If life is a series of tests, Mandy Keeling just hit the mother lode. Ordinarily, Iโm a fan of pinkโlovely color, does smashing things for the complexion. But not when itโs 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, Iโve got a few things going for meโbitter humor, a divine right to eat till Iโm the size of Marlon Brando, and good friends whoโve 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 bossโs 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 heโs just askedโ no, insistedโthat I go with him on a business trip to the Caribbean. Gulp. Ordinarily, this would be cause for celebration. Ordinarily, Iโd shave my legs, pack my bikini, revel in day-glo drinks and my seething lust for Mr. Swarthy-And-Secretive. But thereโs nothing ordinary about this situationโฆwhich means it could be absolutely extraordinaryโฆ
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