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It had all started with the Book.
Before Paris — because Andy had started doing that, marking her Runway career by things that happened before that first trip and after — she’d seen parts of Miranda’s life that she shouldn’t have: met the twins by accident, seen her fighting with Stephen, and finally been called into Miranda’s study and told that she’d be going to Paris instead of Emily.
Looking back, it seemed inevitable that going to Miranda’s house night after night would foist upon Andy some false sense of intimacy. She rarely saw her boss at first, and only heard her voice upstairs once or twice, but her whole body tingled just at the idea of Miranda’s presence. It was easy to tell herself that it was intimidation, nerves, some level of boss-induced anxiety that the strongest medication couldn’t fix.
But then there was Paris and the way that Andy had felt when she’d found Miranda in that grey robe, free of makeup and eyes red from tears. She’d wanted to comfort her, join her on the couch and pull Miranda into her arms and take care of her with methods far outside of her job description. The instinct was jarring and unexpected, and when Miranda had practically recoiled at the softness in Andy’s voice, she knew that she was encroaching onto dangerous territory.
Then Miranda told Andy that they were alike, comparing her betrayal of Nigel to how Andy had treated Emily. It was a gut-punch, a wake-up call, a confirmation of everything her boyfriend and friends had been trying to tell her for months. That she’d changed, and for the worse.
She had half a mind to tell Miranda off, but then they’d pulled up to the show and Miranda was intertwining their fingers and Andy couldn’t resist being pulled into the fray.
After Paris, there was an unspoken understanding, made easier by Emily’s catastrophic injury, that Andy would be performing all of the duties of first assistant — with the exception of the Book, which Miranda made clear that Andy would deliver indefinitely. With no Stephen, she started seeing Miranda more every night, often being called into her office to hand-deliver the book. Without looking up, Miranda would pepper Andy with questions about the next day’s schedule or an outstanding task.
And with no Nate, Andy stayed.
Miranda flipped the Book open quickly one night, clearly searching for something. Andy waited a few feet away, expecting an interrogation about an upcoming Givenchy shoot, but then the Book was being slid across Miranda’s desk towards her. A perfectly-manicured nail tapped on the open page full of text.
Andy took two steps forward and bent slightly to read the article, which she noticed was written by an author for whom Miranda had a poorly-disguised distaste. The article, something about the history of the color gold in fashion, was mediocre at best.
“Well?” Miranda drawled a moment later.
Andy pressed her lips together. “It’s certainly, um… interesting?” Miranda’s eyes narrowed, and Andy conceded. “It’s bad.”
Miranda hummed, seeming pleased. “That’s all.”
Soon, she was asking Andy for her opinion a few times a week. Often it was on writing — she seemed to still remember that Andy had wanted to be a journalist, after all — but other times it was on a fashion spread or an ad campaign that Andy had been peripherally aware of.
“That color combination looks… off,” Andy observed one night, leaning over a Chanel spread.
A puff of breath came from Miranda’s lips as she pulled the Book towards her again, her red pen hovering over it. “I’m not surprised that you’ve learned a bit about fashion,” she said, “But I am always surprised by your opinion.”
Six months ago, this would have registered as an insult, but there was a lightness in Miranda’s tone that, for the first time, made Andy realize that she might be teasing her. Later, she’d tell herself that it was the 13-hour work day that made her reply with, “Is that why you keep asking for it?”
Miranda pursed her lips. “Perhaps.” A twinkle in her eye told Andy that she hadn’t missed her accidental double entendre. She practically ran out of the townhouse that night, her cheeks burning at what she’d said.
But however reckless Andy’s actions had been, whatever mistakes she continued to make under Miranda’s watchful eye, Miranda kept calling her back. Six months after Paris, Miranda told Andy that she would be accompanying her to Milan.
—
“And you’re sure that you can’t do anything to fix it? Or just open up a few more rooms and let us figure it out? We can go buy water, or…”
“Yes, signora, I have already —”
“No, no, no,” Andy said rapidly as she paced back and forth, her Blackberry growing hot against her ear. “There has to be another option.”
“I have told you signora, we have only the two rooms for you now. We cannot allow a stay when there is no running water. I am very sorry.”
“Can we — can’t we share with other guests? Is there, like, a sign-up sheet to room with other people? Or can we buy them from them? This is Miranda Priestly we’re talking about.”
There was silence on the other end, and Andy knew that she had descended into near-hysteria. “Okay, maybe not,” she conceded, rubbing the back of her neck. “We’ll take the rooms.”
“Okay. Gratzie, signora, for your understanding. We will see you for the check-in tonight.”
Andy hung up and looked across the airport lounge where the Runway staff was gathered. Nigel, Emily, and the rest of their team were seated on a couch, drinking coffee and talking quietly. Standing at the bar, Miranda’s back was turned to the group, eyes focused on her phone as she nursed a Pellegrino.
Miranda wasn’t so much an anxious flier as an impatient one: she hated being strapped in for hours at a time, inaccessible to the world; she refused to sleep in public, so was always ill-rested after the trip; and she didn’t understand why airlines hadn’t figured out how to make planes go faster by now, so that today’s flight to Milan was more akin taking a cab from Midtown to Park Slope than eight hours in the sky. Andy had gotten mostly used to all of this by now, no longer shrinking at Miranda’s sleep-deprived insults or ridiculous travel demands. She had become a world-class Miranda-problem-solver, somehow more attuned to her boss’s needs than she was to her own, and while travel with Miranda was never easy, it felt slightly more predictable than that first trip to Paris.
She realized now, standing in the Sky Lounge, sweaty-palmed and flushed, that she had started assuming such predictability instead of planning for the worst.
Because arriving in Milan to two only rooms at the Four Seasons for ten people was, in fact, the worst.
Andy had gotten the call from the hotel as they were waiting for airport security, and immediately knew that something was wrong when she saw the caller ID. While Miranda hadn’t been within eavesdropping distance, she glared at Andy like she had personally requested some imminent disaster when she hung up. Andy tried to flash her boss her best smile before reaching down to unbuckle her heels, head swimming with the hotel manager’s news of a water main break that had cut off running water to almost every guest room in the building.
“Everything alright, Andrea?”
Andy could hardly hear her over the sound of bangles and other jewelry being tossed into the TSA bins, but she nodded quickly. “All set!” she said cheerfully.
Miranda saw right through it, of course. But she just stared at Andy instead of berating her, something she’d been doing more of lately. Not a stare of disdain or scrutiny; it was closer to curiosity, expectation. Taking the time to understand what Andy wasn’t saying. She was paying attention, and not just to what Andy was doing wrong anymore.
