We had dinner last night with Logan, and she never said a word. Actually, she asked how it went with Vaughn.

I couldn’t tell her what had happened. I was too embarrassed.

More like mortified.

I totally fibbed and said that he hadn’t turned up. I know; I lied. It was crappy. But I didn’t know what else to say. Telling her the truth just wasn’t an option. I don’t think Ava is a gossip, but I couldn’t chance her telling anyone. I knew Vaughn wouldn’t want news of what I had done to him traveling. With any normal person, something like that might end up on someone’s Facebook status for a good chuckle. But, for Vaughn, it would end up on the nightly news. The guy can’t take a crap without it being reported, and he’s had enough shit lately. He deserves a break.

I might think he’s a rude, obnoxious jerk, but I’m not out to hurt him.

Well, not any more than I have already done.

I still can’t believe what I did. I didn’t even tell Nick when he called last night, and I tell him everything. That tells you of my level of mortification.

Ava was surprised when I said Vaughn hadn’t turned up, said it wasn’t like him and that she’d call his assistant to rearrange the fitting.

I didn’t want her to call Alex, as he knew that Vaughn had shown up and it was me who was the problem. So, I told her not to bother, that I’d call him.

That’s why I now find myself having to call Alex again—not so I can go apologize to his boss again, but this time, to actually get these clothes fitted. That is, if Vaughn will actually let me anywhere near him. Good thing is, I have the fitting for the Armani pants, so I can adjust all his other pants in line with those. There’s only some shirts, a few vests, and several suit jackets for him to try on for me.

Part of me doesn’t ever want to see him again after yesterday. And not just because of the stabbing incident, but because of the whole cock-warmer thing.

I feel my cheeks start to heat with embarrassment at the memory.

He was totally right; it was a cock warmer.

Not that I’d ever admit that to him.

I just hadn’t thought of that when I was making it for him. I’d thought I was being helpful, and I’d wanted to make amends for hurting him.

But all that happened was, I ended up yelling at him again.

I’m surprised he didn’t have me fired after that. I would have had me fired. God knows what Millie did to get herself fired. I’ve stabbed the guy, yelled at him, and made him a warmer for his cock, and I still have a job.

God, yesterday was a total disaster.

I guess it’s true what they say; you should never meet your idol because your illusion just might be shattered.

I mean, Vaughn West wasn’t exactly my idol, more like a sexual fantasy, but whatever because, honestly, I wish I’d never met him.

I’ll never be able to imagine him in any other way than with a pin stuck in one of his balls now.

And he’s also a mean jerk.

A handsome, super-hot, mean jerk.

I stop in Starbucks on the way to the studio and grab a caramel latte, needing some caffeine before I speak to Alex. Then, I make the call.

“Alex Larson speaking.”

“Hi, Alex. It’s Charly. From wardrobe.”

“Oh, hey. It’s my new favorite girl, Pins.” He chuckles.



That’s what Vaughn called me right before I flipped him the bird yesterday. Shit, I forgot I had done that as well.

“Yeah, it’s, uh, me.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well…” I bite my lip. “I still need to fit those clothes for Vaughn—not the pants,” I’m quick to say. “Just shirts, a few vests, and some suit jackets.”


“Would he be able to come in for a fitting today, as they’re needed for shots tomorrow?”

“He’s got meetings all morning, and then he’s running lines all afternoon.”

“Oh.” Shit.

“Does he not have any space at all to fit me in? I’ll only need thirty minutes, max. I can come to him, wherever, to save him the journey.”

“Okay, come to the hotel at six p.m. You remember his suite number?”

“Yes.” Not forgetting that anytime soon. “Thanks, Alex. You’re a lifesaver.”


“Alex…will he be okay with me coming to fit him?”

He laughs. “Guess we’ll see when you get here. See you later, Pins.”

He hangs up, and I stare down at the phone, feeling a little sick.

Oh well, I don’t have any other choice than to go. I have a job to do. I’ll just apologize—again—for yelling at him, calling him an asshole and a jerk, and giving him the middle finger. I won’t let him rile me up. And I definitely won’t be taking him any more I’m-sorry gifts; that’s for sure.


Six p.m. sharp, I’m standing outside Vaughn’s hotel room with his clothes hanging over my arm in a garment bag, my sewing case in my hand.

I’m wearing my dark blue distressed skinny jeans, an oversized beige sweater that falls off the shoulder, and my leopard-print Christian Louboutins that I found in a secondhand charity shop in SoHo. I swear, I nearly cried with happiness that day; they were practically brand-new. I like to think they belonged to a celebrity who was clearing out her last-season items. I now make it a point to visit that charity shop every chance I get. Hanging from my shoulder is my knock off Gucci Dionysus GG Supreme mini bag. I love her. If only she were real. My hair is tied back in a sleek ponytail. My eye makeup is light. My lips are painted red.

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