Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
I recognize Vanessa instantly. We’ve met before, but not under the circumstance of me working for her.
“It’s not there? Are you certain?” Her grip tightens on her phone.
I worry about interrupting her call. September Fashion Week has descended upon the fashion enthusiasts of the world. Causing stress and mayhem, and it’s also why my mom is in London right now.
Hopefully Vanessa won’t realize I’m late for my first day on the job.
I head down the aisle. One ballet flat in front of the other.
Confidence.
I lift my chin.
Vanessa turns her head. Catching sight of me. “Hold on, Lance.” She struts quickly over to me. “Jane, Jane. I’m glad you’ve arrived.” She air-kisses both of my cheeks in a perfunctory rush. “I have to leave for the offices. Just pick out four fabrics for the new Calloway Couture line. Think everyday girl, functional and classic.”
Confusion parts my lips. “I was under the impression that I’d be running errands for you.” Vanessa is an Assistant Designer, and I’m supposed to be her assistant. “If you need to fax and file or a magnificent café au lait or macchiato, I’m your girl—”
“No, no.” Vanessa cups her hand over her phone’s speakers. “Rose specifically said if you want to work for Calloway Couture, you’re being placed above an entry-level position.”
I try to smile, my cheeks tightening with false confidence.
My mom has thrown me into shark-infested waters on purpose. This is not nepotism. She’s not trying to hand me a better job.
This is a slaughter. She’s hoping I’ll be chewed to pieces and quit when I can’t hack it.
It’s a clever move on her part, and I’d applaud if she were in the store.
My mom has always wanted me to choose a job that I’ll enjoy. I’m aware it’s far from a problem. I suspect not very many parents would push their children in the direction of “passion” over practicality, and even fewer have the billon-dollar cushion to fall back on.
I am grateful for them, for this life, and I’m trying not to take a moment for granted. And so I have to be realistic.
At the last Wednesday family dinner, I vehemently expressed that I have no one-true-passion in life. I’ve searched while I could, and my self-indulgent hunt is now over.
I’m committed to using my time wisely, and helping my family seems like the most sensible avenue. I used to work as a temporary CFO for H.M.C. Philanthropies, but ever since Moffy was ousted from the charity he built, I’ve refused to step through those doors.
Starting at the bottom of the fashion ladder at Calloway Couture—wherever my mom needs me—that was the plan. Instead, she’s pole-vaulted me to a position I am so drastically unqualified for and one that I do not deserve.
I push a frizzed strand of hair out of my eyes. “Are you positive you wouldn’t rather have me run errands? I could spend the day helping you—”
“No, four fabrics, cut enough for a maxi dress.” She speeds through more directions and terminology that’s only vaguely familiar.
Oh God.
In a brief pause, I cut in, “Vanessa—”
“Fashion is in your blood, Jane. As your mom always says, do or die. ” She struts past me like a strong gust of wind and puts the phone back to her ear. “Lance, look again.” The doorbell dings and she’s gone.
In this scenario, my mom would like me to die.
To perish an ugly death on the musty carpet and then revive into the version of myself that is so hopelessly me .
I know who I am, but sometimes, I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
On instinct, I unzip my acorn-squash purse. Itching to call Maximoff and ask him for advice. Two brains are better than one.
But I hesitate…
He’s teaching a swim class at the aquatic center, and then he has a lunch date with Farrow. Moffy was beyond giddy about the date this morning. Even as he said Farrow was “fucking aggravating” him, he couldn’t restrain a smile.
I catch myself smiling up at the fabrics. His happiness makes me extraordinarily happy.
Maximoff and Farrow have been on numerous dates before, but we all endure so many interruptions. If I can help it, I’d rather not interrupt them at all.
My best friend will be a last-resort phone call.
Do or die .
“My mom wants me to quit,” I say aloud, more so to my bodyguard.
His domineering presence is my shadow. Always with me. Usually silent.
Longish hair tucked behind his ears, Thatcher is uncapping a water bottle while he blocks the entrance of the aisle. He hydrates often, and until Thatcher, I never knew the act of drinking water could look that unbelievably sexy.
His unwavering gaze stays fixed on me, and I watch him take a strong swig of water.
Ask him something.
But unearthing a question among the thousands of questions I have for my bodyguard will just heighten this sort of all-consuming pull. Just being alone with Thatcher is a perfect breeding ground for tension. I don’t even need to plant a seed for attraction to sprout.