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)
And, to be honest, this job had taught me quite a bit. So far, I’d learned how to field strange calls from all sorts of personalities who wanted stuff from Rowan and how to restructure his mangled files as well as the little bits he always let fall by the wayside, like ordering supplies he seemed to run out of before noticing. I figured after cleaning up his messes, everything else would pale in comparison. I certainly didn’t know how he’d made it this long without me.
“His last assistant had somehow done it,” Casey had pointed out when I’d expounded on this. “Well, until the fiasco.”
I’d discovered through the grapevine that his former employee had left in tears after a wardrobe malfunction that rivaled Janet Jackson’s at the Super Bowl. Thankfully, they’d been able to edit it out of the show.
But that was how I ended up in this hybrid position, helping him with all the wardrobe stuff I’d never signed up for. There were obviously other wardrobe assistants, like Anita, but I was at his beck and call, had bent to his every whim, mostly to avoid those scathing looks that could incinerate you on the spot. And let’s not forget the devastating silences when he wanted to tune you out.
I was good with lists and schedules and keeping everything organized, and eventually, this job would look awesome on my résumé. It also helped me narrow down my field of study and finally realize that it didn’t necessarily have to be disconnected from the fashion world. I didn’t want any part of putting the clothes together, or sewing hems, for that matter, but I enjoyed managing the office end, maybe even social media. I wasn’t exactly sure, but it would be a far cry from looking through a pile of shoes for the right size or steaming a wrinkle out of a shirt. Maybe I’d go for a bachelor’s in communications or marketing.
Plus, I’d met tons of celebrities in the process, so I couldn’t complain. But I would’ve preferred to assist them, not dress them.
I glanced at the time on my cell before heading toward the door of my East Village apartment.
When I waved goodbye to Casey, he asked, “Dinner plans?”
“Nope. Want to grab something later?”
“Sounds good.” He’d moved to the city on an NYU scholarship and went on to work on set design for various stage productions. He’d urged me to join him in the city since I’d struggled to find decent employment in our small town. I didn’t want to join the family plumbing business, and waiting tables only showcased my clumsiness. But it wasn’t much different in the city. I was still working temp jobs and simply trying to afford the rent. Still, it could’ve been so much worse, even if Rowan grated on my last nerve most days.
I walked to the subway, barely avoiding a fresh wad of gum on the steps, then caught two trains to the WKTV building. I headed toward Rockefeller Center and the famous morning show window, where fans were stacked in rows ten deep.
I stopped at the coffee truck on the corner and reached for a few napkins.
“The usual?” Saul asked with a smile.
“Please.”
Coffees in hand, I made my way into the building, past security, and up the elevator to the fifth floor. By the time I got to the closet, I could already hear Rowan’s panicked, grumbling tone.
“Where’s Shae? And who names their kid Shae Shanahan anyway?”
I took glee in seeing his perfectly sculpted cheekbones flushed and his forehead wrinkled in exasperation. Some days I liked to keep him on his toes just to torture him. Paybacks were a bitch.
“I told you, Shae was my mother’s maiden name. Our Irish roots run deep,” I lobbed back as I rounded the corner, and he rolled his eyes because we’d bantered about this before. We weren’t what you’d think of as a typical Irish family because of our dark hair and eyes, and if I didn’t let my stubble grow in, which Rowan seemed to frown upon as well, my cheeks felt too angular. “Who names their kid Rowan? So pretentious. And stop getting your panties in a bunch when you’re the one who’s particular about his coffee.”
“You know I hate the machines here,” he whined like a five-year-old, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “I don’t see you drinking that tepid stuff.”
“Why would I when I have to get yours anyway?” I muttered, setting our cups down on the long table Rowan was currently using as a vision board for Kendall’s outfit changes. He lifted his immediately and took a hearty sip.
“Why does this taste different?” he asked with a sour expression. “Did you put one too many sugars?”
I winced. “Nope. They were out of the pink packets, so I tried the yellow.”