Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Roxy Reid

  “Hmm. Yeah. So that’s a challenge.”

  “Well, there’s also the tiny, tiny detail, that I don’t have a teaching license. Or a degree in education. And all the people I’ve taught are various versions of wandering rock music types prone to substance abuse, so their recommendations are not exactly the glowing referrals I’m looking for.”

  “Also a challenge,” I admit.

  Stella laughs. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

  I shift uncomfortably, pretty sure she’s making fun of me. “Shut up.”

  “No, I mean it. Everyone else I’ve said even half that to has told me to settle for a day job, and save up, and maybe one day I could go back to school and then once I’m certified, see what’s out there. But you just acknowledge it’s a challenge, and dive right in to the planning. This is why you’re so successful, isn’t it? It’s not just the tech genius thing. It’s the diving in, regardless of reason and good sense.”

  “Why would it be good sense to pay a school money you can’t afford to give you experience, when you can get a job and have people pay you to get experience?” I ask, irritated.

  She smiles, and it’s the good smile from before, the crooked one with the soft lips. “Well, when you put it like that …”

  “First step is researching what places teach percussion in the area,” I say, working my way through the problem. “Probably set up an email news alert so you can keep up with the industry, and see when jobs are posted. Maybe do some informational interviews, so they get to know you and you can learn what they’re looking for.”

  Stella’s staring at me, and I feel suddenly self-conscious. “What? Am I mansplaining?”

  When did Stella Harrington gain the ability to make me feel self-conscious?

  She shakes her head. “No. It’s just … are you only doing this because I’m Duke’s little sister?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Stella shrugs. “I get the feeling I could have said I wanted to be an astronaut, and you would have taken it in stride and started planning. Someone from accounting could say they wanted to switch to marketing, or vice versa, and you’d take a lunch hour to help them sketch out a career path.”

  “Well, maybe not a whole lunch hour,” I admit, wondering where she’s going with this. It feels like a trap.

  “You really think I can be a music teacher?” Stella blurts.

  “Of course,” I say. “You think you can, and you have a better assessment of your abilities than I do. Are you done with my fries?” I ask.

  Stella nods and slides me the plate, sniffling a little.

  “Hey. What’s the matter?” I ask, alarmed. “Was it something I said?”

  “Yes. You just,” she waves her hands, “assume I’m competent. Assume I know what I want. Assume that what I want is a good thing to want.”

  “Hey.” I reach across the table and take her hand. Calloused from drumsticks, I now know.

  Stella swallows, trying to steady her breathing. “No one’s done that with me for a long time. Not even Duke.”

  I squeeze her hand. “I say this with love in my heart. Sometimes Duke is an idiot.”

  Stella laughs, which is my signal to let go of her hand.

  Still, I hold on just a second longer than I should before I make myself let go and check my watch. “We should get back to the office.” I signal our waiter.

  Right before we’re about to walk back into work, I clear my throat. This is going to be awkward, but something she said is still bothering me. So I take a deep breath before I open the door for her.

  “Stella. People should assume you’re competent, and smart enough to know what you want, and why you want it. If they don’t they’re dumbasses. And I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with dumbasses.”

  A smile blooms across her face, and for a moment it’s hard to look at anything else. “I promise I won’t unplug your computer, no matter how much of a lead-guitarist you’re being.”

  I don’t entirely know what she means, but it seems like the Stella version of a truce.

  4

  Stella

  I drop my purse on the floor of my empty apartment, and breathe a sigh of relief. I think I can actually do this. I think I can actually turn my life around.

  When I left my apartment this morning—empty except my suitcase, one coffee mug, an old iron bed frame, and the mattress I used the last of my savings to buy—the stark bareness of it all felt like a reminder of everything I’d given up, and how far I had to climb.

  Now, with a day of work under my belt, and Wade’s optimism running circles in my head, it feels more like a blank page. An empty stage. A place with room for possibility.

  I throw my arms out and spin in a circle.

  Even Wade is … well, not for me, obviously. Even if he wasn’t my new boss, the Wade St. Georges of the world don’t date women like me, unless it’s for the thrill of it. And I am done being someone’s thrill.

  But still. The courtesy. And the way he listened like I was his equal. Well, okay, the way he listened like I was his equal after he aggressively ignored me and tried to scare me into leaving his office.

  I used to demand people listen to me like that. But there’s only so many times people can ignore that demand before a part of you starts thinking maybe they’re right.

  Having someone assume I’m worth listening to … it feeds something in me I didn’t know was starving.

  Now all I have to do is figure out what the hell to wear until my next paycheck. There isn’t much crossover between a rocker’s wardrobe and a southern administrative assistant. Wade will be seeing a lot of this pencil skirt.

  Luckily, I highly doubt he’s paying attention to my clothing.

  I put my hands on my hips and survey the room. It may be empty, but it’s got tall, pre-war ceilings, hardwood floors, and clean white walls.

  Yeah, I can make a fresh start here.

  It takes about two weeks to get the hang of being Wade St. George’s administrative assistant. As per his recommendation, I don’t waste time trying to figure out how to fit in, and he doesn’t waste time trying to break me, although he does kick me out of meetings until I can, quote, “get my face and vocal cords under control.”

