By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy Page 10

  While I debated the possibilities, another message arrived.

  Dominic: Nelson was crushed that you wouldn’t let him go to Jersey with you. You owe him an apology.

  Holy cheese and crackers. The man was texting me. On purpose.

  I wondered if the cab he’d paid for had accidentally delivered me to a different time dimension where the Dominic Russos and Ally Moraleses of the world got along.

  Me: Sorry to have dashed Nelson’s dreams. I hope he’ll forgive me.

  I debated thanking Dom for the cab money. But decided it was safer to just pay him back instead. Ugh. Another unforeseen expense. But Dominic Russo wasn’t the kind of man I wanted to be beholden to.

  Dominic: How’s the family emergency?

  Me: Under control. Why are you being nice?

  Dominic: I’m not being nice. I’m seeing if you decided to quit yet.

  Finished with the bagel, I flopped back against my pillow.

  Me: That sounds more realistic. I was worried you’d somehow managed to activate your soul.

  Dominic: One must have a soul in order to activate it.

  I worked up a smile as I stared at my screen. Was he being funny? On purpose?

  Me: Are you drunk? Or do you only sprout a personality after dark? Or wait, is this Greta?

  Dominic: You’re annoying.

  Me: Drunk Greta, is that you?

  Dominic: Are you coming into work Monday or not?

  Me: As long as you swear never to wear a vest again. Don’t ruin this fetish for me, Charming. I’ll hate you forever.

  Dominic: Afraid you can’t resist me, Maleficent?

  Me: You’re SO not my type… but just to be on the safe side. Ditch the vests.

  Dominic: I’ll think about it. Did you have dinner?

  I rolled my eyes and scooped up a spoonful of ramen. The man had an obsession with food.

  Me: Yes.

  Dominic: Did you take a cab home?

  Me: I did. Thanks. I have change for you.

  Dominic: Shut up and go to sleep.

  I had no idea what his game was, but I was tired enough to do as he demanded.

  16

  Ally

  I came into work Monday dragging ass. My mood was reflected in the head-to-toe black-on-black of my outfit. The only signs of Fun, Energetic Me were my gold hoop earrings with tiny colored beads, a Christmas gift from my father a few years ago.

  “Hey, girl,” Gola said, popping up in my cubicle, sucking down a green smoothie. “How was your weekend? How did that out of office meeting go with Mr. So Cold He’s Hot?”

  My weekend had been a mess. I squeezed in hospital visits between bar shifts, dance classes, and a sorry-for-flaking-on-you last-minute catering gig my boss had offered up. I hadn’t so much as lifted a broom or watched a “How to Hang Drywall Yourself” YouTube tutorial.

  I was so far behind on my plan that it made me want to hyperventilate into a paper bag just thinking about it.

  To make matters worse, my last visit with my dad had been an ugly one. I could handle him not knowing who I was. I could handle him calling me by my mother’s name. Hell, I could even handle him listlessly staring into space.

  But I couldn’t handle it when the man I’d known and loved all my life became aggressive. It happened. Something would trigger him, sending him into an agitated state and the happy, kind-hearted, lovable man disappeared only to be replaced with a belligerent, violent stranger.

  “The meeting was good. The designer was great. And I just worked all weekend,” I told her. “You?”

  “I met a guy,” she said, trying to bring the straw to her lips but nearly taking out an eye instead.

  “You did?” I wasn’t in the market. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t live vicariously through friends’ lives.

  “Lunch. I’m definitely going to need more details about you sitting side-by-side in the back seat with a certain gorgeous grump in Midtown traffic,” she warned me.

  “And I want to know all about this guy,” I told her.

  She wiggled her fingers at me and headed toward her desk.

  I booted up my desktop and was pulling my headphones out of my bag when Zara and her sticky notes appeared. “Don’t get comfortable,” she said blandly.

  “Fired already?” Damn that Dominic Russo.

  “New assignment,” she said, peeling off a note and slapping it on my desk. “Linus needs extra hands this week. You’re the lucky admin. You’ll be stationed at a temp desk near his office on forty-three for the week.”

  “On it,” I said, slipping my headphones back into the bag.

  “On your way, hit up IT. They have something for you,” she said.

  I frowned. “What is it?”

  “How the hell should I know? No one bothers to tell me anything,” she said. “Now go be productive and drop some hints that your supervisor has her eye on the new Marc Jacobs bag in case Linus needs to rehome it after the shoot tomorrow.”

  * * *

  IT was a dungeony, cave-like room full of unhappy, casually dressed creatures.

  I introduced myself to the closest one just across the countertop that protected the staff from human encounters.

  The girl had jet black hair tied in pigtails on top of her head and wore a baggy pink sweatshirt that said Try Unplugging It. Her jeans were name brand and distressed in all of the right places.

  “We can’t help you with your personal electronic problems without a Help Desk Ticket,” she said flatly, her dark eyes boring soullessly into mine. She slid an iPad toward me. “Fill this out, and we’ll get to you when we get to you.”

  If bored were a human, I was looking at her.

