Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
“Ty, not everyone thinks as dynamically as you do.”
“Then they should. Especially if they work for me.”
“So basically you want your staff to sleep with people to get what they want?” Gina asks, taking the chair opposite my desk, forcing the buttons of her blouse to pull.
I frown and look at her. “You had your boobs done again?”
“Again?” She laughs. “How many times have I got to tell you? These are one hundred percent natural.”
I narrow suspicious eyes on her, making her red lips stretch into a bright smile. I’ve known this woman for seven years, and I’m pretty sure her bust has grown at least half a cup size every year since I hired her. “I don’t believe you.”
“Your call.” She throws a pile of papers across the desk at me. “The draft contract for Givenchy, redlined by the legal department. Make sure you’re happy with it.”
I take the papers and scan over the first page. “Has Sal looked at it?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s happy?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get it back to you by the end of the day.” I drop it on my desk and fire up my iMac. “What else?”
“Dinner with your mum at six, and Sal wants to see you at one. He’s tied up until then.”
“Tied up?” I laugh. “He wishes.” Outlook opens and makes my eyes cross with the amount of emails I ignored over the weekend. “Motherfucker,” I sigh, having a quick scan and deleting any that are from a lay. That’s thirty emails gone.
“And someone called Keira has called twice already this morning.”
I peek at Gina, finding high, accusing eyebrows. “I’m out of the country on business.”
“Thought so.” She stands and reaches over to collect my empty cup to refill, virtually thrusting those questionable natural boobs right in my face. I sit back and look at her tiredly as she hovers for a few moments, prolonging the torture. “How many this weekend, Ty?”
I know she’s just trying to be prepared for the number of women she’s going to have to fob off for me this week. “Three.”
Her eyes widen a little. “In two days?”
“Three days if you include Friday,” I point out. “It was a tough week, what with the launch of Beckham’s new fragrance and the people at Paco Rabanne changing their minds.”
“Ty Christianson, you do love to earn your reputation.” She strolls off, and my eyes follow her lovely peachy arse. “What were their names so I can expect their calls?”
“Pamela. She’s a busty Latino lady who I’ve called on from time to time over the years when . . . well, when I feel like some Latino. She’s cool. Doesn’t hound me. I can’t remember Saturday night’s squeeze. Then there was Imogen. I don’t think you’ll be hearing from her.” She seemed quite cooperative this morning. “I stumbled upon her last night.”
Gina stops at my office door. “Stumbled?”
“Literally.” I chuckle under my breath, revisiting the sweet moment in time that Imogen tripped up the stairs in front of me. “The tickets for Les Mis tomorrow night,” I go on.
“What about them?”
“Have them sent to the concierge desk of my apartment block. Marked for the attention of Egor.”
“Done.” She struts out and leaves me to prep for my nine o’clock call.
With my feet kicked up on my desk, I grit my teeth as I listen to the idiot on the end of the line from Paco Rabanne telling me how to suck eggs. “He’s scheduled for filming for the next six months,” I point out for the hundredth time. “If you’re prepared to stall the campaign, there might be something I can do.”
“It isn’t an option,” he tells me adamantly.
“Then you need to give me more names.”
“But when we brainstormed this campaign, we all agreed Idris was perfect.”
“When we brainstormed this campaign, you also told me that filming would have started by now. You delayed the project, Mike. You can’t ask a Hollywood star to hold out so your team can tweak your budget.”
“C’mon, Ty,” Mike whines. “There’s gotta be some strings you can pull, for fuck’s sake. You’re a master persuader.”
My shoulders sag, feeling unreasonably defeated. And pissed off, because none of this is my doing. “Is Idris Elba gay?” I ask Mike.
“Straight as a die.”
“Is he a woman under all that handsomeness?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then there’s nothing I can do,” I admit, staring defeat in the face. “Hate to tell ya, Mike, but not even I can swing this one for you.”
“Bollocks.”
“We have a month to find a lead if you want your new schedule to stay on track. I suggest you get thinking and come back to me pronto.”
“Right,” he sighs and hangs up, just as there’s a knock on my door. I drop the phone into the cradle. “Come in.”
A face appears around the door. “Hi, Ty,” Callie says, scurrying in and closing the door behind her.