GW: Dude. No way. I love that movie. It’s in my all-time top 5.
ME: Spill your comfort movie.
GW: Ladyhawke.
ME: Really? Why?
GW: What’s not to love about a young Rutger Hauer?
ME: GABRIELLA
GW: All right, besides the animal-crossed cursed love, a stranger who’s never had that kind of love believes in it to the point he makes it his goal to break the curse for them.
ME: Confession time. I’ve never seen it.
GW: We can’t be friends until you watch it.
ME: What? That’s not fair.
GW: Talk to the hand, Lund.
ME: Is it appropriate to watch with Mimi tomorrow night?
GW: No. It’s PG-13. Watch it tonight. Or else you’ll never hear from me again.
ME: Are you seriously threatening to boycott our burgeoning friendship over a movie?
GW: Yep.
ME: Harsh.
GW:
ME: Then I guess I’ll win our Friendly Fire game. Good thing you’re not competitive and don’t care that this is the tie-breaking game this week.
GW: Oh, I’ll still challenge you there. It is your turn, BT-dubs.
ME: I’LL WATCH IT OKAY?
GW: Yay! You won’t regret it.
ME: You owe me a movie night. A movie I get to pick. And we have to watch it together.
GW: Deal. But not at your house, right?
ME:
GW: Ha—you deserved that. Go make some popcorn and settle in.
ME: Bossy much?
GW:
ME: Later—
Twelve
GABI
Monday morning, after a long weekend and not hearing from Liddy at all, the text from her sent me into a panic.
LE: Sorry, love. Major crisis here and I’ll be in London at least another week.
She was in London? But she’d promised to take me shopping for interview clothing tomorrow. My interview at Wolf Sports North was on Friday!
LE: Don’t freak out, darling. Call Dallas. She did an outstanding update on your hairstyle. I’m guessing she’d love to help you out. Let me know how the interview goes . . . but I’ll not wish you luck because you’ve got this! XOXO
No, I didn’t have this.
Rather than texting Dallas, I called her.
She answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“Dallas! Please, please, please help me—”
“You’ve reached Dallas Lund.” A giggle. “Gotcha. It’s my voice mail. I’m on sabbatical until whenever. Leave a message.”
I might’ve laughed at her dickish sense of humor if I wasn’t completed screwed.
Okay. Think, Gabi.
I started to pace.
Could I just go to Nordstrom Rack or T.J. Maxx and hope I’d find something decent?
No. Liddy pointed out that my attire for this interview had to be spot on. Nothing too sexy or too dowdy. Style with an eye to fashion trends but not a slave to those pieces that might be considered too haute couture. Hadn’t she said that classic styles were the kiss of death? But what was considered classic? Did that include a little black dress? Because that’d definitely been on my must-have list after I realized I’d taken dressed down to another level when I’d worn a T-shirt and jeans . . . 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?”
&nbs
p; 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 windows. Another gray day in the Twin Cities to match my mood. Slightly depressing that Nolan didn’t have a great view that rose above the gloom.
“Would you like coffee or something?”
“Coffee only if whiskey’s not an option.”
Pause. “Two coffees coming up.”
The coffee machine whirred, and I stayed in place trying to organize my thoughts.
Nolan handed me a mug.
Murmuring thanks, I immediately set it on the windowsill. With the way my hands were shaking I’d probably spill it all over myself.
He joined me in staring out the window. “What’s on your mind?”
“Do you remember when you were a kid and you had that nightmare of showing up to class naked?”
A moment passed as he processed that off-the-wall start to our conversation. “Sure. Why is that relevant?”
“That’ll be my reality if I can’t convince you to help me.”
“That wasn’t cryptic at all, Gabriella.”
“Sorry. I’m just trying to convince myself that I can trust you.”
Mr. Suit and Tie slurped his coffee. “On some level you’re here because you trust me.”
Or I’m desperate.
Admitting that wouldn’t win me any brownie points.
“I’m not going to try and coax this out of you,” he warned. “You came to me, remember?”
“Yes. First, I need assurance that this conversation is confidential?”
“Absolutely.”
I faced him and blurted out, “On Friday I have a job interview that can change the entire trajectory of my career, and I need you to help me choose a killer interview outfit, given that I have zero fashion sense.”
“What’s the job?”
“Not in coaching. It’s a TV sportscasting job.”
“You’d have to quit at Lakeside.”
“Most likely.”
“And I’m supposed to keep this from my brother. Your boss.”
“Pretty much.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No. Can you see why I had to ask for this favor in person?”
Carefully, he set his coffee mug next to mine. “Why me?”
“Because you’re a fashion expert. You dress for success every damn day of your life, Lund. Doesn’t matter if it’s for the office or a kid’s hockey game or if you’re out clubbing. You look amazing. I need that mojo for a couple of hours. So please. Say you’ll help me.”
“Can’t you get someone else to go with you?”
I threw up my hands. “Who? Liddy was supposed to be here, but she’s stuck in London. My sister is even more clueless than me when it comes to clothes, so she’s out.”
“How about—”
“Your cousin Dallas? She’s on sabbatical. My mother lives hours away and she’s a farm wife. I’d ask Margene for fashion advice only if I was going to a Murder, She Wrote fan conference. And lastly, there’s Lucy, who would agree to help me if I begged her . . . until she learned of the conflict of interest. Then she’d tell Jax and I’d get fired. But the basic problem wouldn’t have changed. That without your help, I will bomb the in-person interview because I didn’t have anything to wear!”
