Page 10 of VOGUEish

A sound drew her attention away from the beautiful people. It came from behind a closed door. A door with an Editor-in-Chief sign on it. Amanda’s future office. The location of Amanda’s first meeting.

Outside the office door was an empty receptionist desk. Isabella wrinkled her nose. Drats. She would have preferred to have handed off the latte to that person. But having been told to bring the coffee to her boss, Isabella walked to the door and raised her hand to knock.

The sound of a commotion on the other side caused her fist to pause mid-air.

“You’re a stupid, motherfucking moron,” shrieked a woman.

Isabella’s stomach flipped, and she shuffled back a few steps. Before she could scramble away, the door ripped open, and Amanda Goldstein stormed out, scarlet-faced, knocking into Isabella like a bull on, well, spiked Red Bull.

Isabella lost her balance. Time slowed to a crawl. Please let none of the beautiful people be watching.

As one does when one is falling, she windmilled her free hand searching for a solid object to help her regain her balance. No such luck. She landed on her butt—ouch—with a thump and a thud. On the thud, the coffee cup lid slo-mo popped off. Hot liquid sprayed her shirt. “Knockoff!” She slung the cup to the side and grabbed at the material, yanking it from her skin. In horror she watched as three buttons parachuted, one of them defying gravity and hitting Amanda between the eyes.

“Get out of my way!” Amanda stormed past Isabella, dropping a sticky note on her way.

Isabella, her heart pounding, listened to the angry clack of Amanda’s red-soled heels as her boss stomped to the doorway of the fishbowl. The room holding the beautiful ones.

“He fucking fired me. Can you believe that? He fired me. Because of her.“ Amanda turned and pointed at Isabella. Everyone glanced at Isabella then back at Amanda. “This magazine will fall apart. I bet it will be out of circulation within a year. I hope the son-of-a-bitch—“

Her bravado must’ve tanked without warning because she suddenly gave a wet, noisy gasp and turned in the direction of her office. She’d not gone more than a handful of steps when the security officer appeared still holding the you’ve-just-been-fired box. Only now, it was full and he tilted his head in the direction of the elevator.

Lucky for Amanda, the doors were open, and they closed quickly enough that no one else saw the tears Isabella caught from her unique angle on the floor.

Why would Amanda be fired because of her?

Only then did Isabella hear footsteps. Still sprawled on the floor, she swung her gaze back to the doorway, and it landed on a pair of…size eleven shoes.

Oh, pinchy toe pumps. How could this be happening? Her gut had been right in the taxi. Rude Guy was the Bully of Corporate Manhattan. Naked Runway must be his new mark. For ten years, Isabella had been running from bullies only to have one placed in her path during her final sprint to the finish line.

“Isabella, are you okay?” In a very un-bully-like gesture, Size Elevens held out a hand.

While contemplating her next move, she simply stared at his long, tanned fingers, before reluctantly forcing her gaze up. Way up. Taller than the average man. Which was utterly beside the point. Size Elevens had just fired her boss. He’d fired the fabulously terrifying Amanda Goldstein before she could even name Isabella as her choice for replacement.

Seeing no alternative, Isabella placed her hand in his, clutching her shirt together with the other.

He tugged her to her feet and then surprised her by gently sliding her dislodged glasses back up her nose. Not the act of a man who planned to make her his next target for bullying. Right?

Voices stirred behind them, reminding her they weren’t alone.

Isabella stilled. Flats. If she, Isabella P. Chance, was the reason Amanda got fired, they, the movers and shakers on staff, would hate her. And it wouldn’t be just them. Everyone at Naked Runway would hate her. It would be her senior year all over again. Could she change his mind?

Size Elevens glanced over Isabella’s shoulder and dropped his hand from her face. “I’ll be with you all in a moment.” He stepped back. “Isabella, I’d like to speak with you in private.” His tone was uber-professional.

She bent down and nabbed two of her buttons—she was pretty sure the other was still lodged between Amanda’s brows—and glanced around at the coffee mess. Yeah, that would leave a stain. “I’ll just clean up—“

“Leave it.”

“Of course.” None of this would have happened had she been wearing her lucky heels.

Once again, he glanced over her shoulder. “One of you get over here and clean this up. And someone get her a clean shirt.”

He motioned for Isabella to follow him into his posh borrowed office, and when she did, he shut the door with a determined click. “Are you okay? Did the fall cause you injury?” He walked toward a couple of purple chairs and waved for her to have a seat.

Isabella grabbed his stapler off his desk, turned her back to him, stapled her shirt together, then perched on the edge of the chair. Fortunately, the coffee hadn’t been hot enough to scorch her skin. “About Amanda—“ Of all the taxis to skirmish over, she’d had to battle with him. Day one, and she’d already landed herself on the radar of someone with power. And not in a good way. This working for someone was proving trickier than she’d imagined it could be. How did Dad do it for so many years?

“We weren’t talking about Amanda.” He took a seat across from her, resting one of his size elevens atop his knee. There, stuck to the bottom of his shoe, was the sticky note that Amanda had dropped. On it were the words ass wipe squatter.

Isabella swallowed hard. Had Amanda told him Isabella had referred to him as an ass-wipe and a squatter? Had her boss done so because she had thought it would be funny, and it had backfired? And he, having no sense of humor, had turned around and fired her on the spot?

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