Against her will, Jules thought of Vivian. Talk about an unattainable dream. Simon was right—better to focus on a writing career that with a lot of effort might be possible.

She was known for making the impossible happen, but there had to be a limit somewhere.

* * *

The following afternoon, the entire office was deathly silent. Jules could picture everybody’s ears pressed to the carpeted ground when the elevator dinged and Vivian walked in, talking on her phone. Jules was just putting the silverware to either side of her salad plate for lunch.

Vivian looked like hell, though probably only Jules would be able to see it. She was dressed beautifully, impeccably made up and moving with her usual confident stride. But Jules noticed the exhaustion in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders. She’d arrived in New York just a few hours ago and had clearly made only the briefest stop at home before coming to work.

Jules made a mental note to schedule a massage for later in the week. In the meantime, Vivian walked straight by Jules’s desk. She didn’t look at her or stop talking. Jules hadn’t really expected anything else, but it was still a little disappointing to realize that pretty much nothing was going to change after she’d spent over a week living with Vivian, making her breakfast and escorting her to meals.

Well, why should it? Nothing would change because nothing was different, except that Jules had let herself ascend to new heights of stupidity, starting with New Year’s Eve.

The rest of the day progressed as most days did, with Vivian being disagreeable and Jules scrambling to obey her orders as fast as possible.

See? Jules told herself. Just an assistant. Like you told Simon.

Vivian left the office at six thirty, looking even more exhausted. Jules didn’t get to go home until her own to-do list was done, so she could kiss her cushy car ride home goodbye.

That should have been that. But as Vivian strode by Jules’s desk, she paused to open her Donna Karan purse. Then she took out a Ziploc bag with a round boar bristle hairbrush in it. “You forgot this.”

Jules’s face burned as she looked at it. She hadn’t finished unpacking yet, so she hadn’t noticed anything missing. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “Sorry for leaving it.”

“Oribe brushes are expensive. I had visions of you disgracing Du Jour by replacing it with something from Duane Reade. Be more careful.”

Jules’s face was even hotter now. On the list of embarrassing things, looking careless in front of Vivian Carlisle placed pretty high. Plus the reminder that she didn’t make enough money to replace nice things.

But…Vivian had noticed, probably when doing one final sweep through the town house before leaving. Which meant she’d touched Jules’s hairbrush, handled it, and then packed it up among her own things.