Page 6 of VOGUEish

His eyebrows shot up bringing her full attention to his blue eyes. The same blue as Pillar’s had been all those years ago. Of course this guy was way too rude to be him.

“This is how things are done in Manhattan,” he replied haughtily. “If you want nice, go back to small-town America.”

She most certainly was not a small-town girl. She was a woman of escapades. One who’d not only traveled the world and written articles about her adventures but had also been a contestant on Fashion Week. While she hadn’t won, one of her ballgown designs had been mass produced by an upscale fashion house. “I’ll have you—”

“Where to?” the front-seat belcher snapped.

Isabella slipped on a smile and aimed it at the driver. “Randolph Building and drop me first.”

The driver guffawed. “Ain’t that a—”

“You heard the lady,” her nemesis of the morning interrupted.

She pursed her lips. This guy had single-handedly thwarted her plan to wear her lucky heels today. “You are truly not quite likable.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Truly.” The ringing of his phone diverted his attention to its screen. Whatever he viewed there caused the harsh lines around his eyes to soften and a smile to lift his lips as he tapped to answer. “And what do I owe the honor of this call, considering we just parted?”

Who was he talking to? A date? A wife? She glanced at his ring finger. Bare.

Rude Man’s smile flipped, and he sighed heavily. “I haven’t had the pleasure of reading that story.” He opened his leather briefcase, removed a newspaper, and snapped it open.

She sneaked a peek at the headline, “The Bully of Corporate Manhattan Has a New Mark.” Who was this bully? Who was his mark? And why did Rude Man care?

Unless…was he the bully? That would track. Bullies were rude. An urge to punch him in the arm for all the times she’d been bullied over the years swept through her like a hurricane. With sheer determination, she managed to resist the caveman-like impulse. Bullies were the scourge of humanity.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” the guy said as he slid the paper back inside his briefcase and closed the lid.

Why had the caller given him a heads-up? The answer was of no matter. Isabella’s focus belonged on her new career. She withdrew the January issue of Naked Runway from her backpack, flipped through the pages, and stopped when she came to a page containing her doodles of how she would have changed the layout.

While her new boss was renowned for her brilliance, Isabella couldn’t help but admit the last couple of issues of the magazine were missing the pièce de résistance touches Amanda was known for. Touches Isabella had learned about during her internships at other magazines her senior year in college and would reincorporate once she became the next fashion editor at Naked Runway.

“I start a new job today,” Isabella heard herself say to no one in particular. She slammed her mouth shut. Why in the hell had she spoken? New Yorkers don’t make small talk. Especially one who’d been thoroughly groomed by the vice president of the Fairy Godmother Project on how to give off the illusion of mystery.

The driver grunted.

Rude Man ignored her.

Groomed or not, nerves always turned Isabella into a fluttery, bubbly, talkative mess. Which had happened on the first day Isabella had been introduced to Ms. Patricia, VP of the Fairy Godmother Project. The woman Ms. Birdie had assigned to Isabella’s case.

As soon as Ms. Birdie had left the two of them alone, Ms. Patricia had segued into a lecture to Isabella about the importance of a woman learning how to exhibit an air of mesmerizing mystery.

As instructed, Isabella now bit her tongue to keep from saying more. Only she did it too hard, pain ensued, and she immediately released her tongue. Gah, she hated pain. “I know. You don’t care.” This she embarrassingly addressed directly to Rude Man. Shut up.

He heaved a sigh and glanced her way. “Are you excited?”

A nervous giggle slipped through her lips. “Absolutely. And terrified. And stress-sweating.” Mother Layout. Stop talking. The made-up swear word was in deference to the no cursing rule Ms. Patricia had insisted on adding to their thirty-page contract.

“Hopefully, your new boss will put you at ease.”

Isabella raised a brow at her cab-mate. “Are you kidding? She’ll amputate me at the knees if she senses fear. And then tell me to clean up the bloody mess.”

“A real hard ass, huh?”

“No cellulite in sight. She’s slated to be Naked Runway’s next editor-in-chief.” Or at least that was what she’d told Isabella and, when that promotion happened, Isabella would be given Amanda’s old job.

His eyes widened. Which was weird. “What’s your new boss’s name? Maybe I know her and can charm her into cutting you a break.” The guy had a nice face, fabulous hair, and a voice that, when not being all grumpy, belonged on the radio. A voice that sounded slightly familiar.

What were the odds he worked in the magazine industry? “Amanda Goldstein. But no—”

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