There was the time that she’d turned towards Andy in the towncar as they were pulling up to a meeting. Her sunglasses obstructed most of her face, but Andy could see Miranda’s eyebrows lift slightly. “I should tell you that there is a bird here that Franco lets fly around. It is perfectly tame, but it enjoys sitting on guests’ shoulders.”
Andy couldn’t recall ever explicitly mentioning her dislike of birds to Miranda before, but she had side-stepped a caged parrot in a showroom weeks before, put off by its beady eyes. She hadn’t realized that Miranda had noticed.
They’d ended up in the office kitchen together once. Andy thought she was alone, and groaned when she realized that someone had used the last of her favorite tea. It was some odd blend from France that Miranda had gotten as a gift and didn’t want.
“What are you moaning about?”
Andy spun around. “What are you doing here?” She resisted the urge to slap her hand over her mouth when she realized what she’d said.
Miranda, however, seemed amused rather than annoyed. Her eyes flicked to the empty tea tin that Andy was holding.
“You got this from —”
“I know,” Miranda said, rolling her eyes. She pulled a spoon out of the silverware drawer and left without another word.
A week later, Andy had arrived at the townhouse to find a full tin of the specialty tea sitting on the entryway table, and Miranda standing a few feet away, clearly interested in seeing her reaction.
“Thank you,” Andy said softly.
Miranda watched her closely in the heavy silence. “Did Marco confirm?” Something tightened in Andy’s chest at the rapid change of topics, but she fell asleep thinking about how Miranda’s gaze had felt.
Miranda’s behavior now consumed more of Andy’s thoughts than she liked. Even though Emily had worked for Miranda for far longer, there seemed to be very little familiarity there. Nigel was the only one who came close to the type of partnership that she felt with Miranda, but there was no way in hell that she was going to ask him if he’d ever had French tea gifted to him on a random Wednesday evening.
As they waited to board, Andy spent the time frantically dialing every other luxury hotel in Milan, desperate to cobble together eight more rooms to accommodate her colleagues, plus the two additional rooms that Miranda always required for meetings and possible guests.
Mandarin Hotel, booked. Castello Szforcesco, booked. Casa Cipriani, Excelsior, Galleria — not even Miranda’s name could get Andy so much as a janitor’s closet. Every single one was packed with guests from hotels like the Four Seasons that had either shut down entirely from the water main break, or had entire floors with no running water.
Andy wondered how quickly she could give her coworkers food poisoning on the flight and send them home before anyone could notice that they didn’t have a hotel room.
Nigel caught her eye across the room and tilted his head slightly. He had become the closest thing to a friend at Runway since that first Paris trip, and could almost always sense a disaster brewing. The gate agent was calling the group for boarding as she rushed over to Nigel, but Miranda appeared at her side before she could say anything.
“When we land, call Gianna and tell her that I want a walkthrough of their full fall collection, not just two shirts and a skirt masquerading as a preview. And make sure that the Thursday evening dinner doesn’t have —”
“Shellfish, I got it,” Andy interrupted as they clacked down the tiled floors towards their gate.
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “And the event at the —”
“Pinacoteca di Brera is confirmed for us to attend. There will be a private tour for you and a group of your choice before the dinner, and the curator for their painting collection is interested in pitching a —”
“No,” Miranda said. “Have him email me if he wants to pitch something.”
Andy nodded, falling behind Miranda as they joined the queue to board the plane. “He already did. It’s in your inbox, but I can —”
Miranda didn’t turn around. “That’s all.”
In the chaos of boarding and finding assigned seats, Andy’s mind had drifted from the hotel debacle. She was settling into her seat in the row behind Miranda when she heard her boss’s voice.
“And Andrea?”
“Yes?”
“Have you solved the mystery of why the Four Seasons was so intent on speaking with you earlier today?”
The chatter from her colleagues grew softer as they awaited Andy’s answer. Only a glare from Miranda convinced them to resume their own conversations, though it didn’t keep them from leaning in to eavesdrop.
“Um, yes,” Andy said. Apparently her heart could beat faster than it had been in the airport lounge. “The, um — the…”
“Any day now,” Miranda murmured.
“They can only give us two rooms. A water main downtown burst, and only a few of their rooms have running water now. The Palazzo and Bulgari are completely shut down until it can be fixed.”
The stiff creak of leather was the only thing breaking the silence as Miranda turned around to look at her. “Two rooms,” she repeated coolly.
“I’m working on a solution,” Andy managed to squeak out.
Miranda’s eyes raked over her. “Are we so sure about that?”
“I called everywhere, Miranda, and they’re all booked up from the guests that had to be relocated.” Andy was practically pleading now, her voice dropping as she tried to prevent her coworkers from listening.
“And your plan is for us to, I don’t know, sleep in the Duomo? Have a pitying priest take us in like some Dickensian orphans?”
A year ago, Andy would have taken this as a legitimate suggestion, maybe asked for the phone number of one of the most famous churches on earth, but now it just made her blood run cold. “No,” she whispered.
“Excellent,” Miranda said dryly. She pursed her lips at Andy before turning around. “I look forward to learning about your solution when we land.”
Eight hours later, the Duomo di Milano was about as good as Andy could come up with. Her heart was still pounding as they deplaned slowly. She checked and re-checked her voicemail, hopeful that the Four Seasons would have called and told her that they’d fixed everything, but there was nothing.
“Four Seasons Milan, how may I —”
“Hello, yes, this is Andrea Sachs, and —”
“Andrea, yes, we have your rooms ready.”
Andy froze in the middle of the jet bridge. “All of them?”
The front desk attendant cleared his throat primly. “All two of them, signora.”
“Dammit,” Andy hissed. A gasp told her that it wasn’t as quiet as she’d hoped. “Sorry — uh, scusa, scusa.”
“It’s okay. We will see you soon, yes?”
When she hung up, Miranda was waiting for her at the end of the jetbridge, icy blue eyes staring Andy down expectantly. “Well?”
“I’ll figure it out, I promise. I’m just going to —”
Miranda walked off before Andy could finish. Just as well, since she hadn’t known where that sentence was going anyway.
Miranda and the creative team — which now included Emily, who had begun working under Jocelyn’s tutelage — went directly from the airport to a midday meeting with Bottega. Andy and the local valet service were responsible for meeting the luggage at the Four Seasons, and she spent the car ride to the hotel on the phone with Miranda’s new second assistant, a kind but slightly odd girl named Lauren.