  “Uh. Yeah. Actually, I’m here to pick something up,” I told her.

  She blinked in slow motion.

  “I’m Ally Morales from the admin pool,” I tried again. “My supervisor said I was supposed to stop in and pick something up.”

  “Oh.” Pigtails wandered away, and I stood there, unsure if I should follow her or wait to catch the attention of a different robot.

  I was still debating when she returned with two boxes. “Here.” She slid them across the skinny countertop.

  “What’s this?”

  She slow blinked again. “It’s a laptop and a phone. They are smaller, more portable versions of—”

  I held up my hands, surrendering to her sarcasm. “I mean, why am I getting a laptop and a phone?” I asked, convinced there’d been a mistake. Especially since the laptop was the latest and greatest model that had bells and whistles for graphic design.

  I’d secretly slobbered over a similar model in an electronics store a few weeks ago and added it to my Future Ally List. Right under a mango margarita with a long straw.

  “You want me to tell you why you need a computer and a phone to do your job?”

  I had a feeling Pigtails was one second away from unplugging me.

  “Never mind,” I said, taking the boxes and backing away. If it was a mistake, someone would tell me about it sooner or later. In the meantime, I could dabble with fun new technology. “Thanks.”

  Pigtails didn’t respond.

  * * *

  Linus had an office down the hall from Dalessandra’s and was unfortunately also two doors down from Dominic’s frozen den of grumpiness. But I didn’t have time to worry or fantasize about Dom. Linus, in black trousers and another black turtleneck—I wisely swallowed the twinsies joke on the tip of my tongue—gave me a generous twenty seconds to stow my stuff at an empty desk before following him.

  He flung instructions at me over his shoulder as we dodged assistants and makeup artists and delivery people.

  There were models partially dressed in athletic wear pouting for makeup artists and working frantic thumbs over phone screens while stylists attacked their hair.

  Still more people were organizing endless rolling racks of clothing.

  “I need you to track down the size-eight Nikes because Colossus over there lied about
her shoe size,” he said, waving a dismissive hand toward a barefoot model dressed in running tights and a crop top. Her hair was classified as wind-machine-Beyoncé fierce.

  Size eight.

  “Once you do that, get the crew’s coffee order. We need these people caffeinated.”

  Coffee order. Easy.

  From what I could tell, everyone present had already downed multiple espressos.

  The photo studio was a circus. Busy worker bees unfurled white backdrops while photographers and assistants tested lighting and barked orders. Tables with every hair and makeup product known to humanity cut an L down the middle of the space. On the far wall was another table with sad-looking low-carb snacks.

  “What about lunch?” I asked hopefully.

  Linus stopped in his tracks, and I bumped into him. “Ally, these people don’t eat. They drink, and they smoke, and they work very hard. Then they go home to drink and smoke some more.”

  “No lunch. Got it,” I said.

  He stormed on, weaving his way through a crowd of model assistants. I could tell they were assistants because they were dressed and made up to the nines but had their phones trained on their bosses.

  “Then you need to go to this address, pick up four dogs, and bring them to the Balcony Bridge at Central Park no later than two p.m. We have a very tight window with the permits and the light. Do not. I repeat. Do not fuck this up.”

  “Hang on,” I said. “Dogs?”

  Linus spun around and gave an elegant eye-roll. “You are not here to have all of your life’s questions answered. You are here to cross off items on my to-do list.”

  “Dogs. Linus. I don’t have a car. What am I supposed to do? Take them on the subway?”

  He retrieved a black silk handkerchief from a pocket and daintily dabbed at his forehead. “Try not to be completely useless, Admin Ally. You will take one of the company SUVs. Preferably one that won’t need to be used tomorrow so the driver can get it cleaned before God forbid someone important gets dog hair on their gown. You will go to the address, pick up the dogs, and bring them to—”

  “Central Park. Yeah. I got that part,” I said dryly.

  I spotted a Nike shoebox shoved under one of the makeup tables and ducked to scoop it up.

  Size eight.

  Triumphantly, I held the box toward Linus. He held up his palms. “Don’t give them to me. Give them to Colossus, along with a judgmental look for providing fake measurements. Then coffee. Then dogs.”

  “Is there anything else? How about a tasty little pastry to go with your coffee?”

  “Be gone, woman.”

  I’d managed all of three steps before I heard Linus’s stage whisper. “Blueberry scone.”

  I grinned and got to work.

  17

  Ally

  The behind-the-scenes of a Label editorial photo shoot was exciting enough, interesting enough, to pull me out of my funk.

  In front of me, five models preened and posed for the photographer on a set constructed entirely out of white boxes. Music thudded from overhead speakers. The contributing editor in charge of the shoot gnawed nervously on a pen cap behind the photographer.

  There was a bearded dude in stonewashed jeans whose sole job seemed to be flipping a large piece of cardboard at the models to make their hair look windblown.

  Linus snuck his phone out of his pocket and snapped a few pictures in rapid succession.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  He checked his watch and nudged me toward the door.

  “We’re doing high-level babysitting,” he explained, firing off a text and tucking his phone back into his pocket.

