On Monday morning, I make sure to arrive at the office bright and early. Which isn’t hard, given that I now have a Cartwright Diamonds company card and can hop into a cab and sail into Manhattan instead of schlepping on the subway.

Before I left work on Friday, I’d also been set up with a company phone, a new email account, and a security badge with the world’s most unflattering photo. I’m not joking. That photo is what Miss Piggy would look like if she were a terrorist. And got her picture taken mid-bikini-wax.

In between all those administrative tasks, I’d spent the rest of the day handling Mr. Cartwright’s ‘special project’ … which turned out to be picking up his dry-cleaning. It had been dropped off somewhere by the previous assistant, he’d explained, and he had no idea where. Nor did he have the claim tag for it. I suggested to him that I just call the previous assistant and ask her where it was, but he told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to call her. It wasn’t him that had an issue with it, he assured me, but legal. And so, he’d need me to go out and find it all on my own, because it was his favorite suit. Lucky me.

I’d traipsed around half of Manhattan, hitting every dry cleaner in a thirty block radius before I managed to find the damn thing. Of course, it turned out there was more than one suit. In fact, there were six. Do you know how heavy and cumbersome six suits are?

By the time I’d dragged them back to the office, I was hot and sweaty and somewhat annoyed. I was even more annoyed when I found out Mr. Cartwright had already left for the day and wasn’t even there to be impressed that I’d managed to find his favorite suit, along with five others for good measure. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t be impressed at all. Knowing him, I’d get a grudging nod, and that’s it.

The only time he’s been somewhat nice to me is when I found that drawing in the quarterly report. It was my one achievement here so far, the only time I felt like I was doing something good, that I was actually qualified for this job.

It didn’t help that my parents had called this weekend, wanting to know how my new job was going, if I was managing okay. They sounded really concerned, too, like they’re both just waiting for me to fail and come running back to Connecticut. They’d never say that, of course. I don’t even know if they realize they’re doing it, but every time Dad mentioned the fact that my old job was still there if I needed it, I felt a pin prick of dismay.

So, I go in on Monday morning determined to get that can-do feeling back. I’m going to prove to Logan Cartwright — and my parents, and everyone else — that I deserve this job. That I’m a big girl. That I can do this.

It starts with the outfit. I’d spent the weekend shopping for dresses and skirts and blazers, and now I have a handful of pieces that I can mix and match. Today, I’m wearing a black pencil skirt, white button down, and grey jacket. It’s more my sister Emma’s style than mine, but I’m definitely going to fit in better at the office now. Everyone at Cartwright Diamonds seems to wear black or grey or white. It’s like watching an old black and white movie, except with less slapstick humor.

But if that’s what it takes to fit into their corporate mold, then consider me signed up. I’ve even managed to tame my wild blonde hair into a neat bun, which sits piled on top of my head. Give me a pair of glasses, and I could pass for a reference librarian.

As soon as I’m in the office, I head to the kitchen to start Mr. Cartwright’s coffee. That was the other thing I did this weekend — watch those damn YouTube videos a dozen times each, trying to memorize the process. Now that I’d seen my boss do it once, I could see the mistakes I’d made the first time, and I’m hoping I can avoid them today.

But by the time I carefully set the cup on his desk, I’ve thoroughly psyched myself out. I hold my breath while he takes a sip, watching the micro-expressions on his face, trying to gauge how good — or bad — I did.

“Passable,” is all he says, when he sets his cup down.

I guess I’ll take it. It’s better than ‘crime against humanity.’

Mr. Cartwright leans back in his chair. The feeling of his eyes on me gives me the same rush it always does, heating my skin from my scalp down to my toes. I wonder if he’s noted my new clothes — then mentally smack myself. As if my boss spends his days taking stock of my outfits. I’m sure he doesn’t care what I wear, as long as it looks professional.

Then again, the way his eyes trail up my legs, over my chest … maybe he does.

