by Lila Monroe
“Don’t give him any ideas,” Sandra ordered. “Really, though, I swear, I am going to strangle that babysitter; I let her know I would need her three months in advance and she swore that she would be available and then at the last minute—”
“Don’t sweat it,” I told her. “I got this, just go over some of this stuff with me and I’m golden.”
“Sure thing—James! Mommy’s credit card is not a snack!”
Once Sandra managed to wrest her wallet away from her son’s sticky, adorable fingers, we went over the preliminary art concepts she’d created for my pitch today, Sandra repeating the necessary buzzwords until I was sure they were drilled into my brain and unlikely to come jarred loose by anything less than a tank.
I could feel my confidence level rising I as I trotted down the hall towards the elevators. This was it. This was my big chance. There was nothing that—
“Did you see the hooters on that chick I banged last night? Like frigging planets or some shit.”
“Aw bro, don’t tell me you thought those were real!”
“Like I care? She wanted the D so bad, I swear, I barely got back to the Caddy before she was on her knees—”
My mood deflated like a rapidly punctured balloon as the gang of tanned young men rounded the corner, all pastel polos and hundred dollar haircuts and acrid cologne that filled the air almost as stiflingly as their entitlement.
“Sorry, got to go,” I told Sandra.
Her voice went tense. “Let me guess, the Testosterone Squad has arrived?”
“Giving them that nickname is an insult to testosterone everywhere,” I muttered quietly enough that they couldn’t hear me, ducking my head in the hope that they would take a second to see me through the fog of their own arrogance.
“And ‘Douchebros’ is better? Honey, I don’t want to even think about them anywhere near my vagina.”
I snickered. “And that’s why it’s perfect,” I told her. “Because they act like they’re God’s gift to women, but they’re actually harmful and gross.”
“Yo, Ally!”
Oh no. I had been sighted. I sighed, reluctantly turning to face Harry, Supreme Douchebro In Charge. “Hello.”
“Making an appointment for a spa day?” Harry said with a smirk that made it clear he thought that was the wittiest one-liner since Bob Hope. “You know, to console yourself after we sweep this meeting? Tell you what, I’ll buy you some chocolates and throw in a back massage, just for you.” He leered, his eyes traveling downward to a part of my anatomy that was definitely not my back.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes; they’d just take that as evidence of how emotional and unprofessional I was, as if leering and broadcasting exaggerated stories of sexual prowess were somehow Business Conduct 101. “I’ve got to go, Sandra, talk to you later.”
“Let me know how it goes—James! No! Not the hair dryer!”
Harry was still leering, his collar popped up high like he thought he was still a frat boy. “Nice outfit, but you really should’ve gone with something that emphasizes your body more. Only way to distract the client from your incompetence.”
“Charming,” I said dryly, refusing to engage despite the rage boiling in my gut.
“We’ve got this locked up,” Douchebro #2, also known as Greg, chimed in, shoving his hands in his pockets as he took his place next to #3, Chad. “Why’d you even bother showing up? It’s a joke, getting a chick to pitch a dude brand like this. What’re you even going to do, stick a pink label on it?”
“What a brilliant idea,” I said flatly. “I don’t know how I didn’t think of it.” I gave them a smile that probably looked like I was preparing for the dentist to extract all my molars, and got into the elevator, trying to ignore how blatantly they checked out my ass as they followed me in.
They didn’t matter. Nothing they did mattered. The only thing that mattered was that I had gotten my boss to agree to let me pitch after them today, and I wasn’t going to mess it up. I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by. It was my first chance to really show everybody what I was capable of.
It was time to step up. Time to show them what I was made of. Time to fight back.
I clenched my fists at my side as the elevator began its slow ascent.
And may the best woman win.
This would have been a very inspirational moment, but then my phone rang. And the ringtone was ‘All the Single Ladies.’
