James and I escape to our favorite lunch spot, a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place where the food is as good as it is cheap, and the waitress is as smart-mouthed as she is fast.

“Wow, she really wants handbags at dawn,” James widens his eyes at the news of the contest. “Do you think you can take Arielle? That girl fights dirty.”

“I play to win,” the woman herself corrects him. Arielle pulls a chair over and plunks herself down at our table. “So, were you telling James all about how I’m going to be heading up the new project?” she asks smugly.

“You heard Serena,” I say, willing myself not to be intimidated. “We’re both in the running. It’s not yours yet.”

Arielle rolls her eyes. “Serena’s going to be looking for someone to lead. Someone who has experience standing out. Making a splash.”

“Or someone who works well with people, and has clients returning time and time again,” I reply, but still, I’m not feeling so confident. This would be a big jump for me, but could be the break I’ve been waiting for to show that I can do so much more.

“Aww, you want a gold star for effort?” Arielle shoots back. “Because results are the only thing that matter in this game, and I bill higher orders than anyone.”

Thankfully, James isn’t having it. “Turn the bitch down, Ari. Gemma has a great eye. She’s as good a stylist as you.”

“Sure she is,” Arielle says sarcastically.

“Wanna bet?” James asks.

Arielle shrugs. “Why not?”

“Hmmmm …” James gets a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Now this could be fun …”

“What could?” I ask. “James?”

“Hush, I’m thinking.” He pauses a moment, and then the glint is joined by a devilish grin. “Oh, that’s good. That’s real good.” He looks at the two of us. “How about making this a real competition? No presentations or interviews. You each makeover a client, and whoever pulls off the biggest, most radical style change, wins the job.”

“You’re hilarious,” I dig into my potstickers, not taking him seriously.

“I’m not joking.” James insists. “This is the perfect way to decide who deserves the job. No schmoozing or sweet-talk, but actual skills. You can even do the whole lifestyle concierge thing: head-to-toe image, home, culture. Show us what you got.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Arielle snorts. “This is a serious promotion, not a game.”

“Why not?” James asks. “Worried you can’t beat Gemma on pure skill? Your connections won’t help you here,” he adds. Arielle flushes. It’s an open secret that she got her job because Serena went to college with Arielle’s older sister.

“No,” she glared. “I can style Gemma under the table. No offense,” she adds sweetly.

“None taken.” I narrow my eyes. Now that James mentions it, a contest based on pure skill might be my best shot to getting this job. Arielle can turn on the charm like nobody’s business – when she figures someone is useful to her. It’s why Serena thinks she’s a visionary fashionista…

“If we did do this, how would it work?” I ask. “We’re not in control of who gets the job,” Arielle interrupts. “Serena is.”

“But she said it herself, if one of us bows out, the other gets it,” I say slowly. “So, we could agree that the loser here takes herself out of the running.”

“You mean, you’d just roll over and let me have it?” Arielle pauses, then smiles. “You know, maybe this isn’t such a crazy idea after all.”

“See? I have my moments of brilliance,” James beams. “And you have to be done in ten days, like Serena said. You can both show off your client at the gala.”

“Who judges?” I ask.

“Me.”

“And how do we pick the clients?” Arielle jumps in. “I don’t want you bringing in a ringer – someone who’s just going to do whatever you want. Real clients are difficult.”

“So pick for each other,” James suggests.

“Yes!” Arielle cries.

“No!” I protest. “Are you kidding? She’ll pick me a psychopath. Or a Scientologist!”

James laughs. “Yes, but then you get to pick her someone, too.”

Hmm, good point. I look around the restaurant, and Arielle does the same.

“How about her,” she smirks, nodding toward a table in the back where an older woman with salt and pepper hair is slurping soup from a giant bowl. She’s wearing a bold caftan and no makeup, and looks like she couldn’t care less about fashion.

To be honest, I don’t think she needs a makeover at all.

I swing my gaze around, landing on a paunchy, middle-aged businessman, wrestling with his chopsticks. He drops a dumpling, leaving a greasy red skid mark down his white shirt. “Maybe he’s your Mr. Right.”

Arielle snorts. “Never mind.”

Just then our waitress arrives with a platter of steaming food. Lily is in her fifties, and takes absolutely no bullshit. “Hey, Lily,” Arielle says. “Want to get a makeover? For free?”

Lily levels an incredulous look at Arielle. “Okay. Sure,” she deadpans. “George Clooney invited me to Oscars as his date and I have nothing to wear.”

“I’m serious,” Arielle says, though her laugh makes it sound like she’s anything but. “Gemma here needs a new client. She’s up for a big promotion.”

Lily scoffs and waves at us dismissively before she bustles back to the kitchen.

James reaches for a pork bun. “I bet you’re relieved, Gemma.”

