If life is a series of tests, Mandy Keeling just hit the
mother lode.
Ordinarily, I’m a fan of pink—lovely color, does smashing
things for the complexion. But not when it’s the bright,
glaring stripe staring back at me on the pregnancy test.
Then, pink is the color of major oops, of morning
sickness, of boyfriends who seemed decent but now are part
of some Jerk Witness Protection Program.
Still, I’ve got a few things going for me—bitter humor, a
divine right to eat till I’m the size of Marlon Brando,
and good friends who’ve managed to get me a job interview
with one Damien Sharpton: in need of a personal assistant,
and some say, a good, swift kick in the arse. If you want
to make a lasting impression, by all means, toss your
cookies in your future boss’s wastebasket, which is
located directly between his excruciatingly sexy legs.
Apparently, Mr. Gorgeous-But-Unbearably-Anti-Social must
like personal assistants who violate his trashcan, because
I got the job. And if I can avoid him via text messaging
for the next nine months of free health insurance,
everything will be just fine. Except that he’s just asked—
no, insisted—that I go with him on a business trip to the
Caribbean. Gulp. Ordinarily, this would be cause for
celebration. Ordinarily, I’d shave my legs, pack my
bikini, revel in day-glo drinks and my seething lust for
Mr. Swarthy-And-Secretive. But there’s nothing ordinary
about this situation…which means it could be absolutely
extraordinary…
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