“Mr. Michaels,” a TMZ reporter calls out.
The camera swiftly zooms in on the reporter as he gallops toward the lingerie empire CEO.
Acting as though rightfully determined, the popular TMZ reporter shoves a microphone in Antonio’s face. “Please tell us what you know about the woman on the train. Is she some sort of acquaintance of yours? A scorned ex-girlfriend, perhaps?”
Antonio snickers as his lips curve into a sportive grin. “All I can say is I too am fervently trying to find the mystery woman, so if you guys happen to bump into her, please feel free to let me know.” He chuckles and appears to look directly into the lens of the camera. Producing what is unarguably a flirtatious gleam, he candidly blasts to all TV viewers, “Miss Potty Mouth, if you happen to be watching this, I’d still like to continue with that interview. Seems as though you could very well be just what I’ve been searching for—a no-holds-barred fireball.”
And just as I forecasted…
There goes that lightning strike.
Chapter 4
Antonio
Custom-rimmed tires on Jonah’s Tesla scream as he erratically peels out of the parking lot of my downtown office. “TM-fucking-Z, dude? Really?”
“I know, right? You see what happens when I decide to ride the Metro?”
I sway side to side, all five of my fingers gripping the car’s interior handle while Jonah mimics The Fast and The Furious, dashing in and out of traffic. He’s trying to evade the zealous TMZ paparazzi. He peers through the rearview mirror as he turns the corner, plowing into a cramped alley.
He rolls past a homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of accouterments before jolting to a halt in front of a trash dumpster.
“There,” he exhales, “I think I may have lost them.” He turns to face me, hazel eyes narrowed, glaring at me as if he were a coach about to chew out the star quarterback. “Now where to, Your Freakin’ Majesty?”
I hate when he calls me that. As if he’s my very own equerry. I should be so lucky.
“My house. And can you turn off Duran Duran—play something much more now? I guess you probably don’t realize this is 2017…not 1984.”
Admittedly, Jonah is a pretty cool dude, despite his obsession with the 1980s. Depeche Mode. Duran Duran. The Cure. Everything ’80s. Including his wardrobe. Blazer. T-shirt. Jeans. He looks like Rico Tubbs straight out of that 1980s cop show, Miami Vice.
He cranks up the volume, loud enough to irritate me. “The ’80s was the shit, man. Don’t knock music from my era,” he says as he moves his head to the music.
“Man”—I shoot him an over-exaggerated eye roll—“you’re not even from the ’80s. You were born in the ‘90s.”
“Barely. I was meant to be an ’80s kid. If only I’d been born a minute earlier, at least I would have made 1989.”
It’s annoyingly true. Jonah was born January 1st, 1990 at 12 a.m. And he’s been late to everything ever since.
He pulls out of the alley and, minutes later, we’re on the busy freeway, making our way toward my home in Beverly Hills.
“Why is it that every time you end up on TMZ, it’s behind a chick?”
He’s got a valid point. But the last time it was because a scorned ex-girlfriend rented billboard space that featured my home address and she also claimed to have sold details of my personal life to some tabloids. She teetered a little on the cray-cray side. Tinder. I should have swiped left.
“Yeah well, you know I haven’t had the best of luck with women. It’s hard to find someone interested in just me.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my phone to check email messages.
“Are you getting nervous, man?” he asks with a slight grin.
I toss him a guarded look. “Nervous about what?”
“Oh, you know what,” he says, one thick eyebrow lifted, hands firmly attached to the steering wheel, as he darts into the carpool lane.
“I try hard not to think or talk about it. So, if you don’t mind—”
“Dude.” He breaks into my attempt at an allusive response. “You can’t keep putting it off. I mean, if I were you I’d be shitting mega-sized bricks right about now.”
But he’s not me.
“Look.” I shove my phone back into my pocket. “I do appreciate your concern. But honestly man, this is my problem, not yours. I’ll figure it all out.”
I hope.
Jonah rolls his shoulder, then raises a mocking thumbs-up. “Right. But I’d hate to be the one to say, ‘I told you so’.”
