Wisely deciding not to ask, I quickly navigated back to my original question. “So, uh, not that it’s not great to see you and everything, but...”
I had hoped that would do it, but she returned my questioning gaze with a blank stare. I’d have to be a little more direct.
“It’s still like six in the morning...”
Still nothing.
“A little early to come calling...”
Silence.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“What the hell are you doing here?!”
“Oh!” Her face brightened cheerfully, as she set her gigantic bag down in the middle of the living room floor. “Nick sent me. He didn’t tell you?”
Why the hell would he tell me? It’s not like it was my apartment or anything.
I shook my head quickly, trying to catch up.
“I’m sorry...Nick sent you?”
Why the hell would Nick send his stylist to Brooklyn? At six in the fucking morning?
“He called me about twenty minutes ago.” She poured herself a mug of coffee from the kitchen, before ripping open the curtains to let winter daylight spill into the room. “Said that we needed to get an early start if we were going to be ready for the event by tonight.”
“Ready for the—”
In an act of sheer desperation, I threw caution to the wind and actually snatched the coffee mug right out of her hands. Anything to stop her perpetual motion.
“I’m sorry, but you need to please tell me what’s going on.” I held the caffeine just out of reach, trying to ignore the way her eyes were dilating like an angry cat. “Nick sent you over to my place to help me prepare for an event? What event? And if it’s at night, why the hell do I need to start getting ready right now? And why would he send you here to help me?”
My voice rose in panic with each question, flailing as things spiraled further and further out of my control. By the last one, I was nearly shouting—sending little drops of coffee flying in every direction.
“And...and how the fuck does everyone know where I live?!”
Most people would have cringed to be on the receiving end of such a tantrum. Most people would have had the good sense to avoid the scalding drops of liquid shooting like shrapnel through the air.
Stacy simply looked bored.
“Are you finished shouting?”
I sucked in a quick breath, considering the question.
“For now.”
Her lips twitched up in a rare smile.
“Good. Then I’ll tell you what I know.” She ticked things off her fingers, one by one. “To start, Nick sent me over here because you’re no longer ‘Abigail Wilder his publicist,’ you’re now ‘Abigail Wilder his girlfriend.’ That means you’re not a behind-the-scenes puppet-master anymore, you’re center stage. The leading lady. And in this town, at Nick’s level, that means you officially relinquished the right to dress yourself. That’s where I come in. With me so far?”
Strangely enough, I was. When Nick had first proposed the idea in Barcelona, it hadn’t really occurred to me that I would have to look the part if I was to play it.
“Yeah...I guess.”
“You’re going to be on breakfast television. You know, Good Morning America.”
My jaw dropped. “Say what?”