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Authors: Ninya Tippett
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eyes further. "I just worked a nine-hour night shift and was sleeping for a little bit. Only half my brain is working right now."
Her pretty face—the real-life version of Barbie's—etched with concern. "Oh, a bride must get at least eight hours of beauty sleep every night, especially with only two weeks left before her big day. We must remedy that. We also need to ramp up your diet and make sure you're eating healthy and staying fit so that you'll look nothing less than perfect when you walk down the aisle. We have work to do, Ms. Samuels."
In the groggy web of my consciousness, the woman's earlier statements echoed until their meaning fully sank in.
Oh, God.
Holding up a hand to stop her from making any more attempts to come through the door, I grabbed my cellphone tucked under the waistband of my yoga pants and dialed a number.
As it rang, I peered over the woman's shoulder to scan the street outside and saw a black town car parked out front. A tall burly man with a shaved head was leaning against it, watching us with a remote expression on his face.
"Yes, Charlotte?"
"Brandon, what in the world is Ms. Brightshine doing at my house?" I demanded, ignoring the thrill that went through me at the sound of his cool, lazy voice on the other line when he said my name.
The woman dressed in neon perked up on the toes of her matching pink stiletto pumps and wagged a finger at me, smiling. "Oh, it's Ms. Brightside."
Brandon chuckled. "Didn't she introduce herself, darling? She's your new personal assistant and an acting wedding coordinator until the one I hired finishes the wedding she's doing this weekend."
My fist clenched but I pasted a smile on my face for the woman's sake. It wasn't her fault that Brandon thought it awfully hilarious to inflict her on me.
"But darling, I'm fine on my own. I don't need a personal assitant," I replied sweetly although I silently cringed at the crestfallen look on Ms. Brightside's face.
"Yes, you do," he said with a sigh. "You're getting tossed into unknown waters with no time to teach you how to swim or at least keep your head up. Ms. Brightside will help you navigate your way around. She comes highly recommended. I suggest you take full advantage of her skills."
I gritted my teeth. "I feel incredibly rude discussing this with you on the phone while she's right in front of me but I've managed on my own my entire life, Brand, and I'll manage being your wife just as well."
There was a moment of silence before he spoke again, finality in his voice. "If you don't want her help, fire her. Only you can do it."
The line disconnected and I stared at the phone as if it were some alien creature about to cover my hand with slime.
I swallowed uneasily, tossing the gadget to the ratty bench by foyer and glancing up at Ms. Brightside. She was watching me with blue eyes big with trepidation and hope.
Fire her? How the hell will I fire her? It's like kicking a bunny and enjoying it.
She was young, probably only a handful of years older than me, but her wide-eyed gaze was clearly innocent and demure. It was also apparent that she desperately and earnestly wanted to help—even if I didn't need or welcome any of it.
Damn you, Brandon. You just know how to twist my arm.
"Hi," I greeted her sheepishly.
She beamed at me. "Hello. So, will you keep me, Ms. Samuels? I can make your life so much easier and more fabulous!"
Good Lord, what do they feed this girl? Sunshine and daisies?
I nodded. "Yeah, you're on board. Sorry about that. Come on in."
Because I can't kick bunnies.
"So, Ms. Brightside," I started awkwardly. "What's your first name again?"
She brightened, extending a hand to me. "Felicity. Felicity Brightside."
Jesus. Felicity Brightside? Who is this—happiness personified?
I flashed her a smile and shook her hand. "My name is Charlotte Samuels. It's nice to meet you."
"Oh, no, I'm ecstatic to meet you!" the woman gushed, her beautiful blond curls bouncing around her
Her pretty face—the real-life version of Barbie's—etched with concern. "Oh, a bride must get at least eight hours of beauty sleep every night, especially with only two weeks left before her big day. We must remedy that. We also need to ramp up your diet and make sure you're eating healthy and staying fit so that you'll look nothing less than perfect when you walk down the aisle. We have work to do, Ms. Samuels."
In the groggy web of my consciousness, the woman's earlier statements echoed until their meaning fully sank in.
Oh, God.
Holding up a hand to stop her from making any more attempts to come through the door, I grabbed my cellphone tucked under the waistband of my yoga pants and dialed a number.
As it rang, I peered over the woman's shoulder to scan the street outside and saw a black town car parked out front. A tall burly man with a shaved head was leaning against it, watching us with a remote expression on his face.
"Yes, Charlotte?"
"Brandon, what in the world is Ms. Brightshine doing at my house?" I demanded, ignoring the thrill that went through me at the sound of his cool, lazy voice on the other line when he said my name.
The woman dressed in neon perked up on the toes of her matching pink stiletto pumps and wagged a finger at me, smiling. "Oh, it's Ms. Brightside."
Brandon chuckled. "Didn't she introduce herself, darling? She's your new personal assistant and an acting wedding coordinator until the one I hired finishes the wedding she's doing this weekend."
My fist clenched but I pasted a smile on my face for the woman's sake. It wasn't her fault that Brandon thought it awfully hilarious to inflict her on me.
"But darling, I'm fine on my own. I don't need a personal assitant," I replied sweetly although I silently cringed at the crestfallen look on Ms. Brightside's face.
"Yes, you do," he said with a sigh. "You're getting tossed into unknown waters with no time to teach you how to swim or at least keep your head up. Ms. Brightside will help you navigate your way around. She comes highly recommended. I suggest you take full advantage of her skills."
I gritted my teeth. "I feel incredibly rude discussing this with you on the phone while she's right in front of me but I've managed on my own my entire life, Brand, and I'll manage being your wife just as well."
There was a moment of silence before he spoke again, finality in his voice. "If you don't want her help, fire her. Only you can do it."
The line disconnected and I stared at the phone as if it were some alien creature about to cover my hand with slime.
I swallowed uneasily, tossing the gadget to the ratty bench by foyer and glancing up at Ms. Brightside. She was watching me with blue eyes big with trepidation and hope.
Fire her? How the hell will I fire her? It's like kicking a bunny and enjoying it.
She was young, probably only a handful of years older than me, but her wide-eyed gaze was clearly innocent and demure. It was also apparent that she desperately and earnestly wanted to help—even if I didn't need or welcome any of it.
Damn you, Brandon. You just know how to twist my arm.
"Hi," I greeted her sheepishly.
She beamed at me. "Hello. So, will you keep me, Ms. Samuels? I can make your life so much easier and more fabulous!"
Good Lord, what do they feed this girl? Sunshine and daisies?
I nodded. "Yeah, you're on board. Sorry about that. Come on in."
Because I can't kick bunnies.
"So, Ms. Brightside," I started awkwardly. "What's your first name again?"
She brightened, extending a hand to me. "Felicity. Felicity Brightside."
Jesus. Felicity Brightside? Who is this—happiness personified?
I flashed her a smile and shook her hand. "My name is Charlotte Samuels. It's nice to meet you."
"Oh, no, I'm ecstatic to meet you!" the woman gushed, her beautiful blond curls bouncing around her
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