  I do spend time figuring how to how to do my job really well. It helps when I find my predecessor’s cheat sheet of whose calls to transfer, whose calls to block, and whose calls to send to voicemail.

  I also implement a system borrowed from years of concerts, and start giving Wade call times before important meetings. Must be in the office doing easily interrupted tasks starting twenty minutes before internal meetings, and forty-five minutes before meetings with external partners. Wade grumbles, at first, but when the system works, he stops complaining.

  Wade, for his part, keeps sending me job applications for every drum teaching gig within a fifty-mile radius. And let me tell you, I didn’t think there were any drum teaching gigs within a fifty-mile radius, so either I’m bad at the internet, or Wade’s putting more time and energy into this than he should.

  Either he really likes me, and wants to help … or he really doesn’t like me, and wants me to leave.

  I try not to take either option personally, even if the first option puts warm butterflies in my stomach, and the second sucks all the energy out of me.

  But none of that matters, because I’m not taking this personally.

  Today Wade’s offsite at a meeting with some of the higher ups at Home Sweet Home. For lack of anything better to do, I’m organizing all the files on my computer when I come across a folder titled R.A.W.S.G. filed in a weird place. I click on it, curious, and am fucking delighted by what I see.

  It’s a folder of Rants About Wade St. George from a string of previous administrative assistants, and it is fabulous.

  Today, W.S.G. blew off a five-way conference call I spent LITERAL MONTHS SETTING UP because some soccer mom with a crying baby had a flat tire. YOU DON’T HAVE TO HELP EVERYONE, WADE. THAT’S WHAT T
RIPLE A IS FOR YOU FUCKING IDIOT.

  Last night I missed a second date because W.S.G. dragged me to a dinner meeting with a funder. Today, he’s throwing up in his office because he got food poisoning. KARMA’S A BITCH, WADE. AND NO, I WILL NOT BE PACIFIED BY THE FACT THAT WE GOT THE FUNDING.

  As I keep scrolling back, it’s clear at least one of his assistants had a crush on him.

  He’s wearing the blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up again. WHY AM I SO ATTRACTED TO MY BOSS’S FOREARMS? HE’S A NERD. A BROKE, ETHICAL NERD WITH AMAZING FOREARMS.

  I blink at the “broke” part. Ok, clearly that one was written a while ago.

  Reading through them—and there’s a lot of them, years and year’s worth—it’s clear that they respected Wade and liked working for him. It’s also clear that sometimes, they wanted to strangle him, and the secret rant file was a way of burning off steam.

  Given some of the ways I’ve burned off steam, typing out a rant semi-anonymously and rebelliously saving it in the deep files of your office’s shared network drive seems like a relatively tame way to do it.

  I’m gleefully reading the wisdom of my predecessors when Wade storms in, head down.

  I hastily click the window closed. “How’d the meeting go?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Wade says, slamming his office door closed like a sullen teenager slamming his bedroom door.

  I hesitate, looking back and forth between his door and my computer.

  On the one hand, Wade said he doesn’t want to talk, and I’ve got a folder of amazing reading material ahead of me.

  On the other hand, Wade’s been digging up job postings for me, and he’s Duke’s best friend, and he didn’t fire me when I threatened to unplug his computer.

  I stand and knock on the door gently. “Wade? Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I said go away,” he answers, his voice muffled by the door.

  Ok, that’s twice. My conscience is clear after two tries, right?

  I chew my lip. I should probably stop pushing it. After the blow-up on my first day, we’ve actually gotten to a pretty good place, and I don’t want to risk it on something that isn’t my business.

  I pick up the phone and dial Wade’s extension.

  “WHAT?” he barks when he picks up, and I can hear his deep bellow through the wall and the receiver.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk it through? Because you were in a really good mood before this meeting. You figured out the problem with the file compression. I thought this was just supposed to be getting to know the head producers for the movie arm, and talk about what programming it made sense to run on our platform.”

  Wade heaves a heavy sigh, and I can practically see him rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Well, I was wrong. It turns out it’s very easy to piss off a head producer.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask gently.

  “This does not fall within the purview of your job, Stella.”

  “At least tell me which producer it was. I don’t want to say something wrong if someone from his office calls.”

  “Her office. It’s Clara Covington,” he grumbles, and I let out a low whistle. Clara Covington is more than a producer. She’s the creative director for all of Home Sweet Home Entertainment’s programming. She’s been with the company for forty years. It’s basically like pissing off the Queen of England when you’re trying to make a trade deal with Britain.

  Not necessarily prohibitive, since the Queen doesn’t make trade deals, but definitely Not Good.

  I’d planned on trying to cheer Wade up, but I don’t know what to say.

  “See! This is why I didn’t want to talk about it,” Wade says, and hangs up on me.

  I glance at the phone, then at Wade’s office calendar.

  I might not know what to say, but I think I know what to do.

  I track down Clara Covington’s assistant’s phone number, and give her a call.

  I drum my fingers on the desk. Just like getting a gig at a bar, I tell myself.

  “Hello?” Clara’s assistant asks suspiciously.

