If life is a series of tests, Mandy Keeling just hit the mother lode. Ordinarily, Iβm a fan of pinkβlovely color, does smashing things for the complexion. But not when itβs 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, Iβve got a few things going for meβbitter humor, a divine right to eat till Iβm the size of Marlon Brando, and good friends whoβve 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 bossβs 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 heβs just askedβ no, insistedβthat I go with him on a business trip to the Caribbean. Gulp. Ordinarily, this would be cause for celebration. Ordinarily, Iβd shave my legs, pack my bikini, revel in day-glo drinks and my seething lust for Mr. Swarthy-And-Secretive. But thereβs nothing ordinary about this situationβ¦which means it could be absolutely extraordinaryβ¦
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