“Just google every hotel — yes, every — within five miles of downtown and see how many rooms they have. I need at least two nice ones, and I don’t care what the other ones look like.”
“Don’t… care…” Lauren repeated, clearly writing down Andy’s every word, and she bit back a groan.
“You don’t have to tell them that you don’t care, Lauren.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The Four Seasons lobby thrummed with poorly-hidden chaos: clumps of frustrated guests frowned in Andy’s direction as bellhops wheeled luggage behind her and up to the second floor. The hotel manager had made it clear that the two rooms had only been set aside because it was Miranda; nearly every other floor had no water supply and had been vacated.
The first room held two queen-sized beds; the usual sofa chair and desk had been moved into the hallway to make space for a stack of army cots. While it was more roomy than the Cincinnati Comfort Inn, Andy found herself grimacing as she watched the bellhops struggle to find enough floor space to place each suitcase.
“Just… I guess we’ll put the rest in the other room,” she said with a sigh. The bellhops nodded, wiping their brows before heading down the hall to the other room.
It was larger, with a single king bed, but still wasn’t the suite that Miranda usually occupied. Andy was relieved that it was free of cots, however, and the bellhops were able to easily stack the overflow luggage against the closet.
She had just finished tipping the bellhops when Lauren called her back.
“Thank god. What have you found?”
“Um, there aren’t, like, motels in Italy, exactly, but —”
“Lauren,” Andy said slowly. “Please don’t tell me that you went straight to looking at motels.”
“I tried four- and three-star, Andy. This isn’t a motel, but it’s, like, one of those airport ones?”
“By the airport?”
“Um…” Lauren cleared her throat. “No. At the airport.”
“Lauren.”
“I know, I’m sorry!” Lauren said, her voice reaching the universally high pitch of Miranda Priestly assistants.
Andy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay, just… email me everything you have, and I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll keep looking, I promise.”
Andy hung up and surveyed Miranda’s room again, catching her own reflection in the entryway mirror. She looked about as haggard as she felt, and realized that she’d need to clean up before that evening’s Bottega dinner in a few hours. Passing by the closet, she noticed that one of the suitcases that had ended up in this room was hers.
Knowing that the team wouldn’t be back from their meeting for two more hours, and interested in staying away from the room of cots for as long as possible, Andrea quickly grabbed a new outfit out of her suitcase — a jewel-toned Versace ensemble that Nigel had put together for her from the Closet — and hung it up on the bathroom door before jumping in the shower. Which, incidentally, was also much bigger and nicer than the other room’s.
In less than an hour, Andy was back downstairs in the lobby, queued in line with other guests in the same business of negotiating their fates with the manager. Miranda’s name only carried so much weight in a town of endless fashion icons, and Andy formulated her best argument in her head as she waited. She jumped when her phone began vibrating in her hand, and her heart sank at the ringtone.
“Hello, Miranda.”
“It’s going that poorly, is it?”
How was it that only two words tipped Miranda off like that? Andy fiddled with her bangs and craned her neck to see the front desk. “I’m waiting to talk to the manager now. We have two rooms, and —”
“Fine. Meet us at dinner; there’s no point in anyone going back to the hotel to just stand around like a street pigeon.”
“Yes, Miranda.”
Andy finally came face-to-face with her personal bearer of bad news forty-five minutes later. She gave him her most cheerful attempt at a greeting, hoping to stay in his good graces.
“We spoke earlier — I’m the reservation under Priestly. With Runway magazine.”
The manager didn’t look up at his keyboard as he typed in the letters. “Yes, signora, it is always a pleasure to welcome you here. You have seen the beds we left in the room for you?”
“Yes, but we have ten people. I think Miranda would really appreciate any other spaces you can give us —”
The manager’s face was pinched when he finally looked up at Andy, like someone who’d been pulled in too many directions at once. “I understand, of course. The city is repairing the pipe now, and they tell us that we will be opening again tomorrow.”
“But —”
He held up his hand gently. “Signora, the other option I have is the conference rooms. There are many beds there. I am not sure that Signora Priestly would…”
Andy didn’t even let herself form that visual, and shook her head quickly. “Okay. The two rooms will be fine. And you’ll let me know —”
The manager nodded curtly. “When we have your other rooms, I will call you, okay?”
Andy spent the entire ride to dinner trying to decide how to break the news to Miranda. She could just imagine Emily’s haughty look; she wondered if she should have spent the afternoon redoing her resume instead of waiting in line at the front desk. Surely this would be her undoing; Miranda had been willing to fire her for less, anyway.
She had only just crossed the threshold of the restaurant when Miranda beckoned her over with one curled finger and a raised eyebrow. She sat at the head of a long table that held the Runway staff and ten Bottega employees, and Andy found herself admiring how good Miranda looked in the low, warm lighting, even after a day of travel and meetings. She bent slightly so that Miranda could hear her over the restaurant’s music, and was immediately enveloped in her familiar perfume.
“Miranda, I…”
Miranda shook her head before she spoke out of the corner of her mouth, her cold tone betraying the frozen smile on her face as she acknowledged the diners slowly trickling in. “It’s common knowledge by now that the hotels are closed or booked. Ferragamo’s team has already placed calls for us, since I knew you probably had Emily calling whatever dismal Red Roof Inn you could find. I will not have them thinking that our team is ‘roughing it,’ as Donatella intimated, at the Super 8. I’ve been promised by Salvatore we will have a full floor of rooms somewhere by tomorrow, but for tonight…”
Andy grimaced. “They set up, um, cots for us. At the Four Seasons, I mean. I have a room for you, though.”
Miranda’s mouth twitched. “Well, then. You can have the honor of letting your colleagues know about this wonderful turn of events.”
Andy spent most of the dinner squirming in her seat, increasingly anxious about telling her coworkers about the hotel and unsure of how to do it. As midnight approached, the Bottega team began to say their goodbyes; the director winked knowingly at Miranda as he bid them a goodnight. Miranda motioned at the Runway team to stay seated and looked across the table at Andy.
“I believe Andrea has some news to share with us about tonight's sleeping arrangements.”
Eight heads turned in her direction in such coordination that it would have been funny had Andrea not been worried for her wellbeing. Emily, always assuming the worst, already looked furious; Jocelyn looked as nervous as ever, and Nigel was slowly adjusting his glasses.