“Are you kidding?” I say. “Giving Lily a makeover would be so much fun. And think of the snacks.”

James takes a bite and sighs. “These pork buns are amazing. Better than sex.”

“If you think that, you’re doing it wrong,” Arielle says as she grabs one.

“We should make him over,” I say, pointing my chopstick at James.

“Please,” he says. “I already have my own Queer Eye.”

Arielle opens her mouth to say something when she suddenly gets bumped from behind.

“Excuse me!” she barks at the man who’s just pushed past. It’s a delivery guy, with a shock of bright pink and black hair, and a silver bolt through his nose. He’s dressed in a T-shirt that has curse words printed in different languages, with an arm full of tattoos and an annoyed scowl on his face.

“Problem?” he demands in a way that isn’t really a question at all. More like he’s identifying Arielle as his problem.

“You knocked into me.”

“Well boo-fucking-hoo,” he replies, and keeps walking. I catch a glimpse of pale, hairy legs under his ripped jean shorts as he disappears through the door.

Unfashionable and rude?

“He’ll do,” I grin.

Arielle’s wide eyes swing toward me in panic. “What?”

I smile and lean back in my chair. “You heard me. You were so eager to make this interesting? You can make him over.”

James barks out a laugh and claps again. “Oh, this will be good.”

“He’s gone,” Arielle says smugly.

“No problem,” James says with a smile. “There was a logo on his shirt: On-Time Couriers. And as I think about it, I think I actually have a few things that need to be shipped across town today. How convenient!”

“I hope you choke on your dumpling,” Arielle grunts.

James blows her a kiss.

“Anyway,” I say, smiling. “That’s my pick for you.”

“Piece of cake,” Arielle says. Though while she’s all bluster, I notice her cheek twitches as her eyes slide toward the door.

“You made the rules, Arielle,” I say, thinking maybe this will be fun after all. “And good luck to you.”

My optimism lasts about as long as it takes to realize Arielle is going to pick a real piece of work for me to transform, as revenge for Delivery Guy. Maybe I just showed my hand too fast, by picking someone first. Either way, it’s almost a relief when we step into the elevator back at the office and Arielle starts complaining. “So, we aren’t seriously doing this bet thing, right? It’s crazy.”

“Crazy smart,” James says, tapping his forehead with a knowing nod.

“But you can’t be serious about that … that … beastly asshole!”

Jame smirks. “Scared?”

“No!”

“You can always quit while you’re ahead …” he taunts her.

Arielle glares. “Never going to happen. I just don’t see how I can find anyone as awful for Gemma now.”

“But you sure can try!” James laughs.

With a loud clunk, the elevator jerks into place on our floor. I figure there’s still a chance Arielle will quit this whole bet, so I decide to work on some back-up ideas to present to Serena in case we’re pitching the traditional way—

“Oof!” I exclaim, as I turn the corner and ram into a wall of steel.

No. A wall of flannel. A familiar wall of flannel. I look up and find myself eye to beard.

Eyes, up a little more, Gemma.

Eye to eye with Bigfoot.

“Zach?” I frown. “What are you doing here?”

He looks me up and down with that annoying, all-seeing, all-judging look of his. “I’m doing a favor for a friend,” he replies casually, then nods to someone behind me.

James comes flying out of his office. “Thank God you’re here. Sorry we’re late back from lunch.”

“James is your friend?” I question.

Zach just gives a lazy shrug.

“I have you all set up in the server room,” James continues, “Let me know if you need anything. I can’t figure out this bug, and we’ve got customer requests backing up. Martin said you were the best programmer around.”

“He lies,” Zach says. “But sure, I’ll take a look.”

“Thank you!” James phone sounds in his office, and he ducks back out of sight.

So Zach is a tech guy? Well, that explains the bad fashion sense, at least.

But instead of hurrying to solve whatever emergency they called him in for, Zach slowly looks around.

“So this is where you ‘work’?”

He doesn’t do the little finger quote marks, but I can hear the scorn in his voice.

I narrow my eyes at him. “It is work.”

“Right,” he says with a smile. “Playing dress-up all day.”

I tense. Obviously he doesn’t understand what it takes to put together the perfect ensemble or advise a client on what best suits them. I mean, just look at what he’s wearing: flannel shirt—a threadbare one at that—over a faded T-shirt and camo cargo shorts. Oh, and flip-flops.

“Well, it’s nice to see you don’t need any help in that department,” I say, my sweet tone emphasizing the sarcasm. “I think I saw that outfit on the cover of GQ last month.”

“Oh yeah?” Zach just looks amused. “And you just came from you Vogue cover shoot?”