I tug on the hem of the blazer, feeling nervous under the intensity of his gaze.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” I ask, licking my lips. I don’t mean it to sound seductive, I swear, but there’s a huskiness to my voice that catches me by surprise.

Thankfully, Mr. Cartwright doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yes,” he says quickly, leaning forward. “I have another special errand for you today.”

Oh, great. More dry cleaning? “Of course. Anything at all.”

This time, his eyebrows raise, just a hair. “It’s my mother’s birthday on Thursday. I’ll need you to get her a gift.”

“Great. What would you like me to get?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s what I need you to figure out.”

“But …” I lick my lips. “I’ve never met your mother. What does she like?”

“I don’t know. Motherly things.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Men. “Okay … so maybe a scarf? Or a nice throw?”

He shakes his head. “No. She has a million of those.”

“A piece of jewelry?”

He raises his eyebrows fully now. “She’s a part of the Cartwright Diamonds family. Don’t you think she probably has more jewelry than she could wear in a lifetime?”

I barely suppress a strangled scream. “Okay, how about a nice bottle of something? Maybe some gourmet chocolates?”

He waves off my comments. “Too impersonal. This is her sixtieth birthday, Blake, and she’s a very special woman.”

If she’s so special, why aren’t you buying her gift yourself? Thank God I manage to keep that thought to myself. “Some … soaps? Candles?” I say, instead. I’m grasping at straws here, but Mr. Cartwright shakes his head.

“She’s very sensitive to fragrances.” He’s already turning back to his laptop. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

By the way he says it, I know he means I’m effectively dismissed. I turn and walk out of his office, sinking down into the chair at my own desk and rubbing my throbbing temples.

Okay. I can do this. I just have to find a gift for a woman I’ve never met. A woman who has too many scarves, blankets, and pieces of jewelry, who hates fragrances, and is too good for wine and chocolate. Piece of fucking cake.

With a sigh, I grab my phone and purse.

“I’m going to be out for the rest of the day,” I inform Kath, who’s sitting at the reception desk, clacking away on an intense-looking ergonomic keyboard. I think she can tell by the defeated sound of my voice that I’m off on a Logan-errand, because she smiles sympathetically.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, already knowing I’m going to need it.

I walk around Barneys for the fourth time, hoping and praying that this will be the time that inspiration finally strikes and I figure out the perfect gift for Mr. Cartwright’s mother. I already spent two hours at Williams Sonoma, thinking that maybe I’d get something for the kitchen, but I found myself second guessing everything I picked up. Would Logan find it insulting to give his mother something to cook with? They probably have people who do that for them anyway, right?

After Williams Sonoma, I hit the Celine store, thinking of their famous luggage totes, but I kept worrying that maybe she already had one. Now I’m at Barneys, and the only thing that seems even remotely like a possibility is a pair of deerskin gloves. They’re absolutely beautiful, and the black leather is probably the softest I’ve ever come across — and if that wasn’t enough, they’re even lined with cashmere. I’d picked them up, thinking I’d finally found the one, but now as I wander around the store, I keep wondering if gloves are just another thing that Logan’s going to say she has a million of already.

How do you shop for a woman you’ve never met? Especially one who’s rich as sin and already owns everything?

When my phone rings and I see Emma’s name on the display, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve been avoiding her calls since I started this job, but now I’m happy to hear from her. If anyone knows how to pick out the perfect gift, it’ll be Emma.

“Blakey! I’m so glad you answered!” she squeals when I press the phone to my ear. “I’ve been getting your voicemail every time I call.”

“I know, sorry. I’ve been busy.”

“With the new job, right? I want to hear all about it! Are you at lunch now? Are you free to talk?”

“Sort of,” I say, and then tell her about the fruitless errand Logan has me out running.

Emma listens thoughtfully as I talk, which is something that she’s excellent at. It’s no coincidence that she used to be an advice columnist and now writes best-selling self-help books. She’s got an uncanny knack for getting to the heart of the problem.

