By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy

The behind-the-scenes of a Label editorial photo shoot was exciting enough, interesting enough, to pull me out of my funk.

In front of me, five models preened and posed for the photographer on a set constructed entirely out of white boxes. Music thudded from overhead speakers. The contributing editor in charge of the shoot gnawed nervously on a pen cap behind the photographer.

There was a bearded dude in stonewashed jeans whose sole job seemed to be flipping a large piece of cardboard at the models to make their hair look windblown.

Linus snuck his phone out of his pocket and snapped a few pictures in rapid succession.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

He checked his watch and nudged me toward the door.

“We’re doing high-level babysitting,” he explained, firing off a text and tucking his phone back into his pocket.

“You’re reporting to Dalessandra,” I guessed, taking a slurp of the cappuccino I’d ordered myself on the company card. The caffeine and sugar made me giddy.

“That’s right. I reassure her that everyone is doing their jobs so she can focus on doing hers. Usually it’s all lies, and we’re all just holding on by a thread.”

I ducked as an assistant trundled a rolling rack between us.

When it passed, Linus was already halfway across the room. He snapped his fingers as he headed toward the door.

“Where are we going?” I asked, jogging to keep up.

He gave me a scornful head-to-toe look. “To do something with that God-awful footwear. And maybe the pants if we have time.”

A Carolina Herrera skirt hit me in the face. I barely managed to catch the red, high-waisted pants that came next. We were in the area of the forty-second floor dubbed The Closet. It was a huge expanse of ruthlessly organized racks and shelves. Thousands of designer samples lived in this room.

My heart tapped out a happy little pitter-pat when I spotted the pair of leather moto leggings that I was positive Cher had been photographed in last year.

“This, too.” A gold corded belt flew in my direction. My arms were already full of luxury brand apparel, rained down upon me by a man who’d apparently lost his mind.

Linus turned away from the rack and held up a creamy cable-knit sweater to my chest. “Eh, close enough,” he muttered

“What exactly is all this for?” I asked, spitting green silk out of my mouth.

“For you, Admin Ally with the wardrobe of a sad, poor teenager.”

“I can’t afford any of these,” I squeaked as he dropped a pair of slobber-inducing pumps in purple suede on top of the pile. I was starting to tip backward.

“These are all seasons old. No one needs them. No one but you, Ms. Thrift Shop 1998.”

“Linus, I have zero money. Like ‘if I see a penny, I will pick it up’ have no money.”

“Don’t be annoying. I’m gifting these to you like a black, crabby Santa.”

“Are you kidding me?” Half of the items I was clutching fell to the floor.

He rolled his eyes and picked up a floral print dress. “Try to show Tracy Reese a modicum of respect.”

“Are you messing with me right now because I have to be honest. If you tell me these are all mine for free, and then you turn around and say ‘psych,’ I will cry and very possibly burn down your house.”

“Psych?” he repeated with disdain. “We’ll worry about your vocabulary later. For now, let’s focus on the more important. Your appearance.”

A laptop. A smartphone. And a new designer wardrobe.

“Is it Christmas? Did I somehow stumble onto the set of Oprah’s Favorite Things?” I asked, still afraid to get my hopes up.

“These are not presents. I am not a benevolent lady billionaire. These are tools to do your job. I can’t have you waltzing around Central Park photo shoots looking like fifty-percent-off day at the second-hand church sale.”

“Your words wound me, Linus,” I said, drooling over the pair of to-die-for caramel suede booties he pointed to.

I wanted to make out with them.

“I don’t care. I just can’t take this shapeless sweater thing for one more second. You’re making my forehead veins throb.”

“You don’t have forehead veins.”

“Thanks to BOTOX. Now don’t make my forehead veins pop through the botulism barrier. Go put on anything other than that outfit and grab one of the Burberry coats on your way out.”

“You don’t fool me,” I told him over the armload of fashion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sniffed.

“You’re being nice and covering it up with charming mean.”

“Begone, Didn’t Wear It Better.”

“I’ll make you proud,” I promised as I headed in the direction of the closest restroom.

“I doubt that,” he called after me. “Change fast. You have twenty-three minutes for lunch and then dogs.”

I raced down to the cafeteria with my lunch—beef fried rice from Mrs. Grosu—and threw myself into a chair next to Ruth.

“I have three minutes before I have to leave to go pick up four purebred Afghan hounds.”

“That sweater,” Gola said.

“Those boots,” Ruth breathed.

“I just told you I’m running a dog trafficking scheme, and you want to talk fashion?” I joked.

“Welcome to Label,” Gola snickered. “I once had to wait five hours in an emergency department to pick up half a dozen sweaters that a bike messenger was carrying when he got hit by a cab. How’s life on the forty-third floor?”

“Colorful. Chaotic. We need to catch up,” I said as I ripped the lid off my meal. I didn’t have time to heat it up.

“Let’s grab drinks after work,” Ruth suggested.

“Can’t,” I said through a mouthful of rice. “Teaching a dance class tonight.”

“Where? We’ll come,” Gola said, perking up.

“It’s not ballet,” I warned them.

“Is it hip-hop?” Ruth wanted to know. “Can I wear leg warmers? I live for any excuse to wear leg warmers.”

“Leg warmers are great. And it’s pop and hip-hop and R&B. Kind of like dirty dancing for fitness.”

“Yaaaaas!” Ruth clapped her hands. “This is the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

“Wine after,” Gola decided.

“Our treat,” Ruth said before I could remind them of my poorness.

“One glass. I have to finish up a pitch on a freelance gig.” One that would hopefully net me a few hundred dollars.

“Deal,” Ruth said.

My lovely new phone made an angelic harp noise. My signal to hit the road. “Shit. I have to go.” I gathered my new coat, my old backpack, and the last few bites of fried rice. “Later, ladies.”

“You look great,” Gola called after me.

I raised a hand in the air and plowed my way toward the front of the building.

I was delighted to find Nelson waiting for me at the curb.

“Mind if I sit up front?” I asked him.

“Not at all,” he said, opening the door for me.

We chitchatted on the drive. Nelson had a wife, two daughters, and three granddaughters. He spent his weekends at soccer games and science fairs.

The traffic gods smiled upon us. We were fifteen minutes early. I hopped out in front of a three-story brownstone and jogged up the stairs, my fancy new coat swirling around me nicely like the cape of a superhero.

Had I done a better job with my hair and makeup this morning, I’d feel almost stylish.

Stylish, in control, and basically killing it at my new job.

I pressed the buzzer and smugly waited to succeed.

“Nelson, we have a problem,” I said, pulling the door shut and riffling through my bag for my phone.

“I notice you returned without any four-legged passengers,” he mused.

“There was a mix-up with the date. The dogs are at some fancy show in Connecticut.”

“I hate when that happens,” he said.

I found my phone and fired off a text to Linus.

Me: There’s a problem.

Linus: Do not bother me with problems. Dazzle me with solutions.

Me: This is a big one.

Linus: I’m deadly serious. I’m up to my well-groomed eyebrows in disasters. How can three models have pinkeye at the same time? Never mind. Don’t answer. Just solve the problem or don’t bother coming back.

I was pretty sure he was going to regret that one. I could solve problems. But the solutions might not be up to his standards.

Me: Fine. The photo shoot. What’s the vibe?

Linus: Grey Gardens. Only less depressing and with more fashion. Now leave me alone.

I could work with that. “Nelson, we need to make a stop.”