And now I’m teetering on the brink of falling right back down to where I was if I fail this assignment and he sees the part of me cowering in my high heels.

Not a chance, not a chance, not a chance. I am no longer Genevieve Starlight, second-lowest on the social ladder at all of Ruby Bay High. I am Jenny London, social media queen and definite professional who can absolutely, one-hundred-percent handle working for Roman Bliss, and more. 

Behind the ficus tree I straighten my back, hike my purse up on my shoulder, and arrange my face into the warm, confident half-smile that graces each and every one of the YouTube videos I’ve made to shore up my business.

Yes. Confidence. This is what it’s all about. I will enter this day with confidence, with grace, and a big step out from behind the ficus—

And directly into a bellboy carrying a tray of champagne glasses.

His facial expression metamorphoses from neutrally welcoming to a flash of irritation to oh, fuck me all in the space of an instant, and while I’m watching the display of human facial acrobatics in action, the champagne glasses do a different kind of acrobatics. They leap gracefully from the tray and swan dive toward the floor. Two of them have their fall broken by my boobs.

In my white dress shirt.

Glass breaking on tile snaps me out of this momentary fixation and back to the present.

“Oh, ma’am, I am so sorry—” The bellboy whips a white cloth off his arm and thrusts it toward me. His face does another hectic sprint through horror and yikes and boobs before he realizes that he should not, in fact, dab at my boobs with his cloth and hands it to me instead.

“It’s fine.” It’s not fine. “It’s completely fine. I’ll—”

I’ll just stand here and short-circuit, that’s what I’ll do. I’m supposed to be meeting Roman Bliss in his offices in ten minutes, and now I look like I’m competing in the Bliss Resort’s first-ever champagne wet t-shirt contest.

All the work I’ve done flies straight out of my brain and into the puddle of champagne at my feet. I’ve prepared for a number of different scenarios, and this was not one of them. The Tide pen in my purse isn’t going to dry champagne in ten minutes. A hand-dryer in a bathroom might, but I’d have to count on them having one, and knowing where the bathroom is. I spin on one heel, squeaking my way a full three hundred and sixty degrees, but I don’t see the bathroom that I know must be here.

When I complete my revolution my stomach lurches.

In fact, I don’t have ten minutes.

In fact, I’ve completely run out of time.

Because here comes Roman Bliss.