First Draft Romance

CHAPTER ONE

I jump, too startled to correct my name. Rosalind's footsteps were light enough that I didn't hear her walk across the light-stained wood floors, but when I look to the doorway of her laundry room (who even has a full-on laundry room in New York?), there she is.

Rosalind.

Her dark hair is slicked back into an impossibly perfect ponytail; her lips are a shiny cherry red, lined to perfection. One of her eyebrows is quirked upwards, a move I've seen in enough interviews to know that she's joking right now but is about to not be. Her sleeveless blue dress strains against her chest, and I am officially the worst person in the world for having to struggle to keep my eyes to myself.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry." My face is hot. I hope I don't look flushed. I definitely look flushed. "I was just, um, thinking, and—"

"It's fine, I really don't care. I just really need some clean panties before the banquet tonight." I'm focused on the warm, velvety richness of her voice, until what she's said soaks in.

Fuck.

"There's a banquet? Do I need to do anything?" Are personal assistants supposed to go to those? I didn't know. I don't know. Maybe Gina would let me borrow one of her dresses? No, that's a stupid idea, it wouldn't fit me right. Gina and I are a terrible match when it comes to sharing clothes. She's petite and curvy; I'm tallish and built like a twig. But I don't own any proper dresses. Maybe I can make an emergency run to—

"Don't worry. It's not your concern," Rosalind says, smiling gently, and yeah, okay, she could definitely step on me. There's no doubt in my mind right now that I'm blushing, which is just beyond terrible. Devastatingly embarrassing, perhaps. What this woman must think of me, I don't even want to know.

I hesitantly hold my hand out, the panties I was just accidentally hyper-fixated upon dangling on the end of my fingers. "Um, do these work?"

"Oh no, those aren't mine," Rosalind says.

I drop the panties. As they hit the grey tile, I remember that they're clean, but also, fuck that. I scramble to pick them up, then clear my throat. "Who–whose are they?" It still comes out a little too squeaky for my liking. Oh my god, she must hate me. I'm the worst. I am literally the worst.

Rosalind squints at the panties, which still lie in my outstretched hand. Okay, wow, I am literally kneeling on the tile before her. Oh my god. Holding underwear out on my knees to this goddess of a woman? This real-life Bond girl? It's Rosalind Lindbergh. This whole thing is surreal, in the best and most terrible, stomach-pain-inducing way. "Ummm.... Y'know, that is an excellent question."

"You don't know?" I kind of want to shout HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHOSE PANTIES THESE ARE?! but manage to refrain. Gina told me that, outside of the writing world, Rosalind has a reputation for being somewhat of a womanizer—a word choice which doesn't entirely make sense to me given that she herself is a woman, but oh well. Guess Gina was right on this one. I can't tell if I'm disappointed, or proud.

Rosalind reaches behind her and tightens her ponytail. "Right, those red ones in there should work," she says, gesturing with a nod.

"Oh, right, yeah, of course." I fumble while trying to grab the red thong—that lucky, lucky red thong (I think I have a problem)—before attempting to give it to her.

However, my brain can't decide between holding it out, or simply handing it to her. The unfortunate combination of this is a lackluster flinging of the red thong, which lands on the floor in a sad little pile.

It all happens so fast.

Rosalind bends down to pick it up as I launch forward in such a manner that could only be described as "flopping," not quite unlike a desperate, inebriated seal. There are two sounds, one after the other. The first is the hollow thonk of our skulls thwacking against each other. The second is the deafening rip of fabric tearing in two.