Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Mark gives a little snort from his side of the car, but I ignore him.
“Anything else?”
“There’s something on the Twitter I thought you should see.”
“Okay, something good? Are you monitoring the Commando hashtag? I think the new campaign went live at midnight.” I’d meant to look at this myself this morning.
But a sexy banker distracted me.
“Well . . . you know I don’t look at the Twitter all that often. So I can’t really say. But it’s on that trendy board.”
“Trending?” I guess.
“Right. Just like I said. The brand is trending together with hashtag eggplant. I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Eggplant . . .” I say slowly. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. “Okay, Lucy. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”
She rings off. But of course I’m sitting in Miami traffic. “Mark, would you mind . . .”
“On it,” he says, tapping his phone. A moment later, he chuckles. “It is trending with the eggplant emoji. I’m afraid to ask why.”
“Not as afraid as I am,” I mutter. “Is there a link?”
“Um, yup. Hang on.”
The car inches forward, and the silence from the passenger seat is worrying. Then Mark makes a strangled noise. “Well, hello to you, sir. That’s an impressive bulge.”
“Isn’t that the point of a Commando?”
“Well, this isn’t how I wear mine.” He waits until I stop at yet another red light, and then he turns the phone to face me. My lungs seize up in horror. It’s a well-lit, well-composed shot of one of the hockey players who’d modeled the tight-fitting bathing suits.
But he’s sporting a comically oversized erection.
“I mean, I wouldn’t consider myself a size queen,” Mark says. “But you can’t help but stare.”
“That was . . . it’s . . . shit! That was a joke,” I sputter. “The guy put his water bottle down there while we were warming up on the set. I took a pic to amuse him.”
I poke the console where my connection to Lucy is still onscreen. And I seethe while it rings.
This could cost me business. People have no sense of humor when their brand becomes a punchline on Twitter.
“Lucy!” I shout when the connection is made. “You uploaded the wrong folder! There’s a pornographic shot in there somehow. Find the real shot of the suit in peacock blue and get it over to them right away. We have to fix this.”
“You know, I did think that one was a little over the top,” she muses. “But peacock blue . . .”
“Please,” I beg. “Fix this. And then we’ll work on my apology.”
“Of course, Asher. I’ll call them to say that the best file is coming.”
“And was there any word from FLI?”
“None.”
Of course there wasn’t. Who’d hire a hot mess like me? “Thank you. Text me when this is fixed.”
I hang up and let out a huge sigh. “Honestly. I love taking photos. I’m good at it. But the business part of running a photography business is killing me. I know I didn’t put that photo into the deliverable file.”
Mark makes a sympathetic noise. “Is Lucy a temp? Maybe she needs to move on.”
“I’m not firing her,” I grumble. “I should have done the upload myself. Aren’t I supposed to be turning left somewhere?” It would be just my luck to get us lost right now, too.
“The turn is two hundred meters ahead,” Mark says, reading from my phone’s GPS. He arches a brow. “Meters, St. James? Too posh for American measurements?”
“I bought the phone in Switzerland,” I say. The restaurant sign comes into view as I take the turn. “Are we on time?”
“Simmer down.” Mark places a palm on my thigh. If I weren’t so tense, I’d enjoy that. “We’re actually five minutes early.”
“Thank fuck. I’ll use the time to grovel to the world’s most successful bathing suit manufacturer.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m still not over it. All the canapes and tiny quiche and ceviche we’ve tasted ought to have soothed the beast within.
But they didn’t. I blew it with Commando. The artistic director I got on the phone was apoplectic, and I don’t blame him. All I had to do was deliver some excellent photography, and I couldn’t even hand in my homework without a catastrophe.
Mark pokes me in the hip, and I realize the French chef has asked me a question. And I missed it.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “You were saying?”
“Et zees are les entrées. The duck confit and le steak. Les aimez-vous?”
I force myself to focus on the two little plates a nervous waiter has placed in front of us. I lift the piece of steak to my mouth, and it’s butter-soft. And the bite of duck in a cherry reduction is perfect. “Délicieuse. Formidable. But what will you have for our vegetarian guests?”
The chef waves his hands like nothing could be less important. “L’assortiment de légumes,” he says. “It will be perfect.” He kisses his fingertips like a TV character.