“We… um, well, it’s kind of a funny story —”
“Andrea!” Emily hissed, looking over at Miranda, whose head was slowly sinking onto steepled fingers in visible frustration.
Andy took a deep breath. “There was a water main break downtown, and the Four Seasons only has running water on one guest floor. They basically had to kick everyone out, but I convinced them to give us two of the rooms on that floor for the night. None of the other downtown hotels are available because the —”
“Guests had to relocate there,” Nigel finished, running a finger around the rim of his glasses as he put the pieces together.
“So are we…” Jocelyn stammered, staring at Andy. “Are we… homeless?”
Miranda sighed loudly. “Don’t be absurd, Jocelyn. Andrea, please wrap this up before the end of the century.”
“We have to share a room,” Andy said, looking around the table. “We have two queen beds and five cots that the hotel provided us.”
Tony, Dionne, and Michael from the visual team looked at each other. “We’ll grab a room at a hostel tonight or something,” Michael said. “We were gonna go grab a drink anyway; I know of a few nearby places.”
Miranda nodded and waved them off. “Is anyone else feeling adventurous, or can we leave now?”
Thirty minutes later, Andrea ushered her five coworkers into their hotel room. The second that the door closed, Emily was in her ear, berating her idiocy.
“How am I supposed to be prepared for the biggest meetings of my career in these conditions?” she snapped.
Nigel rubbed his head. “Don’t be dramatic, Em. It’s… workable.”
“Easy for you to say!” Emily cried, pointing at Nigel. “You don’t have hair to worry about!”
Serena crossed her arms and looked around. “I’ll take a cot,” she said with a shrug. Emily growled at her. “What? Tons of cultures sleep on mats and floors. They probably have a good reason for it.”
As the group navigated the room, locating luggage and claiming places to sleep, Andy realized that she’d left her suitcase in Miranda’s room, along with her wet towel and toiletry bag. In her distress, she’d totally forgotten to relocate it.
“I have to go, uh, meet with Miranda,” she said to the room, “Just about tomorrow.”
Andy shook her hands out at her side once she got to Miranda’s door, feeling like a live wire. She knocked softly, and the door swung open shockingly quickly. Miranda was already narrowing her eyes.
“Here to unpack?” she said dryly. Then, to Andy’s surprise, she stepped aside to let her in.
“I’m so so—” she started, but Miranda waved her off.
“I cannot handle another apology today, Andrea. Please foist it upon someone else.”
“Yes, Miranda.”
She caught the ghost of a smirk on Miranda’s face as she sat back down. Her computer was open on the table, next to — Andy nearly threw up — Andy’s own computer and makeup bag.
Miranda had already removed her own makeup and brushed her hair out of its usual hold; its controlled waves were now softer, more feathery. She’d seemed to have gotten comfortable with Andy seeing her without makeup and in casual clothing, and often was already changed out of her office wear when Andy dropped off the book or saw her after meetings on trips like these. She wore a robe that looked even too expensive for the Four Seasons, and reclined casually as Andy watched her, shifting her weight in her Louboutins.
“Did you confirm with Elisa?” Miranda asked.
Andy felt her shoulders relax slightly, relieved that there were questions that she could finally answer. “Yes, they’re expecting you and Emily at noon, and Nigel and the rest of the team will be meeting with the photographers onsite.”
“Was Lorenzo —”
“He’s out of town this week, but his creative director is available to join the shoot on Friday.”
“Fine.”
Silence fell momentarily, and Andy crossed her arms, feeling uncomfortable. “Is that…”
Miranda tilted her head slightly, one side of her mouth twitching. They held each other’s eyes for a beat before Miranda spoke. “Say it.”
Andy felt herself flush, and her stomach flipped like she was holding back a laugh. There was a look of challenge in Miranda’s eyes, but it didn’t hold the typical iciciness that Andrea had seen at the office. There was something lighter, inscrutable. Dangerous. Andy flexed her jaw and opened her mouth: “That’s all.”
Miranda’s chuckle was a single quick puff of breath, likely to go unnoticed by anyone who didn’t spend eighty hours a week with her. It made Andy’s chest tighten like she’d just won an award, her cheeks flushing. Miranda leaned down to pick up her reading glasses, returning her focus to her computer.
“Tell me about this pitch from that museum curator.”
Andy stood up straight again, feeling slightly thrown by the return to work topics. “Oh, he’s thinking about a special exhibit on how the Romantic era’s fashion has influenced modern-day Italian design houses. It’s pretty cool, actually.”
Miranda raised a single eyebrow and looked up at Andy. “Ah, yes. How I do love anything cool.”
“You know what I —” Andy started to say, but Miranda’s slowly-pursing lips shut her up. “Right, anyway.” She leaned down and opened up her laptop, pulling up the email, and set it back down on the coffee table in front of Miranda, who leaned forward to look at it. Her robe shifted as she did so, falling open slightly at her chest, revealing a silk purple nightgown and far more skin than Andy had been anticipating.
“Ahem.”
Miranda had let her glasses slide down her nose slightly, and she was staring at Andy with a naked curiosity when their eyes met.
Caught.
And not for the first time.
Andy always told herself that it was normal to stare at work — they were in fashion, after all, so admiring clothes was practically a requirement. So maybe sometimes she was more interested in what the clothes were hiding than the clothes themselves, but she never meant to be. She spent far too many hours with Miranda not to wonder.
People wondered stuff like that about their bosses, right?
She justified it with the few times that she’d seen Miranda staring at her. A sideways glance at her legs when she wore one particular Chanel skirt; a double-take anytime Andy wore anything corset-like. She wasn’t sure if Miranda knew that Andy noticed, but she had a feeling that Miranda would have stopped by now if she’d suspected anything. It was nice to feel noticed, and especially nice to be noticed by Miranda Priestly.
Andy picked up her laptop, gluing her eyes to the keyboard. “Would you like me to schedule a meeting with him?”
Miranda scoffed. “With what time?”
Andy clicked through Miranda’s calendar quickly. “You have two hours tomorrow.”
“Fine. You will come too, since you think it’s so cool.”
Typing quickly with one hand, Andy tried to hide her reddening face behind her screen before realizing that its glow was likely only highlighting her burning cheeks.
“Tomorrow is an early day,” Miranda said, and Andy lowered her laptop to look at her. Miranda was twirling her glasses in her hand. “I’m not sure I like the idea of my assistant showing up with army cot patterns tattooed on her cheeks.”