“Easy.” Nolan set his hand on my shoulder. “Drink some coffee.”
Now I was definitely too jittery and didn’t need to add to it.
Then he sort of pushed me toward the couch. “Sit.”
Thankfully the sofa wasn’t one of those marshmallow types that swallowed you as soon as you dropped your butt on the cushion.
After handing me my mug, he chose the chair opposite the couch and studied me over the rim of his coffee cup.
I practiced not fidgeting. Go me.
“Tell me about this job. Be as specific as possible.”
“Does that mean you’re going to help me?”
“How about if you answer my question first.”
I exhaled. “The position is at Wolf Sports North.”
“How’d you hear about the opening?”
Meaning . . . how long had I been seeking out other employment opportunities that would put his brother in a bind? “An acquaintance of a friend mentioned it to her, and she brought it up with me. I barely got in under the deadline. I passed the first two rounds. I don’t even know if this is the final round or if there’s more.”
“What were the requirements for rounds one and two?”
“First one was filling out an extensive application. The second was calling a live college hockey game and submitting an audio file of my commentary.”
“What team did you choose to provide commentary on?”
I smirked at him. “Since I’d planned to watch the games anyway, I did play-by-play of the U of M women’s hockey team versus University of Wisconsin and the UND men’s hockey team versus Denver University.”
Nolan smirked back. “Aren’t you the little brownnoser, handing off not one, but two game tapes.”
“Maybe it was extra, but I believed it’d be better to showcase my skills for both men’s and women’s hockey. While I love women’s hockey, it’s time a female sportscaster changes the mindset of the networks and the fans that women sportscasters don’t belong calling men’s games.”
“Obviously it worked.”
“To this point. Now it’s all about how I present myself in person.”
His gaze narrowed. “Is this an on-camera position at a sports desk?”
“I’m not sure. They’ve been specific about certain things and vague about others. Vague about applying for a ‘winter sports’ correspondent position. Then they’re specific about which winter sport. I don’t know if they’re looking to fill multiple broadcasting positions, or if the person they hire needs general knowledge. And before you ask, I don’t have any idea how many applicants have made it to this third round.”
“So it could be two or it could be twenty-two.”
“Yes.” I leaned forward. “That means I need to knock it out of the park with all aspects of this interview. Impressing the interviewers with my sports knowledge should be the core of the interview, but clearly it isn’t. I have to show them my physical appearance isn’t an afterthought. That I’m fierce and feminine. The clothing has to be just flattering enough to prove I care about personal maintenance and fashion trends but nothing boob-baring like I’m some damn puck bunny.”
Nolan whistled. “That is a very tall order, Gabriella.”
“Which is why I’m here.”
“And I can’t tell Jax about this?”
“You can’t tell anybody about it. I don’t think I was supposed to reveal the name of the cable network. I’m pretty sure there was an NDA in the paperwork.”
“They’re definitely the big dog of the Upper Midwest cable networks.” Then he gave me that lazy grin. “You realize if I agree to help you, I’ll expect something in return.”
Took every bit of willpower not to say anything you want. “Such as?”
He set his coffee cup on the table between us. “Off the top of my head, I need volunteers for my LCCO project, which also happens to be this weekend. Saturday at Rosewood Bowling Alley. It’s an LGBTQ mixer for Twin Cities high schoolers.”
“I’m in.”
“That fast?”
“Yes. Look at me.” I held my hands out. They shook like crazy. “You are my last hope, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
He grinned. “I told you before . . . I’m Lando.”
“He was the ultimate fashion plate too. So are we doing this thing?”
A beat passed and he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Then he pulled out his cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and dialed.
Keeping his eyes on mine, he said, “Sam. Please cancel all my appointments for the day.” He frowned. “That was today? No matter. Reschedule everything else, I’ll handle that one. Also, add Gabriella Welk as a volunteer for the LCCO mixer on Saturday. We’ll stop by your desk on the way out and give you her contact details.”
“Nolan. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You might rethink my help when I sic my sadistic stylist tailor on you.” He turned his speaker on and set his phone on the coffee table.
The line rang three times before a snippy voice answered, “Mr. Lund. I’d nearly abandoned hope I’d hear from you. The new lines have been out for weeks and you haven’t shown the slightest bit of interest.” A pause. “Are you ill?”
Nolan laughed. “No. Just busy.”
“Well, you are in luck. I had a cancellation for next Friday.”
“Here’s the thing, Q. I’m gonna need you to clear your schedule for today. And before you get huffy, I will also say that I’m not the one in need of your fashion expertise today. I have a”—his eyes twinkled when he said—“female friend who you’ll be advising.”
“Funny. A little drop-everything-for-a-Lund joke to start my week off in a total panic.”
“I’m not joking. I have a couple of things to wrap up here at the office, but we can meet you anywhere in the next hour.”
“Do you have any idea how much havoc this will wreak on my schedule?”
“Please don’t make me play the ‘I spend a fuck-ton of money with you every year’ card.”
A heavy sigh. “FINE. Is this consult only clothing?”
“It’s the works: clothing, shoes, accessories.”
“Since my showroom is not in any state to entertain clients with such short notice, we’ll have to do this at the design studio. It’s at D.NOLO. In the North Loop.”
Want You to Want Me Page 10
