“So…are you actually going to Milan? With Antonio he’s-so-hot Michaels?” clamors Emma via my computer screen on a FaceTime call.

She calls to check up on me about three times a day whenever she’s away with her dad, mainly out of boredom, but I get the feeling Emma misses me every time we are apart. She’s truly like the little sister I never had, but always wished for.

Peering up from the catalog of CraveMe lingerie items I’ve been perusing for the past hour, I grin. “Apparently, I am.”

“Oh. My. God. You’ve so gotta convince my mom to allow you to take me with you, D! Tell her it’s for a school project or something.”

“No can do, babe. Plus, it’s your last year of high school. You’d better savor every precious moment.”

Emma sulks, as she crams a handful of potato chips into her mouth. “Fine. Just bring me home some Italian chocolate.”

I chuckle at her demand. “You’ve got it.”

“How was your first day as a PA? Is your new boss as dreamy as he looks?”

How about despicable, pretentious, and apathetic—all accentuated by mesmerizing charisma.

“Totally,” I utter, knowing I’ll never fool Emma since Little Miss All-Knowing does discern me quite well.

“Name one thing you like about him.” She studies my expression as she takes a sip of soda.

“Excuse me?” I blink.

“My mom always says it helps to name at least one good thing about someone you don’t particularly like.”

Just what I need: unsolicited advice from a sixteen-year-old.

Reluctantly, I search deep into the pit of my gut, for something—anything—I like about Antonio.

“His smile.” I finally decide.

Emma folds her arms and squints her expressive brown eyes. “Uh-huh. The two of you will be sending out wedding invitations upon your return from Milan.”

I shake my head. “Nope. I think he’s married.”

“Married? No way! He’s been seen out on dates with too many women, D…so nice try.”

“Well…he’s utterly impossible.”

“So are you.”

“He’s stubborn.”

“And you’re not?” She gleams at my annoyance.

“We are Night and Day.”

“Opposites attract.” She sticks out her tongue.

“Don’t you have homework…or something?”

“Yep. In fact, I’ve got an assignment that’s due in a couple of weeks. Maybe you can help?” She grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“And what exactly is this assignment?” I proceed with caution, knowing Emma always has a prank up her sleeve.

“I’ve gotta study Milan fashion shows and their impact on society—in Milan.”

I can see the corners of Emma’s mouth twitch, an obvious struggle at holding back a giggle. And, five seconds later, she cackles uncontrollably.

“You’re funny,” I say, semi-amused. “But seriously, get off this call and do your homework,” I inject as a reminder that I’m still the adult here. “Besides, I’m kind of working on a small project, hun.”

“Work-related?” she asks, her voice inflated, eyes widened.

“Yep. And I promise to fill you in tomorrow.”

Emma’s expression softens. “Okay then, I’m off to do my homework. Good luck with your project. Love ya.”

“I love ya too, babe.”

Describing this project as small wasn’t exactly a fitting characterization—more like mammoth.

Taking a hearty sip of hot peppermint tea, I retrieve a spiral notebook from my desk drawer and begin jotting down mental notes I made earlier while viewing the extensive video footage Jonah provided me. Apparently, the entire lingerie event in Milan is colossal—commencing with a grandiose fashion show and concluding with a ceremonial ball. Invitees of The Ball exclusively don the newest and hottest avant-garde creations by the fashion show’s designers.

During the brainstorming meeting, I remember Antonio mentioned CraveMe has fallen behind compared to what other designers present on the catwalk. Seems they’ve been going all out, presumably trying to outdo the other, in an effort to leave a memorable impression. And from what I’ve seen on the videos, he’s absolutely right. DJs, strobe lights, acrobatics, all in addition to an assortment of dazzling, ass-baring, women. It’s no wonder Jonah is freaked-the-fuck out about the amount of time we have left to plan. There is no way CraveMe can expect to pull off anything close to what the others have—unless we decide, like yesterday, what the theme will be.

I rock back and forth in my chair as I scan my bedroom walls for inspiration. Over the years, I’ve been collecting and framing pictures of women wearing chic lingerie that I use to influence my own design creations. Yet, I think CraveMe’s thirty-minute contribution to the Fashion Show needs to be more of an all-out experience. To draw out my creative muse, I switch on my MP3 player—it’s still set to my 1980s playlist. I tap my ink pen on the hard, wooden surface of my desk and bob my head to the funky sound of The Eurythmics-Sweet Dreams, and before I know it, I’m up, moving about my room, dancing to the beat. Even though I wasn’t born in the ’80s, I still appreciate everything from the era. The music. The movies. The hair. And even some of the clothing. If someone could ingeniously figure out how to intertwine the best parts of the ’80s, ’90s, and today—

Holy fuck. That’s it.

The concept smacks me with such blunt force, I trip as I scamper back to my chair.

Immediately I begin conducting an online search for images, articles, just about everything I’ll need to create a poppin’ slideshow to present to Antonio and Jonah tomorrow at Creative Solutions, Inc.

* * *

Nearly two hours, two MP3 play sets, and two glasses of wine later, I stare, in awe, at what I’ve come up with. It’s phenomenally perfect and I honestly can’t wait until tomorrow—even though I’ll have to. I power down my laptop and pack it up for the meeting and shimmy my way into the closet, still feeling giddy over my creativity. I’ll need to wear something professionally eye-poppin’ to the meeting.

Something Holly Golightly-ish minus the hat, of course.

My phone rings.

Shit. It’s Antonio. He and I exchanged phone numbers earlier when he reminded me I need to be available twenty-four hours a day. And, no doubt, he’s likely calling to tell me what type of coffee I need to bring him to the meeting tomorrow. I mean, isn’t that the sort of stuff I’m to do as his PA? Pick up his coffee on the way to work? Honestly, we really haven’t discussed my primary duties.

“Sir?” I answer, still searching for an outfit to wear.

“Sir? That actually has a nice ring to it. But I prefer Sir Antonio…you know, as long as you’re tossing the word Sir around.” I hear a soft chuckle escape him.

His voice is soothing and sweet over the phone, like a soft lullaby. He can put me to sleep anytime. Ooops. That’s the two glasses of wine talking. I swear.

“To what do I owe the honor?” I’m sure there are thousands of women in Los Angeles who would kill to have Antonio Michaels call them at—I glance at the clock display on my phone—10:35 p.m.

“I was calling to see if you’ve been able to come up with any ideas. I figured you’d still be up…probably still brainstorming?”

I smirk into the phone. “I’m actually all done. And I won’t be sharing anything with you until tomorrow at the meeting.”

“Done? Well that’s great. Can’t you give me a teaser?”

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “That will be a no.” I pull a black dress off its hanger and hold it up against me while looking in the mirror.

He laughs. “Fair enough, Daniella Belle. What kind of coffee can I bring you?”

I stand up tall. “Um, me?” I stammer. “What coffee can you bring me?” Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be asking him? I slouch down, my butt on the edge of one of my shoe shelves.

“Yes. I thought I’d get us some coffee on my way to pick you up. I figure since we live only a few miles apart and are both going to the same place tomorrow, we should go together. It will give us time to…talk.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I wasn’t expecting him to pick up coffee nor was I expecting a ride. I even booked an Uber. Audible words are held hostage by the shock of him being…pleasant. Or maybe he’s just being an efficient boss. Yep. That’s it. Makes total sense.

“Okay,” I finally manage to spill. “I’ll take a cappuccino with whipped cream, please.”

“Perfect. Plan to be ready to go by 7:45 sharp. Until tomorrow, Daniella. Sweet dreams.”