Andy felt caught between a need to resign to save her pride or let herself get fired for the unemployment benefits. Unsure of what to say, she only nodded.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” Miranda said, setting her glasses down before finally looking up at Andy. “You have something reasonable to sleep in, I hope.”
Andy thought of the oversized Northwestern athletics shirt and terrycloth shorts in her suitcase as she struggled to come up with a response. Miranda watched her closely and rolled her eyes. “Reasonable was perhaps a lofty assumption.”
She knew better than to argue or insist on going back to the other hotel room, and as Andy got changed in the bathroom, she tried to shake the feeling that she also wanted to be there with Miranda. While they were miles away from anything resembling a normal or healthy work relationship, all of these shared moments — the whispered jokes, the ribbing, the wandering eyes — had become an addiction for her. She splashed cold water on her face before brushing her teeth, toothpaste spilling from the corners of her mouth as she tried to calm herself down.
Miranda pursed her lips when Andy returned from the bathroom, and she suddenly felt more conscious of her body than in any skin-tight dress she’d ever worn. There was a twinkle in Miranda’s eye as she watched Andy perch on the edge of the credenza, unsure of where to sit in the small room. Wordlessly, she shut her laptop and stood up from the couch before arching a brow towards Andy.
“Unless you plan on sleeping standing up…” she began.
Andy laughed weakly before following Miranda to the king-sized bed. Miranda slid into it elegantly, but kept her robe on even once she’d pulled the covers over her legs. Making a game-time decision, Andy grabbed one of the decorative pillows and set it in the center of the mattress.
Miranda watched with a blank stare, but the eye roll that Andy caught a moment later seemed more good-natured than annoyed. She’d hardly settled under the covers before Miranda turned off the lamp and plunged them into darkness.
Andy didn’t remember falling asleep, but the room was still dark when she woke up, feeling unexpectedly warm. It took her a moment to register the body pressed up against hers and the tickle of breath at the base of her neck. Before she could do anything, she heard a sharp inhale behind her, and the limbs that had been tangled in hers disappeared with the muted rustling of sheets. She didn’t move, hopeful that Miranda would think that she’d slept through it, and somehow fell back asleep until sunrise streamed through the gaps in the curtain.
When she sat up, she had a clear view of Miranda standing in the bathroom, clad in just her nightgown. She was beautiful in the pre-dawn light that reflected off of her mussed hair and warmed her pale skin. Before Andy could look away, their eyes met, and she saw Miranda’s chest rise and fall quickly. She bit her lip, and nearly jumped out of her skin when the hotel phone rang next to her.
“Buongiorno, Signora Priestly. This is your wake-up call.”
“Thank you,” Andrea said quickly. Miranda was still watching her as she hung up. “I’ll start calling hotels in case there’s still a problem tonight,” she told her.
Miranda slammed the door without a word. Alone in bed, Andy realized that she’d never told her colleagues where she was going, and couldn’t exactly lie and say that she’d found another room. She frantically changed into the first outfit she found in her suitcase, hopping from one foot to the other with her phone in the crook of her neck. Fortunately, her first call yielded good news. She waited awkwardly near the door until Miranda came out of the bathroom, fully dressed and made up for the day.
“They’ll have the rest of our rooms ready by this afternoon. I’ve arranged for all of our bags to be relocated there, and you’ll be in your usual suite.”
Miranda nodded absently, fiddling with hoop earrings that matched the gold bangles on her wrists. They complemented her beige suit perfectly, and before Andy knew it she was telling Miranda how nice she looked.
Miranda blinked, hands frozen on the clasp of her earring, and Andy’s heart sunk as she prepared for a biting reply.
“Call the car. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”
Andy’s panic about her night with Miranda escalated as they made their way downstairs to face her coworkers for the first time. Emily, as expected, sent a glare her way when she saw Andy at Miranda’s side in the lobby, but Nigel chuckled softly as they made their way to the line of cars outside.
“We missed you last night,” he said, “But it figures that Miranda’s attack dog would have a crate in her room.”
“Nigel!” Andy hissed, feeling herself flush from cheeks to chest.
“Am I wrong?”
“I’m not an attack dog,” Andy said with a pout.
Nigel gave her a once over before climbing into the black sedan. “Hmm, perhaps not. A golden retriever. How’s that?”
“Andrea,” Miranda called, standing expectantly at the car behind the one Nigel had entered. She heard him chuckle again, and slammed his door as hard as she could before joining Miranda for a silent ride to that morning’s show.
They had barely exchanged ten words by the time they pulled up to the museum a few hours later for their meeting with the curator, a man named Marco. Andy briefed Miranda on his pitch as they entered, and she watched her boss’s demeanor transform into the warm, regal persona that she so often took on when encountering a new person.
“Thank you so much for taking the time, Signora Priestly,” Marco said, bowing slightly. He looked past Miranda and tipped his chin at Andy. Miranda followed his eyeline and gestured at her assistant. “This is Andrea,” she said. “She found your ideas very… cool.”
There was a familiar twinkle in Miranda’s eyes when she said it, and something in Andy’s chest loosened slightly at the joke. Marco didn’t pick up on it, but smiled brightly as he led them through into an elegant, spacious room. The walls were olive green, and a lofty skylight illuminated a sculpture in the middle of the room.
“This is our Collezioni Capolavori,” he said proudly. “The Masterpieces.”
Miranda hummed, gazing around the room with a look of appraisal that Andy had seen at countless walkthroughs and shows. “Andrea said that you wished to…”
Marco nodded quickly. “The fashion, you see…”
Andy took notes from behind Miranda as they followed Marco through the collection rooms, noting the paintings that had inspired his exhibition idea. Miranda chimed in occasionally, clearly impressed with his knowledge of fashion, and Andy was proud to see that she seemed genuinely interested in his ideas.
“And do you have some sort of… formal proposal?” Miranda asked as the tour came to an end.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Marco said. He had a nervous energy that Andy found almost endearing, and he excused himself to grab a printed copy, leaving her and Miranda alone in a room filled with 19th-century art. Miranda turned to focus on a painting to their right, and Andy mirrored her actions.
It was an oil painting titled The Kiss, a full-body painting of lovers in a tangled embrace. The man was dressed like a Musketeer, though Andy knew better than to say that aloud; the woman wore a pale blue gown with gold embellishments, her eyes shut tightly as her lover’s hand held her chin and jaw.
Miranda seemed to be admiring it, and she finally turned to Andy for the first time since they’d stepped foot in the museum. Andy could feel the heat in her gut as Miranda looked her up and down before glancing at the painting again.
