The office still smelled like him.
A text popped up from Angela.Elinor’s looking for you.
I blew my nose.Coming.
I switched off the light and locked the door.
Chapter Forty-One
The three dresses I had overnighted from Bloomingdale’s for the book launch still hadn’t arrived by Thursday.
“I’m so screwed,” I whispered to Angela. “I have that thing tonight, and I have no idea where the shipment of dresses went.”
“Check the tracking info,” she suggested.
“Right,” I said, rubbing my left eye with my knuckle. All this work was making me suck at real life. I should have just gone back to Rent the Runway.
“FedEx says it was delivered two days ago.”
“Did you check your office?” she asked.
My eyes widened. I grabbed my lanyard and darted up the interior stairwell. If they weren’t there, I was going to the book launch in a gray suit.
“You idiot,” I muttered to myself as I opened the door to three packages stacked on top of my desk chair. I carried the plastic garment bags to the restroom, trying each one as quickly as I could. They were all too big, even though I had subsisted on the no-exercise, pizza-and-Chinese-food diet for the last month.
My phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. We had a scheduled meeting with the partners about the report in fifteen minutes. I folded up a black Helmut Lang dress with a subtle cinch in the waistline,dropped the others back in my office, and grabbed a pair of heels from under my desk.
Three hours later, I walked up Fifth Avenue to MoMA. Andie was greeting everyone as they arrived.
“You made it!” she squealed as I walked in and tried to hide my laptop bag under my coat.
“Oh my god,checkthose,” she said, giving me a five-second hug.
She stood back and looked at me. “You’re lucky you have that naturally fresh-faced look, Sam. Only I can tell how tired you are.”
“I have all the energy I need,” I said, genuinely excited for her.
“Okay, go mingle without your plus-one, you power woman.”
I checked my coat and held onto my bag just in case I needed to crouch in a corner with my laptop. My world was two stark realities.
There were blowups of the book cover everywhere. She looked amazing. Not airbrushed in the slightest, just her vibrant, sharpest self. I felt a strong sense of pride.
I spotted George Brenner holding court with journalists and aVanity Fairphotographer. He caught my eye and waved me over.
“Everyone, this is Andie’s defense lawyer and my script consultant for the movie,” he said warmly as the photographer motioned for us to move closer so he could snap a photo.
I politely excused myself as more journalists gathered around George. I grabbed a glass of prosecco and walked past the cocktail tables, each one topped with a placard displaying a short excerpt from the book.
“Do we know each other?” a voice asked from behind my shoulder.
I turned around. Something about him was familiar.
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly. His face was friendly but striking, with high cheekbones and ever-so-slightly tinted designer glasses.
“Frank Trustman. Are you based in New York?” he asked.
I nodded. “Sam DeFiore. What about you?”