I made the mistake of glancing at the Caller ID before jabbing the power button. Great, my mom. Answering this call was the last thing I wanted to do in front of the Douchebros, up to and including stripping down to a string bikini and dancing the cha-cha, but if I didn’t pick up now, my mom would go into an anxiety spiral and by the time I called her back an hour later, would have convinced herself that I’d been kidnapped, taken overseas, and held for ransom on a modern day pirate ship.
I chose the lesser of two evils, and answered. “Hey, Mom.”
Chad smirked, and I shot him a glare.
“Ooooh, watch out, I think she’s on her period,” he stage-whispered, and the other guys snorted and gave him high-fives.
“Daaaaarling,” my mom said in my ear, skipping straight past ‘hello’ and any sort of perfunctory inquiry into how my life was going. “I’m ordering the champagne this very instant, and you haven’t respondez s’il vous plait’ed to dinner yet.”
“I always come to Friday dinner, Mom,” I said. I tried to say this like a reasonable adult stating a fact, which, technically, I was. Only somehow, it came out as a whine.
Family: it’s fucking magical.
There was a heavy sigh, as if I had just single-handedly brought about the fall of Western civilization. “It is called etiquette, dear. It exists for a reason.”
Is that reason to give you something to nitpick about other people, all of the time? I very nearly said, but avoided voicing out loud since I didn’t want to be the first person to cause spontaneous human nuclear explosion.
“I’m coming, Mom. Put me down for a plate.”
“If you’d simply responded to the letter, dear—”
Yep, that’s right. My mom sends gilt-edged paper invitations through the U.S. Postal Service for the weekly family dinner. And then expects you to respond in kind. Sometimes I stop and think about how much free time she must have, to think of all these tiny, pointless things to fill it. And then I eat an entire carton of ice cream to try to stop being depressed.
The elevator reached our floor, and the Douchebros and I made our way to the conference room as my mom rattled on despite my best efforts to tune her out. “And try to wear something appropriate this time, dear, I know more and more women think slacks are appropriate attire these days, but they’re just so unfeminine, and really a skirt is much more flattering for our body type. Why, I remember when your father first started courting me—”
This was what happened when you made your whole life about a man.
I wasn’t going to let it happen to me.
I took my seat at the conference table, and saw the elevator button light up. That had to be the Knoxes! And I’d barely had time to go over Sandra’s tips!
“Gotta go, Mom!”
“Allison Brierly Beignet Bartlett, is that any way for a proper young lady to—”
“Probably not, love you, bye!”
I jammed my finger down on the power button, killing my cell with only a weak buzz as its death throes, before unceremoniously stuffing it into my purse. I was going to pay for that later, in spades, but there was no point in dwelling on that now.
I took a deep breath, smoothing down my skirt as I stood, ready to greet the new arrivals. I thought about puppies and chocolate and tried to make that translate into a friendly smile on my face.
Meanwhile, Harry puffed out his chest and stretched his neck like a bird doing a mating dance.
The first Knox representative into the room was a small, weedy man with platinum blonde hair and watery blue eyes. He
looked like he’d gotten his fashion advice from the same place as the Douchebros, but hadn’t managed to get the sizing quite right. His eyes fastened on me, and a leer began to tug at the corner of his mouth.
I ratcheted up my internal gears in an effort to keep my own smile from disappearing. “Mr. Charles Donahue—” I started.
“Call me Chuck,” he barked in a heavy New York accent.
“Certainly. I’m—” I hadn’t even gotten out the first syllable of my name when Harry practically threw himself between us, like a bodyguard trying to stop a bullet.
“Bro, that tie pin! Nobody said you were a—” He preceded to rattle off more Greek letters than I’d even known were in their alphabet.
Chuck’s grin widened. “Good to see the brotherhood still going strong. What year were you?”
“2009, my man.”
And just like that, they were chatting away like best friends, and I’d lost my big chance to establish a personal connection with the client. I watched with a sinking feeling in my gut as Chuck and Harry gabbed away as if everything were already a done deal, and resisted the urge to grind my teeth. Shut out of the boys’ club again.