“There’s a de la Renta gown,” she murmured, “in a similar color.” Her eyes returned to Andy. “I believe we have a sample of it… should you ever like to try it on.”
Andy bit her lip as she looked between Miranda and the painting. “You think I’d… look good in it?”
Miranda’s gaze took on the same intensity that it had held that morning in their room. She traced the high collar of Andy’s blouse with one finger. “Well, I recall you loving… cerulean.”
Andy took a shaky breath, caught between laughter and panic. Miranda seemed pleased by her reaction, but dropped her hand far sooner than Andy would have liked. She pretended to look at nearby paintings until Marco returned with two copies of his proposal, exchanged for Andy’s promise that they would get back to him before leaving the country.
She was relieved to return to the Four Seasons hours later, exhausted from the day’s back-to-back meetings and unrelenting Italian sunshine. The manager issued her new room cards and confirmed that most of the suitcases had been relocated to their respective rooms. She had no sooner handed Miranda her room card before Miranda was summoning her to her suite.
“You have an outfit for tonight?” she asked brusquely as she swiped her card at the door.
“Yeah, it’s —”
“Show me.”
Andy noticed then that her luggage was stacked next to Miranda’s — the staff must have assumed that they were for the same person.
“Um… sure,” Andy said, unzipping her suitcase and pulling out a dry cleaning bag. “I’ll be right back.”
She was wearing the wrong bra and shoes for the midnight blue cap-sleeved Valentino, but she changed into it quickly and did her best to pull the zipper up, though she couldn’t reach the clasp.
Miranda squinted as Andy came out of the bathroom, and twirled her finger. “Turn.”
Cool hands touched Andy’s back, and she felt the pressure of Miranda’s fingers as she zipped the dress up and cinched the clasp. Her hands lingered for a moment longer, and Andy wanted nothing more but to feel them wrap around her waist and pull her closer.
Instead, Miranda pulled away and let out a dissatisfied huff. “This won’t do. Find Nigel and have him give you the Miu Miu that they showed earlier.”
Andy nodded, moving to undo the dress’s zipper absentmindedly until she realized that Miranda was still watching her closely. “I should… go to my room.”
“Fine,” Miranda said, her voice tighter than it had been all day. “The car should be here no later than —”
“Seven thirty. It’s all taken care of.”
Nigel regarded her with curiosity when she arrived at his room, but he gave her the dress anyway. “Since when does Miranda tell you what to wear?” he asked. “I thought that was my job.”
Andy shrugged, keeping her focus on the gown to avoid betraying her suspicions to Nigel. “More people to impress than back home, I guess.”
He grunted, sounding unconvinced, but didn’t press any further. “At least we have our own rooms now. I bet you’re dying to get away from her after the last two days.”
“Totally,” Andy said, but as she walked back to her room, she realized that that wasn’t true at all. And based on the dress that Miranda had chosen for her — red, low-cut, and off-the-shoulder — the feeling might have been mutual.
Dinner passed by in a whirlwind; the guests that night were a collection of Runway investors and other businesspeople from Milan. Andy mostly flitted between the caterer and venue staff, and hardly saw Miranda until they returned to the hotel. On autopilot from sheer exhaustion, she didn’t think twice about following Miranda to her suite to discuss the following day’s agenda.
“Tonight went well,” Miranda said as she dropped her bag on the credenza.
Andy tripped on the carpet, eliciting a glare from her boss. “Have you forgotten how to walk?” she snapped, the softness in her voice immediately evaporating.
“No, sorry,” Andy said. I just didn’t expect two compliments in one day. She cleared her throat instead and pulled out her phone and notebook. “Should we talk about tomorrow?”
Miranda looked at her once more before sitting on the couch and pulling off her heels. Andy listed off her various meetings and calls, but got the sense that halfway through the afternoon schedule that Miranda wasn’t listening. She looked up from the notebook she’d been reading from and noticed that Miranda was sitting perfectly still on the couch, her eyes hazy and drifting across the exposed skin of Andy’s chest. The tight feeling in Andy’s chest shot straight from her gut to between her legs.
Andy swallowed, and Miranda’s eyes followed, focusing on her throat, and then she blinked quickly before narrowing her eyes. “Did I ask you to stop?” she snapped, rubbing the back of her neck.
“Sorry,” Andy rushed, and sped through the rest of the afternoon. Miranda only spoke again when Andy got to dinner, which was taking place at the same museum they’d visited the day before. “There’s the private tour beforehand, and I just need to give them a list of your guests,” she told Miranda.
“You will be accompanying me,” Miranda said, now focused on unclasping an intricate tennis bracelet.
Duh, Andy thought, but she only nodded, waiting for Miranda to complete the list.
Miranda finally looked up. “That’s all.”
“Oh,” Andy breathed, thinking of their final moments in that same museum. “Okay.” She closed her notebook and tucked it under her arm, expecting to be dismissed.
Miranda flexed her jaw but didn’t drop her eyes. “I assume you’ll be returning to your room.”
Andy held her gaze. “I don’t have to.”
Miranda’s face remained carefully neutral as she tilted her head, eyes locked on Andy and clearly calculating something. “Fine.”
They recreated the previous night’s ritual, though Andy replaced her baggy shirt with a slightly more revealing tank top that she’d dug out of the bottom of her suitcase. She didn’t miss how Miranda’s eyes lingered there briefly before she turned off the lights.
Andy woke up warm again — they hadn’t even bothered with the pillow charade this time — and tried her best not to move with Miranda so close behind her. She heard Miranda stir, and couldn’t help but shiver at how hoarse her early-morning voice was.
“You should…” she cleared her throat quietly. “Leave.”
Andy joined Miranda and the rest of her coworkers in the lobby an hour later; after a brief flurry of coordination and juggling of schedules, they hurried off to the day’s shows. She sat behind Miranda and Nigel through Gucci, Fendi, and Ferragamo, trying to ignore the familiar scent of Miranda’s perfume and the persistent prickle of her skin as she remembered waking up next to her hours before. The idea that no one else in the room had any idea only made her squirm more.
They arrived at the Pinacoteca di Brera thirty minutes before dinner was scheduled to begin. Marco welcomed them back warmly and escorted Andy and Miranda to a wing of the museum that they hadn’t seen the last time they were there. He kept his explanations of each exhibit succinct and informative, clearly aware of Miranda’s tendency towards impatience.
“I’ll leave you to take it all in,” he said as they walked the final gallery. “Dinner service begins in fifteen minutes. It will be just through that door and down the hall.”