I shift my gaze to peer out the tinted window as we zoom past cars on the freeway.
Like a fuckin’ broken record, Jonah’s words play in my head over and over and over again: Are you nervous? You can’t keep putting it off.
If only I could put off my 30th birthday. Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue. But for me, being single on my 30th birthday could be viewed by some as a potential lifestyle changer.
“I’ll focus on that crap, just as soon as the Fashion Show and Lingerie Ball are done and over with.” I look back at Jonah who has cranked up the six-speaker stereo, this time bobbing his head to music of The Cure.
I should have caught an Uber.
“I’m already packed.” He looks at me, his smile as mischievous as the Joker’s.
And of course he’s already packed. The Fashion Show is all he talks about.
Every. Single. Year.
It’s an annual affair in Milan, Italy that CraveMe has never missed. Naturally, Jonah attends the ball each year since CraveMe is one of his Marketing Firm’s top clients. He’s good at video editing and always seems to capture flawless images of the Fashion Show. He then transforms them into trendsetting brand promos.
I let out a soft chuckle. “Why am I not at all surprised you’re already packed?”
With a lopsided smirk Jonah looks at me. “You know I can’t disappoint the beautiful ladies of Milan. I packed all my GQ man of the year shit. I’m leaving Milan with a girlfriend this year. You watch.”
That would be Jonah’s ceremonial proclamation.
Truth is, he’s been searching for a girlfriend now for the past four years. But no woman can seem to measure up to whatever embellished expectation he has.
Exiting the freeway, he drives along Wilshire Blvd, eventually turning onto Beverly Drive.
“Thanks for picking me up, and losing TMZ, man. I’ve had enough of videos and cameras for the day.”
“No worries, my man. What’s up with that chick anyway…Miss Potty Mouth? She certainly is a hottie. I saw the video trending all over the internet. Pretty hilarious.” He pulls up my long driveway and the car rolls to a stop.
I open the door and jump out, patting my pockets, making sure I’ve got my phone and my keys. “Her name is Daniella and all I know is, I’m dying to find her. Liza is searching every possible source and she’ll text me once she locates her.”
Jonah raises two skeptical eyebrows. “Well, alrighty then. Good luck with that. I’ll catch ya later.”
I shut the door, whack the roof of the car, and Jonah speeds off toward his house…which is, incidentally, on the same block.
But don’t judge us. The two of us are like the brothers we never had.
Several hours have passed and the media is still relentless in their coverage of me. Don’t they have more interesting guys to report on?
Surely some Pop-star must be having an onstage concert meltdown somewhere.
The crisp February air skates across my face as I open the glass sliding door and step out into my backyard. The view is sedative. Just what I need. I’ve lived in this house, this city, this way, for my entire life.
I’ll admit it’s a grandiose lifestyle. But I crave change. Something fresh. Different. Unexpected.
Something—
The sound of my phone’s sharp tone thrusts me out of my pensive I hate being a rich guy moment.
A text from Liza.
Liza: Hey Boss. Great news!
I can feel the corne
r of my mouth lift into a smile.
Could she have found Daniella?
Oh God, please, yes.
Me: I can use some great news.
Liza: I found Miss Potty Mouth! Seems she’s a nanny for an entertainment lawyer in Beverly Hills.
Me: Wait. So she’s a nanny?
Maybe Liza texted the word nanny in error.
Autocorrect always fails.
Like the time I texted an investment banker that I was looking forward to riding his kick-ass body when I meant to text I was looking forward to riding his kick-ass boat.
Yeah. That was a definite fail.
Forty long seconds later, Liza replies.
Liza: Yes. A live-in nanny. Anyway, would you like her address?
I allow the text to simmer in my brain before I respond. I mean, do I really want to just show up to this woman—Daniella’s residence?
Seconds later, thumbs trembling in excitement, I text my reply.
Me: Hell yeah.
Chapter 5
Daniella
Seven.
My lucky number.
