“It was my pleasure. And Mr. Stark asked me to be sure you got this. He said to tell you it’s for this evening.” He hands me a white box tied with a piece of white twine. I take it from him, surprised to find there is essentially no weight to the box at all.
I’m curious about the box, but I’m more curious about my job prospects, so I toss the box on the bed as I enter my room, where I immediately fire up my computer and pull up my resume. This probably qualifies as anal, but I don’t want to call Thom, my headhunter, without having my resume in front of me. What if he has a question about the exact date one of my apps went on sale? What if he needs to know the title of the research paper I presented during my summer internship two years ago. What if he wants me to change the font and then resubmit the thing?
As soon as I’ve printed a copy, I dial Thom’s direct dial. “I know you just got my resume yesterday,” I say, “but I wanted to check and see if you’d had any nibbles.”
“I’ve had more than a nibble,” he says. “I’ve had a bite.”
“Seriously?” A sudden image of Damien asking why I didn’t just go work for him pops into my head. “Wait. With who?”
“Innovative Resources,” he says. “Familiar with them?”
“No,” I admit, sagging a bit with relief. I’m having a perfectly lovely time lost in my fantasy with Damien. But while silk sashes and blindfolds may get me hot in the bedroom, I don’t think I want to bow to the amount of control Damien would demand in the boardroom. “What kind of bite?”
“They want to schedule an interview. They’re short-staffed and they’re busy. They’d like to see you in the office tomorrow afternoon. Can you make it?”
“Absolutely,” I say, certain Blaine won’t mind. If I set the interview for two, that should be plenty of time to get in a full session, return to Studio City, get changed, and make it to wherever Innovative is located.
Thom promises me that he’ll set it up, and that he’ll pull some information on the company and send it over so that I can prep. I hang up the phone, drop the professional attitude, and do a wild dance out of my bedroom and out into the hall. I pound on Jamie’s door, but she’s not there, so I take my dance into the kitchen, pop the top on a Diet Coke, and go wild. Because it’s a celebration, I even dig into my secret stash and pull out the frozen Milky Way I keep hidden behind the ancient TV dinners.
Heaven.
I’m heading back to my room with my frozen chocolate bar sticking out of my mouth when I see the Monet still on the floor by the kitchen table. Jamie had promised she’d help me hang it—after making repeated lame jokes about needing to buy a stud finder so that it could get nailed—but so far we’d made no progress in that direction. I want it in my room, though, so I take it with me back to my bedroom. I clear a spot on my dresser, then prop it up in front of the mirror. Now, when I look at myself, I see me standing over an Impressionist sunset. Not a bad way to live, when you think about it.
In the mirror behind me, I see the reflection of the white box that Edward gave me. For this evening, he’d said. I turn to look at it, lift it, shake it a little.
I use a pair of nail scissors to clip the twine, then pull the top off the box. Inside, there is a piece of cloth and a strand of pearls. I peer at it for a second, confused, then hook a finger under the pearls. They rise, bringing the lace with them.
Panties.
A thong, to be specific. And the pearls are, well, in the thong part.
I leave them on my pillow and snatch up my phone. He’s probably buying the universe or something, but I text him anyway: Got ur present. V pretty. I wonder abt the comfort factor, tho.
His reply comes almost immediately: This from the woman who can’t walk in her shoes?
I scowl and type fast with my thumbs: U raise a good point. But shldn’t a man who can buy continents & small planets hve better sense?
I imagine his grin as his reply comes: Trust me. You’ll find my gift very satisfying. Did you read the card?
What? My reply is simple: ???
Under the thong. Read it. Follow it. Don’t break the rules.