Miranda thanked him with a polite handshake, Andy nodding her goodbye from over her shoulder. Her body tingled with the awareness that they were alone once again, and turned around to look at a painting on the wall, though she could hardly focus on it. She heard the rustle of Miranda’s dress — wine-red, low-cut, full-skirted and completely distracting — as she made her way towards Andy.
She wanted to have something insightful to say: commentary on the art, the history, the beautiful city that they were in. But it felt impossible to focus on a world-famous painting when Miranda was suddenly at her side.
“Why do you think that I asked you to join me on this tour?” Miranda asked after a moment, before adding dryly, “And don’t say because I thought you would like the art.”
“Hey, I like art,” Andy said, bringing her hand to her heart in faux-offense.
“Yes, when I think Andrea, vivid Christian imagery certainly comes to mind.”
Andy finally looked over at Miranda. The shadows of her sharp profile reminded her of their recent shared mornings, their quiet, unspoken touches in her hotel bed. There was nothing left to lose. “You think of me, huh?”
Miranda pressed her lips together, still staring straight ahead when Andy turned. She touched her arm until Miranda faced her, eyes meeting instantly.
Andy let herself smile. “Say it.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Andrea.”
“Miranda.”
“There was once the art of subtlety, you know.”
“Would you call me a subtle person?” Andy took one step closer, close enough to hear Miranda’s sharp intake of breath and see her lightly flushed cheeks.
Miranda scoffed. “Hardly.”
In her heels, Andy had a good three inches on Miranda, whose eyes finally met Andy’s once she got close enough that the tips of their shoes were almost touching. She knew what she wanted; every muscle in her body was thrumming with need. But she needed to know that Miranda wanted it, too.
In the sharp gallery lighting, Miranda’s blue eyes looked darker than usual. She bit her lip, something Andy had never seen her do before, and it occurred to her that Miranda might be nervous.
Then Miranda’s hand rose, her fingers threading through Andy’s hair before resting at the base of her neck. Her thumb stroked the skin behind Andy’s ear, light but deliberate. An attempt at grounding, perhaps, a charade of control betrayed by Miranda’s clenched jaw and barely-parted lips.
Andy tilted her head, her pulse pounding under Miranda’s touch as she leaned into it. Not surrendering, exactly, but giving permission. She could see every crease in Miranda’s skin, the way the light hit the angles of her jaw and nose, and felt like she could look at her forever.
“Miranda,” she whispered.
Miranda blinked slowly, her eyes flicking between Andy’s as she brought her thumb to Andy’s earlobe before replacing it with two fingers, which she used to trace Andy’s jaw. She stopped at Andy’s chin and looked at her lips with such intensity that Andy nearly shuddered.
But Miranda didn’t move, and Andy couldn’t help herself any longer. She felt Miranda’s fingers press against her chin as she leaned down just enough to ghost her lips along Miranda’s temple. Miranda sighed, the sound ragged and soft in Andy’s ear.
The squeak of leather soles on tile sent Andy crashing back down to earth, and she and Miranda sprung apart just before Marco returned. He smiled, looking slightly puzzled to find them standing in the same place as he’d left them.
“You enjoy this painting a lot, I see,” he said. Later, Andy couldn’t have recalled the painting if she’d wanted to.
Miranda was running her fingers down her neck, and she fiddled with the backing of her earring as she turned to Marco. “Thank you for the tour. We should be going now. Grazie mille, signore."
“Prego, signora. Piacere mio. We are so honored to have you here.”
When Miranda glanced at Andy before following Marco, she looked more wild-eyed than Andy had ever seen her. It stirred something inside Andy that made her skin burn, but Miranda was walking away before she could say anything more.
The event was torture, to say the least. Andy felt high on adrenaline, and it didn’t help that she had to spend the first hour at Miranda’s shoulder reminding her of every guest’s name. She did her best to keep her eyes on the crowd to ignore how the hair on Miranda’s neck stood up every time she leaned forward to whisper another complicated Italian name, and hoped that no one noticed how she flushed when Miranda’s mouth twitched every time Andy butchered them.
Miranda didn’t look at her once at dinner, and Andy spent the entire time coming to terms with the fact that she was probably, definitely going to get fired the moment that they got back to the hotel.
It was nearing eleven when the first wave of guests began to leave, which Miranda always took as her cue as well. She looked at Andy, who immediately called for a car as Miranda said her goodbyes. On her way out, Miranda touched Andy’s elbow, and she followed her into the car without a second thought.
Miranda didn’t look at her once until they were in the elevator. Andy pressed the button for Miranda’s floor and, after a moment’s hesitation, her own. The doors opened with a ding seconds later, and Miranda heaved a dramatic sigh as she pressed the close door button before Andy could get out.
She was absolutely, indisputably, getting fired.
Andy’s heart was pounding as she followed Miranda to her room for the third consecutive night. She replayed their moments in the museum over and over, from the way Miranda had touched her clothing to the feeling of Miranda’s skin on her lips. She cursed herself for having ever thought that whatever bizarre attraction that she felt towards her boss could ever be mutual.
She was so caught up in internal self-flagellation that she hardly noticed Miranda closing the door to her room behind them, and found herself backed up against the wall, her face as close to Miranda’s as it had been just hours before.
“Hi,” Andy said dumbly, her head swimming with concern for her career, the smell of Miranda’s skin, and the overwhelming feeling of desire that she’d been trying to keep at bay for months.
Miranda’s eyes crinkled in the way that they did when she was holding back a smile. Andy’s eyes dropped to her lips, hoping to find one there, and then they were kissing.
There was no soft, gentle preamble; no timid pecks of PG movies. Miranda’s hand wrapped around Andy’s jaw just as it had in the museum, holding her in place as she slid her tongue into Andy’s mouth. Andy squeaked, her hands flying to Miranda’s waist, and she heard a low chuckle in Miranda’s throat as she ran her teeth along the inside of Andy’s lower lip.
She walked Miranda backwards, pinning her to the opposite wall and pressing their hips together, finally eliciting the soft gasp from Miranda that she’d been thinking about since she’d heard it in the museum.
“Is this okay?” Andy said against Miranda’s lips as she slid her hands up Miranda’s side.