Still, Hunter Knox, the CEO and owner, was still chatting with some of his flunkies down the hall by the elevator, and he was the one I really had to convince—
I turned to take a closer look at Mr. Knox, and froze.
Bourbon eyes—
Caramel waves—
Freckles like a sweet dusting of brown sugar—
Hunter Knox was my one-night stand.
TO BE CONTINUED
Want to read more? Ally and Hunter’s story is available now!
CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE
RUGGED BILLIONAIRE
He’s good with his hands and handy with his tools…
Laurel Young needs a plan, and fast. After her reality TV boss has a major meltdown, not-so-funemployment seems inevitable—unless she can pitch the idea of a lifetime. When she sees Flint McKay’s audition tape - flanneled, handsome as hell, and building a house with his own two hands - she knows she’s found her secret weapon. The women of America are going to love him, especially if she can convince him to try building without the flannel shirt.
Only problem is, Flint didn’t make that tape - and he has zero interest in trading the wilds of Western Massachussetts for the bright lights of Hollywood. But Laurel isn’t the kind of girl to take no for an answer. Soon, she’s knee-deep in rustic charm, and getting plenty of hands-on experience. And it turns out, this city girl and country guy may have a few things in common after all, like crazy hot chemistry, a wild side, and a weakness for good whiskey…
But can their behind-the-scenes connection last once the world falls in love with Flint? And will this be the big break both of them need-or leave them in the dirt?
Available now!
Chapter One
There’s no business like show business. Actually, let me clarify that: there’s no business that will make you lose your hair, your sleep, and your tenuous grip on sanity like show business. Especially if you’re on the production end of things, like I am. Extra especially, with a side order of especial, if you’re on the production end of a high-stress, high-competition field like reality television. And if your reality television production company is named Reel World Entertainment, purveyor of only the finest in exploitation and sleaze? Start mainlining coffee and cancel your OKCupid date: your social life’s not making it out alive.
Fortunately for me, high stress and high adrenaline are my two closest friends. We love to meet up for bestie things like getting mani-pedis and taking over the world of entertainment, transforming it from exploitative images of breasts into an empire of class. I want the corner office with my name on the door: Laurel Young, Executive and Defender of Integrity and Ratings. Think of me as a good-hearted Genghis Khan in designer pumps. Which, come to think of it, would probably be a show Reel World would love. Ugh.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m starting my regular routine at work—get in half an hour early, kick off my high heels under the desk while downing my extra shot, non fat latte, and shoot through my emails rapid fire—when my desk phone rings. I grab it and balance it against my shoulder while ripping open the top of my yogurt.
“Hey Suze. What’s up?” I ask, spying her on caller ID. I smile and lean back in my chair. Suze is my actual human best friend—stress and adrenaline never want to go to the Farmer’s Market on Sunday. I’m just taking a spoonful of key lime Greek when she says the magic, horrible words.
“Sanderson went AWOL with Maribelle on the Keys.”
To any normal person, this sounds like some weird army maneuver with a bunch of stupid names. To me, this results in a spilled yogurt on my work-chic gray skirt.
“Dammit!” I jump up, wiping at the offending breakfast with Kleenex. “Hold on. I’ll be right there,” I say, slamming the phone down. Once I’m properly de-yogurted, I run out of my cubicle and down towards Suze’s. Okay, by run I mean I urgent waddle. Pencil length fashionable work attire isn’t designed for badassery.
“Look at this,” Suze says, when I almost crash into her desk. She’s gone pale beneath her perfectly applied makeup, and brings up some footage on her computer. The video’s from the set of Millionaires in Paradise, a show that follows the exploits of the super hot and super rich in the super ritziest parts of Florida. Brian Sanderson, my boss, is wrapped up in Maribelle DeJour’s sweet, spray-tanned embrace.
Brian’s not supposed to be wrapped up in anything on screen. He’s the producer! Wincing, I squat down next to Suze and watch the madness unfold.
