to a society-column-worthy grand opening event for the billionaire businessman I worked for.
Head thunk.
Next option.
What if I pinned half a dozen possible outfits from Pinterest, showed them to a saleswoman at the designer showroom at Macy’s and asked for help assembling those outfits? That would be similar to having a shopping assistant.
But it still isn’t like having an advocate like Liddy, who knows fashion, knows you and is an expert on dressing for success.
No, to pull this off I needed professional help.
And then he popped into my head.
Nolan Lund.
He had impeccable style, regardless if he was in business attire or weekend wear, or that sweet spot between formal and casual. He was comfortable discussing his love of all things fashion related.
Surely a man that dedicated to outer appearances would be happy to show off his knowledge to a neophyte like me?
He could be Henry Higgins to my Eliza Doolittle.
The kindhearted concierge to my Pretty Woman.
He could be Victor and give me the Miss Congeniality moment.
He could also get your ass fired. His brother is your boss. You really think he’d have no qualms about helping you land a job that would put his brother in a bind?
Well . . . technically I didn’t know if I’d have to quit quit at Lakeside, but my role and time spent there would change drastically. So there wasn’t any way I could leave that factoid out.
Before I lost my nerve, I texted him.
ME: How’s mogul life treating you?
Keep it casual. Don’t let him sense your panic—save that for the face-to-face meeting.
His phone must’ve been close by because he answered quickly.
NL: My minions are misbehaving.
ME: LOL, Lund.
NL: Alliteration again?
ME: Absolutely.
NL:
ME: JK.
NL: What’s up, buttercup?
ME: Need some advice. The in-person kind. You at the office today?
NL: Yes.
ME: Great! I’ll be in the neighborhood. I’ll swing by.
The dialogue bubble started and stopped three times before he figured out how to respond.
NL: Sending a request for your visitor’s pass.
NL: Main level security will direct you where to go.
ME: Thanks. CU soon.
It was tempting to change into the black skirt and blazer set from my limited selection of professional clothing. But I needed his help, which I’d take even out of pity, so I remained in leggings and a knee-length sweater. After stepping into my snow boots, I sailed out the door.
“In the neighborhood” was a solid forty-five minutes from my apartment. By the time I parked and picked up my pass at the security desk, an hour had zipped by.
I don’t know if it was standard procedure or if I had crazy eyes, but a security guard rode with me up to Nolan’s floor. I muttered thank you—hopefully I wasn’t supposed to tip him—and stopped at the receptionist’s desk.
She smiled. “How may I help you today?”
“Are you Nolan Lund’s secretary?”
“I wish.” She laughed. “I’d say kidding, but I’m not. I’d love to work directly for the man known around here as ‘The Prince.’”
Weird response.
“I’m the receptionist for this floor. Mr. Lund’s private office suite is through the last door at the end of the hallway.”
“Thanks.”
I walked alongside a wall of frosted glass, which muted the shadows of the workers in their cubicles. The closer I got to the end of the hallway the harder my heart pounded. I paused to take a breath before I turned the handle . . . and half stumbled into the room.
Another secretary, this one male, seemed surprised to see me. “May I help you?”
“I . . . ah . . . I’m . . .” Settle down. “Gabi Welk. Here to see Mr. Lund.”
A door that was part of the wall opened and Nolan sauntered out, eyes on his phone. “Zach is lined up for Saturday. Still looking for more volunteers—”
“Your visitor is here, sir.”
Then he glanced up from his phone and noticed me. “Gabriella.”
Act cool. “Hey, Nolan.”
Silence.
His gaze encompassed my entire head. “What did you do to your hair?”
Shit. I hadn’t seen him since last week. “You must mean what did Dallas do to my hair in a show of drunken camaraderie?”
He backpedaled. “What I meant to say is, it looks great. Really brightens up your face.”
“Thanks.” I looked around. “Am I interrupting anything important?”
“First thing on a Monday morning?” He smiled. “Nah. Come on in. Sam, please hold my calls.”
I followed him. His office wasn’t as big as I’d expected. But it had been decorated like I’d imagined with a retro vibe straight out of Mad Men. Skirting the couch, I headed for the bank of