Miranda nodded, only allowing Andy a single breath before she was pulling her in and deepening the kiss once more. She licked into Andy’s mouth, sucked on her lower lip, and wrapped her fingers in Andy’s hair to keep her close until she had her panting and squirming in her grasp. Andy keened into her touch, unfamiliar with how keyed up she could get just from kissing, and rolled her hips forward, desperate for friction. Miranda hummed into her mouth, and Andy pulled away to press kisses across her jaw and down the column of her throat, sucking at the pulse point there until Miranda’s breathing was short and ragged. Her grip on Andy slackened, hands running aimlessly down her arms, obviously distracted by Andy’s mouth.
“So I take it you’ve forgiven me for the whole room debacle?” she murmured against the skin behind Miranda’s ear.
Miranda inhaled shakily, but her voice was surprisingly even. “Doesn’t forgiveness require an apology?”
Andy ghosted her lips across Miranda’s cheekbone. “What if I’m not sorry?”
“Oh,” Miranda breathed.
Their next kiss was hungry and frantic, whatever charade of control and propriety that they’d been clinging onto finally crumbling. Andy whined as Miranda scraped her teeth down her neck, lingering in the sensitive places that made Andy writhe against her. Her hands drifted to the zipper of Miranda’s dress, buried under a layer of silk. To her surprise, Miranda pulled away, her eyes narrowing, though her expression was far less intimidating when her cheeks were that red.
“This is couture, Andrea,” she said haughtily.
“I know,” Andy said. “And?”
“And I won’t have you scrabbling at it like a teenager,” Miranda huffed.
“Fine. I’ll take it slow.”
Miranda pressed her lips together, blinking rapidly, but then she turned around, offering herself to Andy, who pressed a hand to her back much like Miranda had done earlier. She carefully pushed the fabric aside to undo the zipper, and helped Miranda out of the bulky gown, careful to keep it from touching the floor. She couldn’t hold back a gasp when she realized that Miranda wasn’t wearing a bra, and that her panties were more of a suggestion of fabric than anything else. Miranda’s expression was unbearably smug when she finally sat down on the edge of the bed to watch Andy arrange the dress on its hanger and place it back in the closet.
She looked so beautiful sitting there — hair slightly mussed, lipstick kissed away, pale skin flushed and bare — that Andy had her pressed onto the mattress before she realized what she was doing. Miranda placed a hand on her chest. “Your dress —”
Andy shook her head. “You’ve made me wait long enough. Plus, I think you like looking at me in this.”
Miranda’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t object, and Andy leaned over to kiss her way across her chest. Fingers slid through her hair once again, more gentle this time as Andy dragged her mouth across the swell of Miranda’s breasts, tasting her skin and feeling her rapid heartbeat. She heard Miranda hiss when she finally closed her lips around one of her nipples.
All of this was brand new to Andy, from the taste and feel of another woman’s breasts to the softness of the body underneath hers. Gone was the stubble and clumsy grips that she’d grown accustomed to; Miranda’s skin was as silky as the fabric of their dresses, and she couldn’t get enough of it. She paid attention to how Miranda responded to her, how her back arched anytime Andy sucked on her nipple and the way her grip tightened in her hair when Andy flicked her finger lightly across the other one as it pebbled underneath her.
She wanted to taste more of her skin, to see what else Miranda liked, and Andy moved her mouth lower, appreciating the warm, smooth skin of her torso, feeling drunk on how Miranda smelled underneath her as she approached the apex of her thighs. Without warning, she slid off the bed and sank to her knees, gripping the underside of Miranda’s thighs to pull her towards the edge of the mattress. Miranda hissed her name again — this time, not a warning, but a request.
Heart pounding, Andy kissed the curve of Miranda’s knee first, taking her time and giving Miranda a chance to pull back if she wanted to. But then Miranda’s legs drifted open even further, and Andy nipped at the inside of her thigh as she moved higher and finally pulled her lace thong down her legs.
She could see how wet Miranda was before she touched her, and the vision went straight to Andy’s core. Miranda was hot and soft and liquid in her mouth when Andy finally ran her tongue between her legs, and she heard her boss’s sharp inhale at her first taste. She was tangy and sharp and Miranda, and Andy couldn’t help but moan as she circled her entrance and dragged her tongue through the length of her.
It took some time for them to find a rhythm; Miranda was quiet but for her labored breathing, and Andy was surprised to find just how different their anatomy seemed. But then she moved her tongue just so, and Miranda’s back was arching off the bed, her voice cracking as she whispered “Yes.”
With a quiet grunt, Miranda unraveled in her mouth moments later, thighs tight against Andy’s ears while she licked her clean and tried to resist rucking up her dress and getting herself off just to dull the throbbing between her own legs. Miranda’s hand was wrapping around the back of her neck before she could try, pulling Andy back on top of her and into a deep and sloppy kiss that had them both moaning.
“Get out of this dress,” Miranda muttered, reaching around and tugging on Andy’s zipper in a manner not at all befitting haute couture. Andy bit back a giggle as she sat up and slid the dress off. It had hardly hit the floor when Miranda was flipping her onto her back, nipping down Andy’s neck and ridding her of her panties with an urgency that she’d never seen from her boss before.
“Please,” Andy whispered, pushing Miranda’s hands away from her chest and guiding them between her legs. She was already too close and desperate for her touch, and seeing Miranda’s hungry expression as she finally slid a finger between Andy’s legs made her moan more loudly than she meant to.
Miranda shushed her, but she looked amused as she watched herself touch Andy, gently at first as Andy lifted her hips to meet Miranda’s touch. Slowly, she slid one finger into Andy, then added two more as Andy keened into her, whining softly. She was more worked up than she’d ever been, careening towards an orgasm embarrassingly quickly. Andy toppled over the edge moments later, coming over Miranda’s fingers as she buried them deep inside of her. A breathy Fuck escaped her lips before she could hold it back, and she grimaced at the first instance of swearing in front of her boss.
Then Miranda laughed, extracting her fingers from Andy with a breathy chuckle, and Andy had to kiss her again.
Later, couture dresses abandoned and bedsheets twisted and tangled, Andy turned to Miranda, whose hand was on her chest as she slowed her breathing.
“I know I said I wasn't sorry,” she said, “But I kinda feel like that makes it sound like I made the water main break, so…”
Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose in clear exasperation. “Andrea.”
“Okay, sor—”
But there was something mischievous in Miranda’s eyes when she turned to face Andy, and her lips curled into a tiny smirk. “You can do far better things with your mouth than apologize, you know.”
“Oh.”
Later, when the lamp plunged them into darkness with a soft click, Andy let herself curl her body towards Miranda’s, and allowed herself a smug little smile at the thought that she didn’t have to update her resume just yet.