Allegra’s perfect body is proof that the Lord favors certain people.
It’s also further proof there’s zero chance that I’d ever make it as a model. I like cake too much. And hate the gym. Which is a good thing, really, since I have no time for bench presses. Or Pilates.
“Thanks for taking care of me last night,” she addresses my boss. “You were so sweet.Lord, I was wasted.” She gives a throaty laugh.
He clears his throat, glancing at me. “Allegra couldn’t find her house keys, so she stayed over,” he says, as if he needs to explain her presence. Which makes no sense since they’re dating.
Strolling across the room, she grabs one of his dress shirts that’s draped over the back of a chair. She shrugs into it butdoesn’t do the buttons. Her gleaming skin is still very much on display.
Allegra’s been at the house several times over the last few months, but it’s the first time I’ve seen her here in the morning.
The first year I worked for him, I’d secretly have given anything to be the one to wear his shirt and sleep in his bed.
I’d been a twenty-year-old living in Los Angeles on my own for the first time. I was not equipped for life outside of my small town or a job as an assistant in Sebastian Blake’s high-flying world. I was too soft back then for LA. I hadn’t grown armor yet.
It didn’t take me long, though, to realize exactly what I needed to survive. And what I didn’t need. A fascination with my handsome, famous, occasionally charming, pain-in-the-ass boss, who had never shown any interest in me and had his pick of the most beautiful women in the world, was not what I needed.
Good thing that girl grew up. And my crush died a fiery death.
“Emily,” Allegra drawls. “You’re here. Again.”
She likes to play this game and pretend she doesn’t know my name. So I enjoy playing it right back. It’s fun.
“Yes, Arabella. Bless your heart, you’resoobservant,” I drawl, slipping in a little of my old Southern accent. It’s nearly extinct after all these years in LA, but I still pull it out on occasion.
Sebastian coughs. I glance at him, and he covers the small smile playing on his lips with a hand.
“It’s Allegra. And you know it,” she snaps tightly.
I’m usually polite to Sebastian’s women. Over the years, I’ve even befriended a few. The nice, friendly ones. But Allegra is not a nice one. She doesn’t consider a personal assistant who carries a laptop instead of a Birkin bag to be someone worth her time.
And suddenly I’m back in my home town, feeling like the poor kid being stared down by the rich, popular girl, pathetic in my patched-up jeans and messy hair.
I remind myself that the only power she has over me is what I give to her.
“I’ll be right out, Em. Go down and stall the reporter. You’re good at bullshitting,” Sebastian says.
Allegra turns her attention back to my boss. “The reporter is welcome to interview me. I can give herglowingquotes, darling,” she says with a grin. I can already see the wheels turning in her brain as she calculates how she can gain publicity for herself.
That’s one thing about Allegra. I may not love her, but she’s got grit and is relentless in pursuing her goals. And one of those goals is to leverage Sebastian’s fame to gain a leg up in the industry.
He smiles smoothly at the beautiful model but doesn’t take her up on her offer.
He rises from the bed. The white sheet slips away.
My breath whooshes out at the sight of him in crisp navy-blue boxer shorts.
I whip my head away from further evidence that he does indeed wake happy.
“I’ll handle it. I always do,” I mutter. Then I let myself out of the big, glossy bedroom, walk down the big, glossy spiral staircase, across the foyer and into the sitting room to stall the journalist who is almost as famous as the celebrities she writes about.
I stumbled into this odd life seven years ago, and I somehow stayed on the same path.
What if I just keep walking? Stroll past the reporter. Keep on walking out of the mansion.What if I give voice to those two little words that play through my head all the time?
I quit.
I could quit the inconsistent schedule. The late nights. Being on call twenty-four seven. The travel that sounds glamorous but is really just a series of endless hotel rooms and jet lag.