  “You’re reporting to Dalessandra,” I guessed, taking a slurp of the cappuccino I’d ordered myself on the company card. The caffeine and sugar made me giddy.

  “That’s right. I reassure her that everyone is doing their jobs so she can focus on doing hers. Usually it’s all lies, and we’re all just holding on by a thread.”

  I ducked as an assistant trundled a rolling rack between us.

  When it passed, Linus was already halfway across the room. He snapped his fingers as he headed toward the door.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, jogging to keep up.

  He gave me a scornful head-to-toe look. “To do something with that God-awful footwear. And maybe the pants if we have time.”

  * * *

  A Carolina Herrera skirt hit me in the face. I barely managed to catch the red, high-waisted pants that came next. We were in the area of the forty-second floor dubbed The Closet. It was a huge expanse of ruthlessly organized racks and shelves. Thousands of designer samples lived in this room.

  My heart tapped out a happy little pitter-pat when I spotted the pair of leather moto leggings that I was positive Cher had been photographed in last year.

  “This, too.” A gold corded belt flew in my direction. My arms were already full of luxury brand apparel, rained down upon me by a man who’d apparently lost his mind.

  Linus turned away from the rack and held up a creamy cable-knit sweater to my chest. “Eh, close enough,” he muttered

  “What exactly is all this for?” I asked, spitting green silk out of my mouth.

  “For you, Admin Ally with the wardrobe of a sad, poor teenager.”

  “I can’t afford any of these,” I squeaked as he dropped a pair of slobber-inducing pumps in purple suede on top of the pile. I was starting to tip backward.

  “These are all seasons old. No one needs them. No one but you, Ms. Thrift Shop 1998.”

  “Linus, I have zero money. Like ‘if I see a penny, I will pick it up’ have no money.”

  “Don’t be annoying. I’m gifting these to you like a black, crabby Santa.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Half of the items I was clutching fell to the floor.

  He rolled his eyes and picked up a floral print dress. “Try to show Tracy Reese a modicum of respect.”

  “Are you messing with me right now because I have to be honest. If you tell me these are all mine for free, and then you turn around and say ‘psych,’ I will cry and very possibly burn down your house.”

  “Psych?” he repeated with disdain. “We’ll worry about your vocabulary later. For now, let’s focus on the more important. Your appearance.”

  A laptop. A smartphone. And a new designer wardrobe.

  “Is it Christmas? Did I somehow stumble onto the set of Oprah’s Favorite Things?” I asked, still afraid to get my hopes up.

  “These are not presents. I am not a benevolent lady billionaire. These are tools to do your job. I can’t have you waltzing around Central Park photo shoots looking like fifty-percent-off day at the second-hand church sale.”

  “Your words wound me, Linus,” I said, drooling over the pair of to-die-for caramel suede booties he pointed to.

  I wanted to make out with them.

  “I don’t care. I just can’t take this shapeless sweater thing for one more second. You’re making my forehead veins throb.”

  “You don’t have forehead veins.”

  “Thanks to BOTOX. Now don’t make my forehead veins pop through the botulism barrier. Go put on anything other than that outfit and grab one of the Burberry coats on your way out.”

  “You don’t fool me,” I told him over the armload of fashion.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sniffed.

  “You’re being nice and covering it up with charming mean.”

  “Begone, Didn’t Wear It Better.”

  “I’ll make you proud,” I promised as I headed in the direction of the closest restroom.

  “I doubt that,” he called after me. “Change fast. You have twenty-three minutes for lunch and then dogs.”

  * * *

  I raced down to the cafeteria with my lunch—beef fried rice from Mrs. Grosu—and threw myself into a chair next to Ruth.

  “I have three minutes before I have to leave to go pick up four purebred Afghan hounds.”

&n
bsp; “That sweater,” Gola said.

  “Those boots,” Ruth breathed.

  “I just told you I’m running a dog trafficking scheme, and you want to talk fashion?” I joked.

  “Welcome to Label,” Gola snickered. “I once had to wait five hours in an emergency department to pick up half a dozen sweaters that a bike messenger was carrying when he got hit by a cab. How’s life on the forty-third floor?”

  “Colorful. Chaotic. We need to catch up,” I said as I ripped the lid off my meal. I didn’t have time to heat it up.

  “Let’s grab drinks after work,” Ruth suggested.

  “Can’t,” I said through a mouthful of rice. “Teaching a dance class tonight.”

  “Where? We’ll come,” Gola said, perking up.

  “It’s not ballet,” I warned them.

  “Is it hip-hop?” Ruth wanted to know. “Can I wear leg warmers? I live for any excuse to wear leg warmers.”

  “Leg warmers are great. And it’s pop and hip-hop and R&B. Kind of like dirty dancing for fitness.”

  “Yaaaaas!” Ruth clapped her hands. “This is the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

  “Wine after,” Gola decided.

  “Our treat,” Ruth said before I could remind them of my poorness.

  “One glass. I have to finish up a pitch on a freelance gig.” One that would hopefully net me a few hundred dollars.