Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“No, you’re not going to think about that,” I mutter to my reflection.
Thinking about Olly’s penis is a good way to end up back in bed with it again, and I can’t afford distractions right now. Not even a fabulously sexy one so perfectly shaped and highly skilled that I might never meet its match again.
My entire professional future is on the line. Maya’s counting on me. The catering company and florists we keep busy in New York are counting on me. And how will my family feel if they learn I bailed on our Darling Family Christmas only to fly home an embarrassment and a failure?
Nope. That’s not going to happen.
I refuse to let it.
I hustle out of the bathroom, stuff my old clothes into my dirty linen bag, and zip up my roller. A few minutes later, I find my giant purse on the floor by the couch, my laptop still tucked safely inside its protective sleeve.
But a thorough paw through the rest of the contents turns up no sign of my cell.
I open my suitcase again to check my blazer and skirt pockets—nothing—then empty my purse onto the floor. But aside from a roll of mints I missed the first time, my purse holds nothing of interest. Popping a mint into my mouth, I check the cushions on the couch, every inch of the carpet—including in the bedroom, where Olly is still fast asleep—and the hallway leading to the elevator outside.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve checked everywhere, including inside the mostly-empty kitchen cupboards and the fridge, and I’m starting to panic.
I can’t leave without my phone!
My entire life is in there—my calendar, my contacts, my notebook app full of lists, my color-coded crisis management apps.
But it’s also synced with my laptop, I remember, a whisper of hope filtering through my increasingly anxious thoughts. And my laptop has a “find my device” app I’ve used before, back when my ex-boyfriend and I had the same phone case, and he kept taking my cell to work by mistake.
The tightness in my chest easing a bit, I pull out my laptop and settle onto the couch. I connect to the building’s thankfully password-free WIFI, but before I can navigate to the app, the notifications hit like an avalanche.
Maya: OMG EMILY ARE YOU OKAY? HAVE YOU SEEN IT? YOU HAVE TO HAVE SEEN IT, RIGHT? Ugh, I’m so sorry. Journalists are awful. I hate them! I mean, not all journalists, but the tabloid ones. They deserve to be drawn and quartered. Or at least have every embarrassing picture anyone has ever taken of them leaked online.
Maya: Shit, it’s not even six a.m. over there. You might not have seen it. You probably aren’t awake yet, are you? Or you might be DEAD! Are you dead? Please text me as soon as you get this and let me know that you’re not dead, okay?
Maya: UPDATE: You are probably not dead. I just googled this guy, and he seems harmless. I mean, not harmless to your reputation as you are currently TRENDING ON UK TWITTER in a very unpleasant way. And I’m pretty sure this is the kind of thing that proves not ALL publicity is good publicity. But harmless as far as the chances that you are lying dead in a ditch with your guts spilling out onto the blood-splattered snow. God, I’ve watched way too many crime documentaries. I’m going to stop that in the New Year. Or start watching even more if we go bankrupt, and I have nothing to do with my time except move back into my childhood bedroom and binge Netflix with my parents. Please know that I’m not blaming you for this—you have every right to go home with a hot British guy—but this could be the nail in the coffin for Darling Events. We have to get out ahead of this and make it better somehow. Rewrite the narrative. Take control of the story. Something! There has to be a way.
Maya: I have an idea! A brilliant idea. Call me as soon as you get this. I’m not going to bed until we run damage control.
Maya: I mean it. Call me the second you wake up.
Maya: DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT LOOK AT TWITTER. IT WILL MAKE YOU SAD, AND I NEED YOU FOCUSED, NOT SAD!
“What is happening?” I mutter, rising to pace in front of the couch, laptop balanced in one hand.
I could try Facetiming Maya on my computer—that should work until I can find my phone—but I have to know what’s happening first.
And why half my contacts in New York are texting me, too…
A quick scroll through the rest of the messages reveals a mixture of friends congratulating me on my hot date, apologizing for how cruel people can be, and asking me to text them all the hot gossip ASAP.