Page 51 of Curvy Love

She opens her mouth to talk again, and I quickly hit the button on the blender. Her brown eyes narrow at me. This time of day, I see her in a way the world never does, completely clean-faced and free of make-up. Her thin, blonde hair pulled back from her face and secured into a tight ponytail, only a few wisps of it fall onto her forehead periodically.

I finish her smoothie and slide the glass over the kitchen counter to her. Reminding myself that—despite her hyperbolic drama—Sabrina is a generous boss. At least financially speaking. And it is literally my job to listen to her rant and then do whatever I can to smooth a path forward for her. I flash her my most nurturing, sympathetic smile.

“Maybe start at the beginning and tell me all about it.”

She crosses and uncrosses her arms, looking vaguely like a pouting toddler.

I give the glass another nudge in her direction, praying the calories—such as they are—will help. I give her an encouraging nod.

Eventually she picks up the smoothie and takes a sip.

I give a mental fist pump.

Is it wrong that I treat my boss—a woman ten years my senior—like a recalcitrant child? Yes, it is.

I don't mean to infantilize her, I really don’t. She’s a grown woman with a successful career, and … who am I kidding? If I treat her like a child, it’s because she often acts like one, especially with me.

I’m not saying that my education in early childhood education for special needs children prepared me perfectly to be her PA, but I will say this: Before me, she went through ten PAs in seven months. Do with that information what you will.

I give her a few minutes to sip her smoothie and then gently prod, “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“It’s that horrible Gossip Lane person again.”

“Ah,” I murmur sympathetically.

GossipLane.com is one of the most popular online purveyors of celebrity gossip. The gossip “sips” they post cover everything from A-Listers, to politicians, to bored, semi-retired supermodels. Though admittedly I don’t read it often, mostly just when my boss complains about it. I’d never tell Sabrina, but I find GossipLane well-written, smart, and generally amusing.

Sabrina … does not.

Of course, I am a nobody and have never been mentioned by an on-line gossip site, so what do I know?

“What’s she done this time?” I ask.

Sabrina lets out a huff of indignation and pulls out her phone. After a bit of tapping and scrolling she hands it to me, and I read the post.

I read it twice, because … what the hell is a Thirst Trap? And why the elaborate timeline detailing who posted what and when? I nearly comment on the mention of Guac-N-Roll, because that’s my brother-in-law’s taco truck! (Good job, Alex!) But I don’t comment because I’m pretty sure Sabrina would stab me if I did. And she’s boney enough she wouldn’t even need a shiv to do it. She could just elbow me and it would puncture a lung.

When I finish reading it a second time, I carefully couch my expression into one of serious concern with just a hint of indignation before I hand Sabrina back her phone.

“Can you believe it?” she demands.

“I can’t!” I say, even though I’m not entire sure what we’re supposed to be indignant about.

“Of all the …” Sabrina stammers.

“Exactly!” I agree.

“She implied I’m old!”

“Oh …” I’m not quite sure how to respond to this, because I know Sabrina’s age. I’ve seen her passport. While I don’t think thirty-three is old, I’m not sure how she’d react to me saying that. Not wanting to risk the elbow shiv, I say, “Um … any press is good press?”

She slices her hand through the air. “That’s only true for men. If you’re a woman, any press that makes you appear old, needy and desperate is not good press.” She chugs some of her smoothie like it’s a margarita and she’s at a bachelorette party. “And I certainly don’t want Abbott thinking that.”

“Abbott? Who’s …?”

“Abbott James,” she says in a tone that implies I’m stupid. “The Scottish footballer.”

“Right.” The guy mentioned on the gossip site. The guy Sabrina had laid a thirst trap for.

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