“You’re going about this all wrong,” she says, after I’ve finished my story and the five minutes of ranting that followed it.

“Oh? What should I be doing? I’m all ears, Em, seriously. I need help.”

“It needs to be special,” she says. “People that wealthy already have everything, for one thing. I learned that from being around Tyler’s family. Plus, she’s his mom. She doesn’t want the money — she wants to know that he put thought and heart into something.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t. It’s all my thought. My heart.”

“And it’s your job to make it look like it was his.”

“Well … I still don’t know what to do.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “I hate this.”

Emma laughs, but there’s a cautious edge to it. “Are you sure this job is right for you, Blake? I was talking to Tyler about it, and he says Logan Cartwright is … really intense. He’s gone through ten assistants in a single year.”

I bristle at her comment. “Of course, it’s right for me. I got hired, didn’t I?”

“Yes, at Tyler’s recommendation…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. Add my sister to the list of people who don’t think I’m cut out for this. “Let me guess — you think I should just go back to Connecticut and work at the flower shop forever, right? You and Rori can hack it here in New York, but I clearly can’t.”

Emma lets out an exasperated breath. “That’s not what I meant at all, Blake. I’m crazy happy you’re in the city. Rori and I both are. This isn’t about you; it’s about him.”

I don’t answer right away, just run my fingers along some gauzy pink scarves. No scarves, I remind myself.

“Are you mad at me?” Emma asks, after a moment of silence.

“No,” I say grudgingly. Because even though I’d never admit this to Emma or anyone else, a part of me wonders if I do have what it takes. You can take the girl out of Connecticut, but you can’t take the Connecticut out of the girl, and all that. “I should get going.”

“Oh, don’t be upset, Blake. You’ll figure it out. Now, the real reason I called — dinner this weekend?”

I chat with Emma for a few more minutes as I loop Barneys for a fifth time, earning a suspicious glare from the wispy blonde sales clerk roaming the women’s accessories section. Eventually, Emma has to hang up, and I’m left alone with my herculean task. Clearly, I need some kind of super powers to pull this off. Logan isn’t going to be happy with anything I bring back, this I already know. I can just feel it in my gut. He wouldn’t be happy if I brought back the stars themselves.

I stop dead in my tracks. The stars …

Something hums in the back of my mind. An idea. Something that just might be special and personal enough.

I grab my phone and key in a search and sure enough, I find what I’m looking for right away. A grin splits my face. Eat your heart out, Logan Cartwright, because I just nailed this one.

I hurry towards the doors, anxious to get back to the office. I’m already mentally cataloguing what I’ll need — some really nice paper, maybe a frame ….

I’m pushing my way through the big doors and out onto Madison Avenue when a hand grabs my shoulder.

I’m spun around roughly. I find myself staring into the hard green eyes of a security guard.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.” His voice is deep, and his tone makes it clear that, despite his choice in words, this isn’t a request.

“I don’t think so,” I retort. “I have to get back to work.”

His grip on my shoulder tightens. “I don’t think so.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’ve just been caught shoplifting, that’s why. Now come on.”

“Shoplifting? What are you talking about?”

Except as soon as the words are out of my mouth, the realization hits me. The gloves. I’m still holding the stupid gloves.

I stare down at the soft leather, clutched in my now sweaty palms. My security guard pal stares down at them, too, and then back at me. The way he’s looking at me is so disdainful, as if I’m nothing but a common criminal.

“No, you don’t understand,” I plead. “I didn’t mean to take them. I just got distracted…”

“That’s what they all say,” he sighs, and then he marches me roughly through the store. I have no choice but to go with him, my heart sinking the entire time.

“Where are you taking me?” My dread increases with every step.

“To our security offices.”

I let out a breath. Okay. I can still fix this. I just have to explain to him what happened, that it was only a simple misunderstanding.

“At least until the police arrive,” he adds, and my stomach bottoms out.