuff. By the time I’d arrived, he had city living down.
“Thanks.” I blew him a kiss and shut the door behind me.
Once on the subway, I rode to the Upper East Side, then walked toward Fifth Avenue and Forty-Ninth Street. I had an appointment with a designer’s assistant who would lend us clothes for the photo shoot with Kendall tomorrow. This was how the industry worked, and it was strange as hell. Designers wanted name recognition, so they allowed celebrities to borrow their clothes in exchange for credit in magazines or on the red carpet.
I was buzzed inside the showroom as soon as I gave Rowan’s name and was led to a rack of clothing by a snooty man wearing loud colors and ridiculously oversize red glasses. I tripped over my own shoelace, catching myself before I face-planted on the ornate rug. That would’ve gone over well. No way they’d trust me with their precious merchandise after that.
The man barely kept from rolling his eyes, especially when he caught sight of my tattered sneakers. “Here are the outfits Mr. Abernathy asked us to pull for Ms. Jacobs.”
I nodded as I stepped up to the rack, not surprised most pieces consisted of colors and silhouettes Rowan thought she looked good in. He definitely had an eye for that sort of thing, if I was obliged to say anything nice. And by now, I knew to check the sizes and hem lengths before leaving the building.
“Mr. Abernathy will be very pleased,” I told him. “He’s a huge fan of the designer’s work.”
A few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought schmoozing was my thing, but I’d gotten better at it and, dare I say, even excelled some days. But this guy didn’t seem impressed, so I stepped aside to let him prep the clothes for transport.
Once the designs were placed in wardrobe bags to protect them—from my clumsiness, most of all—I ordered a car service to drive me to Rowan’s apartment on the Upper East Side. No way I could schlep all those clothes on foot, let alone into the subway.
Rowan lived in a fancy building with a doorman stationed at the entrance. I’d been here half a dozen times already, so Thomas recognized me straight away and held the door for me as I slogged the clothes inside, already overheated and out of breath. I so wasn’t a fan of this part of the job. Lugging stuff around sucked.
“I’ll ring Mr. Abernathy to let him know you’re on your way up,” he said as he helped me get the hangers onto a rolling rack and then into the elevator.
“Thanks.” I moved back a step before the doors shut on the edge of my bag and offered him a self-conscious smile.
I held my breath as I got off on Rowan’s floor and rapped my knuckles on number 1108.
He pulled open the door with a flourish and ushered me and all my baggage inside. Pun intended. Two of his walls were lined with framed covers of photo shoots he’d done over the years, and my eye caught on a new one I hadn’t noticed before. It was fun and whimsical, and I tried to picture stuffy Rowan loosening up and getting into the vibe. Maybe the photographer’s assistant had even played some energetic music.