Page 7 of VOGUEish

“Amanda’s hiring?” He kept his smile neutral, and his tone lost its sex appeal, but his eyes continued to flash a different emotion.

Her breath hitched and snagged on its way down her throat, and she coughed. “You know her?” He had said her name so casually he must. “I mean, how?”

“We circulate in the same circles. What did she hire you to do?” Again, the too-casual tone.

By circles, did he mean business or social? She exhaled the shredded breath. “Her senior assistant…for now.”

Some of his casual disappeared. “Congratulations. You must have great credentials.”

She sat up straighter and shoved away the niggle of unease worming its way into her brain and messing with her thought-to-mouth filter. “I have credentials out the wazoo.”

“Wazoo?”

Heat warmed Isabella’s cheeks. That was one of Ms. Patricia’s favorite words, and of course, it had found its way into this conversation. “I have degrees in journalism, fashion design, and art.” Journalism because of the Bridget Jones part of her fairy godmother package. Fashion because of the 13 Going on 30 part. And art just because Isabella was damn good at it. Thus, her tendency to doodle on fashion magazines, design patterns for her own clothing line, and enter Project Runway on a whim. “Plus, I have a minor in astronomy.” Frackin’ accessory, shut up.

He studied her like a defense attorney, and she squirmed like a fumbling criminal. Was he a lawyer? “That’s a lot of degrees.”

“My fair… An acquaintance paid for my college education as long as I had a triple major with a fun minor.” Zip it. Bite tongue.

A smile crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. The action reminded her of how the thin paper used in patterns crinkled when you pinned them to material. The panic building inside of her diminished.

“Fascinating.” He sounded genuinely intrigued, but she had a sneaking impression he was anything but sincere.

She shrugged. “You have no idea.”

The cab took an unexpected sharp turn. She grabbled for the handle to keep from sliding sideways and missed. In a very unladylike way, she landed in Rude Man’s lap.

She hurriedly scrambled off him, possibly placing her palm where it didn’t belong as she scooted to her side of the seat. Once there, she didn’t dare look at him. Had she just groped Rude Man? Yes. Yes, I did. “Blasted byline,” she muttered, trying out a new career-oriented curse phrase Not great. But not bad.

He laughed.

Wait. What? She glanced his way. Had the mishap happened so quickly he hadn’t noticed? Could she be that fortunate when not wearing her lucky heels?

He handed her the magazine she hadn’t realized she had dropped.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“Barbie matches her swear words to her career.”

“Listen…” She glanced down at his feet, needing a name for him other than Rude Man. “Size Elevens. I have a name, and it’s…darn well…not Barbie.” Oh heck, I should’ve called him Ken. That would’ve been a funnier comeback. Comebacks! Nausea swept through her. She had one of those coming up. Soon. She’d heard from her old high school that her senior class government had decided to host their ten-year reunion on February 28th in the gym of their high school. This because on March 1st their school would be demolished and a new one built in its place, thanks to a huge donation by one of her former classmates. The leader of the mean girls.

“I could have sworn I heard the doorman refer to you as Barbie.” Size Eleven’s gaze slid down her face to either her moderate-sized girls or her hands fisting the magazine and back up. “My apologies. Please enlighten me on your real name.”

She released her hold on the magazine as well as her stress over how quickly her comeback moment would arrive. She’d worry about that another day. “It’s Isabella P. Chance.” Ms. Patricia had taught Isabella smart women give their whole name when asked. Not just their first.

“What does the P stand for?”

“Perfect.” She took off her antique, cat eye fashion glasses and cleaned the snowflake smudges off them.

“It appears I’ve insulted you. I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intent. I’m just saying you have this vibe about you that shouts trendsetter.”

She liked that description. It’s exactly what she’d been going for today. But the compliment did not let him off the hook. “I have been known to start a few trends here and there.”

He straightened his expensive-looking black tie. “I’ve heard Naked Runway is struggling. Doesn’t it worry you to go to work for a magazine in the day and age of digital—”

“We’re here,” the cabbie interrupted.

Size Elevens opened his door. “Keep the meter running. I’ll be right back.” He slid out, popped open his umbrella, and then ducked down. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

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