Lauren
“AND I WANT YOU, Lauren, to cover the story.”
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, what?” I paused my notes to meet my editor’s stare, stifling the groan that wanted to pop from my mouth. Truthfully, I was only half listening during this morning’s staff meeting, but what little I’d heard wasn’t exactly flipping my interest switch.
“‘Hottest Bachelor in Town.’ I want you to write it,” Patrice answered, tapping her manicured finger against the slick tabletop. “Pay attention, please.”
I didn’t say the actual word, but my expression clearly said blech, and Patrice Winneham, executive editor of Luxe magazine, wasn’t known for her willingness to hear objections. “Problem?” she asked with a layer of frost blanketing her tone.
The last thing I wanted to write was some frivolous article on New York’s most eligible and, more important, rich bachelors, but I needed my job. “No problem,” I lied through my teeth. By now it should’ve become second nature, but it still curdled my guts to pretend to care about stories that held no bearing on actual life.
Like the world needed another spread on complete and utter nonsense. The longer I worked for Luxe, the more I was certain I would be required to turn in my feminist card because of crap assignments like this.
Who knew the going rate for a piece of your soul is the bargain-basement price of rent on a shitty apartment in Brooklyn. From my peripheral I caught our newest and youngest staffer nearly wetting herself to land this gig, and I readily threw her a bone.
“Actually, I really think Daphne would kill a story like that,” I suggested, casting a helpful look down the boardroom table toward the young redhead. Daphne was practically nodding her head off in eager agreement, salivating at the prospect. I smiled. “She’s got that young voice that I think would really sell the piece far better than me.”
Also, because the idea of pandering to an overprivileged prick is about as appealing as jamming a pen in my eye. But I couldn’t exactly say that without risking my job, and as shitty as the job was, it paid the bills—granted, barely—but still, they were paid.
“Yes, and she’s also gullible,” Patrice replied without apology, continuing with a briefly held smile, “and would likely end up falling in love with the man before the interview was finished. That’s a headache I don’t need. No, you’ll do the interview. End of story.” Patrice added with a warning glower, “And wear something nice. You’re representing Luxe.”
I ignored Patrice’s not-so-subtle dig. Fashion wasn’t my God, and I didn’t worship at the altar of haute couture. I’d wear what I pleased. “Fit before fashion” was my mantra, and I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for the women who chose to trudge around the city in high heels who, by the end of the day, were rubbing the agony from their barking dogs.
Nope, I sailed right past them in my sensible flats, happy as a clam and stealing their cab because I could run faster.
I caught Daphne’s crestfallen expression. Poor girl, I could only imagine how her dreams of working at a high-end magazine like Luxe were nothing like the reality.
I remembered being that idealistic newbie.
Now I was the jaded staffer who ran on a steady diet of cynicism and sarcasm, with the occasional sprinkling of “WTF?” thrown in for flavor.
Patrice, satisfied that her word was law, moved on with a smug smile. “We have managed to snag one of the sexiest bachelors yet from a distinguished family, old-world money, if you can imagine such a thing anymore. A real Italian stallion, if you will, and having this hottie on the cover is going to snag eyeballs, but I need someone experienced to handle the copy.”
Irritated and bored but having at least the sense to put on a good face, I forced a smile to ask, “And the name of this sexy and single vagina hound?”
“Wait for it...” Patrice paused for dramatic effect before gushing, “Nico Donato of Donato Inc. His family hails from Italy, starting with a humble yet wildly successful winery in Tuscany. Isn’t that dreamy? Does anything else scream romance more than the Italian countryside?”
I wouldn’t know, I wanted to quip. It’d been a long time since I’d experienced anything resembling romance after my ex ran off when I was five months pregnant—six years ago.
It was safe to say the most romance I’d had in my life consisted of furtive moments spent hiding in the closet with my Magic Wand.
Was it TMI if I admitted I’d already burned through three of those hardy vibrators? I rubbed at the phantom scorch mark left over from my last vibrator when it rudely caught fire in my hand.
So, yeah, romance? Not even sure I would recognize it if it bit me in the ass, but that was okay because men were a complication I didn’t need in my life. I was perfectly happy with the way things were, and I didn’t need wine and roses from some man to feel complete.
Did I miss an actual warm body to cuddle with on cold nights?
