The Hone-Don't List the sweetest new romcom from the bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners - Christina Lauren Page 0,3

Melly’s ever-growing shadow anymore. She may wear a size two and need sky-high heels to reach the top shelf in her own stockroom, but she is the alpha dog, and she will never let you forget it.

I see Rusty tug at Melly’s hand and nod toward the door. I don’t need to be a lip reader to know that she’s reminding him that this is their party—they have guests. Never mind that this entire room full of people essentially works for the Tripps, and a party with your boss isn’t really a party. I don’t think anyone would be all that disappointed if Melly and Rusty called it a night.

Setting my drink on the tray of a passing waiter, I check my watch and wince when I see that it’s almost eleven. Melly catches my eye across the room and looks around us in commiserating horror. What a mess, her expression groans. I scream through a smile; this mess is not her problem. Whether or not Rusty and Melly decide to stay, I am nowhere close to getting out of here. Sure, we have waiters circulating food, but in a half hour they’ll get to toss their aprons into the back of a catering van and head home. I’ll be left cleaning up.

I do the mental math. If I can get the place cleaned by one, I might be able to catch a few hours of sleep before our nine o’clock meeting. Netflix execs are actually flying to Jackson freaking Hole first thing tomorrow for a face-to-face, and the day after that, the Tripps leave for their book launch in Los Angeles and I get an entire week of living in my pajamas and not answering text messages in the middle of the night. I have to remind myself that this is mile twenty-five of the marathon; if I can just make it two more days, I can crash. But I’m running on tired legs: Before even prepping the wrap party today, we shot the remaining scenes for the two final New Spaces episodes—one with a family remodeling their craftsman home to welcome their first baby, and a five-season retrospective to close out the show. A normal day with Melissa Tripp is exhausting. Today was completely debilitating, and it’s not over yet.

I exhale slowly, calmly, surveying the damage to the room, and decide one way to let people know they should start heading home is to begin cleaning up.

A few minutes later, a shadow appears at my side. I can sense by its tense, annoyed presence exactly who it is. “Did you see where Rusty went?”

I look up at James McCann: tall, lanky, always exuding superiority.

“I’m not in charge of Rusty,” I say. “He’s yours.”

He stares for an annoyed beat, but I know it’s only partially meant for me. I’m an assistant and have been for the entirety of my adult life. By contrast, James—a nerdy engineering type—wasn’t hired to work as Rusty’s right-hand man, but that’s exactly how his job has panned out. Midnight beer runs, dry-cleaning duty, sports ticket procurement, and daily coffee retrieval. Not what he bargained for at all.

“We have an early meeting with the Netflix folks tomorrow,” he tells me, as if it hasn’t been a topic of conversation—the date all but branded onto my brain—for weeks. As if we aren’t all sweating bullets about how the new show is going to fare with audiences and what that will mean for the company.

“I remember, James.” I slide a cluster of empty beer cans into a recycling bin.

“In fairness, you never write anything down or log in to the shared calendar. I thought I’d check in.” Unfortunately he misses my eye roll when he blinks down to his watch and then out over the room, tense again. “Don’t you think we should be wrapping this up?”

This question could only come from someone who works for Rusty, a boss who is used to being bossed around. Anyone who works for Melissa Tripp would know that trying to shepherd her out of a party in her honor is like trying to get a cat to tap-dance.

“Probably,” I say.

I carefully drop a few empty champagne bottles into the recycling bin before shaking out my hands. It’s been a long day, and the left one is starting to act up. At this point, massage doesn’t really help, but I try to casually rub out my fingers before moving on.

“I don’t know why you’re following me when he’s over there,” I