  She must have caller ID.

  “Hello!” I say brightly, pouring every drop of southern pageant-girl warmth I have into my tone. “It’s Stella Harrington, Mr. St. George’s assistant. I’m calling because he just got back from the meeting with Ms. Covington and, between you and me, he feels just awful that there might have been some misunderstanding between them.”

  “There was no misunderstanding,” the assistant says primly. “He told her there was no difference between a Christmas romance and a New Year’s romance. He said, and I quote, ‘all of those movies are the same.’ He belittled Ms. Covington’s life’s work, and everything this company stands for.”

  Apparently it wasn’t only Ms. Covington he offended.

  “And he feels just horrible about that,” I lie. “He only meant to admit his own ignorance about the genre. He knows so much less than Ms. Covington about what exactly it is that makes a hit romance.”

  “It’s not about getting hits. It’s about warming hearts,” the assistant says, somewhat hysterically.

  “Right. Absolutely. Just one more area where you and Ms. Covington know so much more about this than we do. Which is why what Mr. St. George meant to say is that he is aware of his own ignorance, and would like to defer to Ms. Covington’s extensive expertise, until he’s had time to learn more about the genre and the important, heartwarming, work you do.”

  There’s a moment of silence, and I hold my breath.

  “Well,” the assistant says after an extended pause, “then he should have just said that.”

  “Absolutely. Which is why he’d like to apologize, and clarify what he meant in person. How does next week sound? Mr. St. George has a busy week, of course, but I could absolutely rearrange it for someone as important as Ms. Covington.”

  “Well …”

  “He’d also like to go into this meeting a little more prepared, if you know what I mean.” I lower my voice conspiratorially. “So if you could do me a favor, and send me a list of your twenty favorite Home Sweet Home movies, he’d like to watch them all.”

  “My favorites? What about Ms. Covington’s—”

  “I have absolute faith that your taste is on par with anyone in the company’s, even Ms. Covington’s. Have you seen Mr. St. George?”

  “Well, from a distance, of course…” she says, clearly confused.

  “Look up Wade St. George, Berkeley panel right now. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  I hear typing in the background, and then a soft gasp. “Oh my.”

  “A man like that should not go un-tutored in the act of heartwarming,” I say. “He’s counting on you.”

  “Oh. Oh yes, absolutely. I’ll get that list to you right away—”

  “Wonderful! We’re both waiting with bated breath. Now if you can just tell me when Ms. Covington has time in her schedule …”

  “Hmmm. She’s pretty booked right now, but if we skip a few weeks ahead …”

  We get the meeting booked, and I hang up feeling pretty satisfied with myself.

  I barge into Wade’s office without knocking, almost walking over Wade, who is lying on the floor staring blankly at the ceiling.

  “Jesus, knock woman!” He scrambles his long limbs into a seated position.

  I look down at my grumpy billionaire, and tap my toe, hands on my hips. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  It takes a moment for him to answer, and the way he’s looking at me … if he was anyone else, I’d think he was having dirty thoughts about me standing over him. But it’s Wade, so that’s obviously not what’s happening.

  He jerks his eyes up to mine.

  “Um, the good news,” he says, doubtfully.

  “The good news is, I got you a private meeting with Clara Covington so you can grovel and smooth things over.”

  “What?!” Wade scrambles to his feet and crushes me in a hug. It’s warm an
d strong and safe, that hug. “That’s amazing. Thank you. How did you …?”

  “Well, that’s the bad news,” I say, reluctantly, leaning my face away from his chest and breaking the hug, even though he smells like heaven. Pine scented, hot-man heaven.

  “You have to watch twenty Home Sweet Home romantic comedies. Hand-picked by Clara Covington’s secretary.”

  “Administrative assistant,” he corrects me automatically, and the rest of what I said hits him. “Twenty? Jesus. What I said wasn’t that bad.”

  “Have fun,” I say, and head back to read more Rants About Wade with a clean conscience.

  “Oh no,” he calls. “If I have to watch these, you’re watching them with me.”

  “Wade. I don’t think that falls within the purview of my job,” I say, sweetly, and close the door on his moody, charming ass.

  5

  Wade

  A few days after my Clara Covington fuck-up, I’m wandering the grocery store late at night when I spot a distinctive pink-haired woman clutching a folded stepladder and having a breakdown in the home goods aisle.

  It actually takes me a moment to recognize Stella, because instead of wearing that black pencil skirt that is slowly burning visions of her perfect ass into my retina, she’s in mini-shorts, cowboy boots, and a man’s shirt that shoots me through with jealousy.

  No, not jealousy. Protectiveness. I am merely feeling protective of my best friend’s little sister. Especially since she’s …

  Holy shit, she’s crying.

  I hurry over to Stella and a very befuddled looking teenage boy who doesn’t look old enough to be wearing one of those employee vests.

  “But I already bought this ladder,” Stella says, shaking the ladder she’s holding. “And it didn’t work. Don’t you have anything taller?”

  “No ma’am, that’s as tall as we carry. Maybe if you try the hardware store—”

  “They’re closed,” Stella says. “I’ve been living in the dark for weeks. I can’t do it anymore.”