I look down at my cute sundress. It’s nowhere near couture, more like second-hand Banana Republic. But the way he said it makes me feel like it wasn’t just my dress he was making fun of. I know I’m not supermodel material, but still …

“Actually,” I retort. “This is my Bigfoot repellent dress. Seems not to be working today.”

“That’s Mr. Bigfoot to you,” Zach smirks, before giving me a salute, and strolling away.

I glare after him.

“So, who was that guy?” Arielle asks.

Where did she even come from? I thought she’d disappeared in a cloud of smoke, or whatever it was Disney villains do to make an exit.

“Nobody,” I grimace. “Just my asshole neighbor. It’s not enough that he plays loud music all night, he has to come here and insult my work, too.”

“Oh really?” Arielle looks after him, a slow, evil smile forming on her face. “So you two don’t get along?”

I pause, suddenly remembering all about the bet—and how Arielle still needs to pick my client. “Oh, no, we’re fine! Great! It’s just this playful banter thing we do! He’s really rocking that woolly hipster vibe, huh?” I add desperately. “Soooo stylish, very Gucci fall collection!”

As in, he so doesn’t need a makeover.

Arielle gives me a withering look. She’s not buying it. Damn. And then she says the words I’ve been dreading: “He’ll do.”

Nooooo!

“For what?” I act dumb, even as my heart is plummeting to the floor.

“The bet,” she smirks. “He’ll do very nicely, methinks.”

Methinks? What’s next, clasping her hands together? Maniacal laughter?

But it doesn’t change the fact that I am so royally fucked. And not in the good, gingery Prince Harry way.

“You have until tonight to get him on board. Clock starts tomorrow.”

“But what if he doesn’t agree?” I gulp.

“Then you lose.” Arielle smiles. “Besides, weren’t you just saying how amazing your client relationships are? Time to put up, or shut up. But don’t forget, if you tell him about the bet, you forfeit.”

I spend the rest of the day trying to plot ways to somehow convince Bigfoot to let me make him over.

I come up with a grand total of zilch.

Nothing.

Nada.

I want to scream and wail at the unfairness. Shake my fist at the sky. Rail against the injustice of it all. But then I think of that delivery guy, and the pink-haired, pierced and tatted-up jerk mountain Arielle has to climb. We’re probably well-matched in this competition. And while I’d never in a million years admit it, I can’t really blame her for picking Zach.

Touché, worthy adversary. Touché.

But that doesn't help me right now. Zach disappears from the office before I can corner him again, but hey, at least I know where he lives. “How am I supposed to do this?,” I ask James on the phone as I walk—slowly—down the hall toward my apartment later that afternoon. Actually, no, toward Zach’s apartment. Because this is happening.

“Use your charm. And failing that, sexual favors.”

“Eww! You are no longer my work husband,” I announce.

“Whatever,” he laughs, knowing I’d never dump him.

“James, I’m serious.” I hiss as I get closer to Zach’s door. “The guy hates me. Also, he’s a hairy beast. Not to mention this whole bet is stupid.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” James says.

When I don’t respond, he concedes. “Okay, so he’s not your biggest fan, but hate’s a strong word. Anyway, it’ll make your victory that much sweeter. He has good bones under all that hair. Or should I say, a good bone. Singular.”

I can almost hear James’s eyebrow waggle through the phone. I laugh. “How would you know?”

“I don’t,” James sighs. “But, honey, I would like to.”

“You’re horrible,” I say. “And practically married. Anyway, I’m here; I gotta go. I’ll text you later with the update.”

“Tell me tomorrow. It’s date night with Simon—we’re making bath bombs.,” James says before he ends the call.

I slip the phone into my bag and take a big, deep, steadying breath before I knock on the door. It’s not even six p.m. so I’m hoping the booty call parade hasn’t yet begun.

I wait. And wait. And wait a little more. I’m sure I hear movement inside, but he’s definitely not coming.

To open the door, I mean.

I’m not about to give up so I just bang louder. Finally, finally, Zach’s door opens.

He leans against the doorframe, still wearing the same outfit as before, though he’s taken off the flannel. It doesn’t look like I’ve interrupted something … physical …

“Can I help you?” he finally asks.

Now or never, I tell myself. How about never? Ha! Except, I really want the promotion, not to mention the raise.

Maybe more than that, I want to prove to Serena that her faith in me isn’t misplaced. That just because I don’t have the education in fashion or even the experience to equal Arielle’s, doesn’t mean I’m not the best person for the job.

“I was hoping you could do me a favor,” I say, making sure to smile. The terms of the bet say I can’t tell him about the competition. But maybe I can ask him to help me build my portfolio, for free. Most people I know would love for a free stylist working 24/7 to turn their life around. But Zach is not most people. Because before I can even launch into my tempting sales pitch, he gives a snort of disdain.

“Yeah, nope,” he says.

And then slams the door in my face.