It’s also the age I was when I began sketching, designing, and sewing outfits for my doll babies. Six months later, I ingeniously set up shop in the basement of my foster mom’s house and began making, then selling doll clothes to all the little girls on the block. I was making a killing. At least until my two trollish foster sisters squealed. My foster mom went full-on RoboCop, shutting down my operation, as if I were the neighborhood dope dealer.
Memories.
That’s what’s been sweeping through my mind since I decided to bask in the delight of having the house all to myself for the entire week.
Stacy’s will be heading to New York for a drab lawyer’s convention (boring) and Emma’s already left to spend a week with her dad. Even if Emma were here, it’s not like she truly needs me. Not like she did five years ago anyway. Being a full-time nanny to a sixteen—almost seventeen-year-old—is nearly non-existent compared to that of an eleven-year-old. Which is why I was so looking forward to getting that Personal Assistant gig at CraveMe.
In all actuality, finding work anywhere but here is a must. I can’t expect to stay, working as a nanny to a seventeen-year-old. Don’t get me wrong; my living arrangements are pretty spectacular. I’ve got an eight-hundred-square foot en-suite-style bedroom and full privileges in this exquisite home, not to mention a generous monthly stipend that I’ve been able to stow away in a savings account for the last five years. Sure, as a nanny, I’m expected to clean, cook, do laundry, run errands, etc. But I’m no damn Cinderella, and the older Emma gets, the more awkward it is to be called her nanny.
My plan was to take on the job as the PA, move into my own place, and eventually work up the nerve to present my portfolio to whomever is in charge of design submissions.
Yet, since that opportunity got all screwed up, I submitted seven online applications this evening to all sorts of jobs, hoping and dreaming for a break.
Any break.
I pour myself a second glass of Merlot, prance my half-tipsy ass into my bathroom to draw a luxurious bubble-filled bath, and push the play button on my MP3, blasting the hell out of Pat Benitar’s Love is a Battlefield.
Don’t you dare judge me. I mean who doesn’t fancy songs from the ’80s?
The bubble-filled bath summons me with its tranquilizing lavender scent, sudsy clouds of bliss, and the flickering of lights from neon-colored flameless candles I’ve placed along the edge of the tub.
I peel off my clothes, twist my hair into an unkempt bun, and descend into my toasty bubble cocoon, with wine glass in hand, finding solitude as I escape from today’s lousy events.
Tomorrow will be a better day.
No breakup text message (I never replied to Jake), no Metro train crowds, no jelly donuts, no TV reports featuring Yours Truly, and absolutely no Antonio Michaels.
It’s been over an hour now. The water has cooled, bubbles dissipated, wine digested, and my MP3 has completed the bubble bath playlist. I’m beyond relaxed, feeling the way I do after a massage, a first kiss, or a toe-curling orgasm—the kind I haven’t had in ages, by the way.
The house is quiet, the sound of the bathtub faucet’s perpetual drip echoing in the placidity.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hypnotized by the sound.
Drip. Drip. Drip—
Ding Dong.
What the fuck?
My eyes spring open at the intrusive, bell-tower-like toll.
The doorbell? Perhaps I heard wrong—drifted off and dreamt of the doorbell ringing?
Ding Dong.
I stiffen, slightly startled by the tone.
It’s definitely the doorbell.
Water glides off me as I rise up. Grabbing the oversized towel off the rack, I drape it around me, stepping out of the tub, one foot at a time, onto the plush white rug. The towel pools around my ankles as I reach for the black satin robe hanging on the hook by the bathroom door. I slip into the robe and rush to the front door, turning on lights as I race closer.
I can just kill Emma. She always forgets to close the gate when she leaves, practically inviting solicitors to the front door. And it’s probably little Sarah from across the street, fixed on selling me another damn box of Girl Scout Cookies. She knows I’ve got a terrible weakness for Thin Mints.
The bell rings again and I swing the door open, fully prepared to send little Sarah on her way.
No cookies today, Sarah, sorry.
Only, it’s not Sarah.
Why can’t it be Sarah?
I fidget, clenching the front part of my robe with one hand, and pat my unkempt bun with the other.