“We’re in love!” Brian cries, doing his best to shield Maribelle from the shaky cam that’s following their every move. “Mari’s not going back to her husband. She’s staying with me, and we’re not going to lie to you people any longer!”
Brian’s deep orange tan is going red. He actually throws his sunglasses to the floor.
“Like, exactly what he said!” Maribelle cries. She looks around, a little bit lost, like she’s not sure what the next line’s supposed to be. Maribelle’s a nice person, but she’s always been kind of confused.
“Get away!” Brian yells, throwing something else—I think it’s a diamond-encrusted vase—at the cameraman. Suze pauses the video and looks up at me.
“Apparently they got in a rowboat or something and hijacked Maribelle’s husband’s yacht. They could be in Cancun by now. Or Antarctica, if they keep going south.” Suze taps her bright red nails against her desk. “What happens now?”
We both know what this means. My boss is gone. The show is gone. My job is gone.
“How the hell could Brian do this?” I say, leaning back against the desk and sliding down the cabinets. The world around me is spinning. Millionaires in Paradise was my first big break here. Brian plucked me out of coffee-fetching obscurity. He was one of the only men who didn’t roll his eyes when I suggested ideas, who didn’t ask me to go pick out a gift for his wife on my lunch break. Being an assistant producer on Millionaires was the chance I’d been waiting for. I was learning the ropes, developing my own ideas. And now, in one shattered vase and stolen rowboat, it’s gone.
“Laurel?” Suze says, snapping her fingers in my face. “Earth to Laurel. Paging. Come back to me.”
“What, Suze? I’m in the middle of a highly professional spiritual crisis.” I stand up, and Suze looks down at my feet, her eyebrow quirked.
“Are you wearing Minion slippers? Like from Despicable Me?”
Damn. I knew I forgot something. My face heats up. “It’s just for desk work. Very professional,” I mutter, cursing my footwear. But they’re so cute, with their fuzzy yellow heads and goggles. And heels hurt, dammit.
Focus, Laurel!
“This isn’t the end,” Suze says, running a hand through her sleek black bob of hair. That’s the sort of thing your well-meaning friends say when they know this is the end. I’m finished at Reel World. No one else will notice o
r care now. If I’m not fired outright, I’ll fade into the wallpaper. It’ll be fabulous wallpaper with a designer blouse, but still: wallpaper.
“I have to get back to my desk,” I say, trying not to sound as lifeless as I feel. The Minions and I hike back and sit down to find, joy of joys, an email bearing the cheerful title ‘Sanderson’s Departure.’ I click and read, then proceed to do a very expressive double take. It’s from the assistant to Herman Davis, executive of development. He’s all the way on top, looking down over us mere mortals. I don’t think he’s been below the tenth floor in twenty years; he probably arrives and leaves via helicopter every day. So yeah, he’s hard to talk to. But he knows reality television inside and out.
And this email says he wants to see me in his office now. Right now. No loitering. I kick off my cartoon characters and slip into my heels before dodging out of the cubicle. My heart’s pounding as I jab the elevator button and wait. Part of me is afraid this is a “clear out your desk” type of meeting, but that doesn’t feel right. One of the company heavies doesn’t want to do HR’s grunt work.
It’s quiet on the top floor. The air up here tastes executive. The elevator doors whisper open, and I step out onto gray carpeting that’s so lush, my heels almost sink into it. I wobble a little as I pat my hair—brown, shoulder length, boring—into place. Keep it together, Laurel. You need to project cool confidence, not little girl skittishness. Already, the men passing me in the hallway grin sideways or look down to scope out my ass. Fucking sexist dickwads. Granted, I work at Pilates to make sure it’s a nice ass, but still. Gross.
The men up here are mostly executive level, mostly middle-aged and trying not to look it, mostly creeps with oiled hair and roving hands. With their buttoned-in martini paunches and desperately whitened teeth, they see me—young, female—as either a conquest or an annoyance, depending on how horny they are. But they’re not getting rid of me that easy. Not if I’m meeting with Herman Davis. I straighten my shoulders and walk on.