Chapters (26)
Social Media Intern & Santa’s Executive Helper
Loveridge & McGowan International
98 W 52nd St, New York, NY 10019
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My paper cup of hot chocolate has an Instagram worthy red lipstick kiss around the rim. I pucker my lips and widen my eyes, posing for Bree next to a perfectly lit white tree. I’m going to hashtag the hell out of it and get a thousand likes.
Rockefeller Center is packed tightly with crowds of chattering teeth, bobble hats, and complaints about the windchill. Midtown Manhattan is freezing. I lost the feeling in my toes fifteen minutes ago, but I’m trying to remain positive. There are gingerbread and snickerdoodle cookies—I’ve eaten seven—and even though my lips are numb and my fingers are tingling, I look really cute. I’m wearing high-waisted black disco pants, a cream-colored cropped sweater, and a faux-fur jacket I found at a thrift store for seven dollars. It’s hard to be upset about the weather when I’m still buzzing from the deal I got.
And possibly all the coffee I’ve consumed.
I really need to cut back.
“Did you finish those press releases for Asher?” Bree asks.
“Of course I did,” I say. “I need to get back in his good graces.”
“What he needs is a good punch in the face.”
“Violence is never the answer,” I say. “He’s just very… particular.”
“He’s a giant dickhead with a freaking degree in dramatic literature. He only got this job because Daddy handed it to him.”
“He’s not that bad.”
She rolls her eyes. “All I’m saying is that he has you running around the city getting bagels and doing all of his grunt work while he sits at his desk and… I don’t know… writes passive-aggressive poetry on his secret blog.”
“I keep my passive-aggressive poetry in much more private places, Ms. Truong.”
Asher has his hands shoved into the pockets of his double-breasted navy coat. He’s glaring at Bree, which is a nice break from all the soul-sucking that’s usually directed towards me. It’s hard to take him seriously when his cheeks and nose are adorably red. I want to pinch them.
I don’t.
“Well then.” Bree widens her eyes at me. “This just got a whole lot less merry. I’m gonna go find a drink.”
I watch Bree run into the bar across the street and I take a sip of my now cold chocolate before turning to Asher. I smile. He doesn’t.
He’s not as annoyed with me as he was last night. I think it has something to do with the fact that his morning bagel was definitely double-toasted and slathered in cream cheese. I also sent Elizabeth “Menopausal Momager” Raynard a wine and cheese basket, which had to have eased the pain a little.
“You look like a poodle that stuck its tongue into an electrical socket.”
“How descriptive.”