My cheeks are on fire. What is he even doing here?
Antonio fucking Michaels.
And, God, does he look perfectly amazing.
Leather Jacket. Light Blue Jeans. Black, Pectoral-Hugging T-Shirt. Oxford Shoes.
“Hey there.” A smile dances on his lips as his heady, dark blue eyes give me a sweeping once-over.
“If you’re looking for jelly donuts, you’ll have to look elsewhere,” I say, nose in the air, flashing a cynical side-eye.
He rubs his chin, smirks, and props his hand up against the door frame. “Do you ever have anything nice to say?”
“Probably not.” I resist the urge to chuckle, despite the fact my lips have curved their way into a half-smile.
He runs his tongue across his upper lip, and I can see a playful gleam in his eyes as he surveys my ensemble.
Satin Robe. Barefoot. Messy Hair.
All that’s missing to round out my appearance is a light green mud mask splattered over my entire face.
“Is this a bad time?” The sarcastic tone darts out of his mouth like a cork bursting out of a champagne bottle.
“I was having a relaxing bath. You know, to forget all about today’s events.” I glare at him and fold my arms, the realization of him standing at my door just settling in. “And what are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“Yeah. About that.” He taps his fingers along the edge of the door frame and briefly looks toward the sky before shifting his gaze back to me. “I was hoping we could go forward with the interview. For the PA position?”
I stare at him for ten long seconds, maybe even more, before shrugging my shoulders.
“Listen,” he says, his shoulder now leaning on the door frame. “I know we had a rough start today, but there’s something about you that I find—”
“Okay,” I interrupt. “When and where would you like to have this interview? Tomorrow? Your downtown office again?”
With raised eyebrows, he replies in an inviting purr-like tone that makes my sensitive lady parts beg for a cold shower. “How about right now?”
Chapter 6
Daniella
“What the hell do you mean he just showed up?” Stacy’s bark echoes over the loudspeaker of my phone that sits on one of the many shoe shelves in my walk-in closet.
I’m franticall
y searching for something to wear.
Something impressive. Interview-y.
“I don’t know…just like that—poof—he magically appeared and now he’s in the living room waiting to take me to Fornaio.” I toss another unworthy article of clothing onto the closet floor. “Believe me, I’m just as shocked as you are.”
“And he wants to conduct an interview? Right now? As in tonight? At Fornaio? That’s a pretty upscale restaurant for a job interview.” Her mockery radiates through the phone. “Does he look as hot as he did on that TMZ interview?”
“Stacy!” I growl. “Now is so not the time to be joking around.” I pause, still in my closet, looking at my reflection in the floor-length mirror. “But, yes…even hotter.”
“I knew it.” She lets out a victory laugh. “What are you gonna wear?”
I shrug , even though she can’t see me and continue my frantic search. “Maybe I’ll just go dressed as I am right now. Black lacy bra. Black—just as lacy—panties. Black stilettos.”
“You’re so damn cute when you’re being coy. Anyway, you know I’m no fashion guru, but I do think your black pencil skirt and that beige cashmere sweater Emma got you for Christmas will look smashing. Actually, whatever you wear will be fine.”
“Then bra, panties, and stilettos it is,” I kid.
“Well, let me know how it goes, love. Just text me. I’ll be on that flight to New York by the time you get back home, no doubt.”
“Sounds good. Have a safe flight.”
“Thanks, babe. And good luck.”
After yanking the beige cashmere sweater and pencil skirt off their hangers, I slip them on and survey my getup in the mirror.
Elle Woods meets Charlotte York.
Totally works for me.
I work my hair into a wispy ponytail, apply a few light coats of mascara, and give my lips a dab of light pink lip gloss, then grab my handbag, résumé, and letter of recommendation.
Blowing this second-chance interview would be a travesty. Sure, Antonio is still a yummy jerk, yet the opportunity to work for him is undoubtedly the break I need. And even though him showing up here is oddly unconventional, I look at this as another chance to make a great impression.
Cinderella-ish (Razzle My Dazzle Book 1) Page 3