31. Warriors

Nigel holds my bag hostage until we’re seated in a little French bistro half a block away from Elias-Clarke. 

I go to pick up my menu, but Nigel pulls it from my fingers. 

“You have to get the ratatouille, it’s divine.” One corner of his lips curl up into a smirk. “I mean, it’s the only safe choice if you want to keep that size six–sorry, four–figure.” 

I flash my teeth in something someone could call a smile.  

“You’re lucky I know you’re only half serious. Or else I’d start wondering whether being your friend is worth it.” 

Nigel sits back in his chair, theatrically gaping and grasping his heart. 

“Why, Six, after all I’ve done for you. You’d really toss me aside? Just like that?” 

I roll my eyes. “No, of course not. I don’t have enough friends to start being wasteful.” 

The waiter comes by, setting our waters down. Nigel gives her our order, and she’s gone again. 

“That bad?” he asks, taking a sip from his water. 

I stir mine with a bamboo straw, the ice clattering against the glass. 

“Let’s just say I deserved this promotion.” 

Nigel gives me a sympathetic smile. I clear my throat. 

“I’m just glad the interviews are over. You should’ve seen some of them. One girl brought her emotional support ferret. I didn’t know ferrets could do emotional support!” 

“Well, that all depends on Her Highness, doesn’t it?” 

Something in his tone catches my attention. Any other day, I might’ve been able to brush it off, but today … not so much. 

“As you’ve taught me,” I say cheekily. “Her opinion is the only one that matters.” 

Thankfully, the waiter returns with our food at that moment. For a few minutes, we’re both enjoying the comfort food dressed in couture too much to speak. 

I start to let myself relax. The warm food, and the elegant yet cozy atmosphere lulling me into a feeling of safety. 

I take a sip of my water. 

“You know,” Nigel says, dabbing his mouth with the cloth napkin. “None of us thought you’d make it.”

It’s not a surprise, but it still hurts. Just a pinch. 

I put my water down while Nigel continues. 

“Honestly, I’m surprised you made it as long as you did before that miraculous makeover.” He props his chin in his hand, elbow resting on the table. “She saw something in you. God only knows how, buried under those hideous skirts and clunky loafers.”

“Maybe she saw a girl who needed a kick in the ass,” I say with a low chuckle. I sober, wondering if I should tell him this next bit. 

“She … she told me I remind her of herself.” 

Nigel lifts an eyebrow. 

“Now that’s a terrifying thought.” He takes a gulp of his water like it’s wine. “God knows what we’d do with two Mirandas. One is plenty enough to wreak havoc.” 

Paris. Damn. 

If only Miranda would have given him a heads up. 

What can I say? I understand Nigel’s pain, and I understand Miranda’s motives. 

I didn’t, not back in Paris. But more and more, I’m realizing that looking out for yourself first isn’t just a phrase, it’s necessary. It’s the difference between survival and death. 

I reach across the table and give Nigel’s hand a squeeze. He rolls his eyes, but he squeezes back before raising a hand for the waiter’s attention. 

He settles the check, despite my protests. 

“Consider it a congratulations,” he says, holding the door open for me. “And a thank you for being our Dragon Tamer.” 

I frown at him. 

“She’s not a dragon, Nigel. You know that.” 

Nigel just shakes his head as we make our way back to Elias-Clarke. 

“Some things are just true, no matter how much we wish they weren’t.” 

I’ve started to expect a sort of casual comfort in the den of the townhouse. Sometimes we work in companionable silence, sometimes we talk, Miranda teaching me more about the industry, or telling me about the latest mischief the girls have gotten into. 

My favorite nights have been the ones where we talk about writing. Not tearing articles apart, but talking about the craft, admiring the beauty of good writing. 

Miranda might head a fashion magazine, but she’s an editor first and foremost. She knows writing, and I always walk away from those nights with my fingertips tingling. 

Tonight is not one of those nights. 

I’m holding a red pen, but there’s not a spot of ink on the page in front of me. My focus is glued to Miranda. 

Crossed legs, foot tapping the air. 

Lips pursed. 

This isn’t good. 

Miranda glances up through her lashes. 

Whoops. 

My cheeks heat at being caught staring, and the corner of Miranda’s mouth twitches up into the barest hint of a smile. 

“Still learning self-preservation, I see,” Miranda comments. 

I smile back sheepishly. 

“I guess risks are more thrilling than staying safe.” 

“Risks?” Miranda lifts a sculpted brow. “If you’re thrill seeking, look in The Closet. Chanel works for you, but it’s becoming … predictable.” 

A snort comes out before I can stop it. 

“I think you’re the only person in my life who could possibly think me wearing a couture brand is predictable.”

I swear Miranda’s eyes soften, for just a second, before they go back to penetrating. 

“My lawyer informed me that Richard is insisting on convincing the judge to give him interim custody,” Miranda answers my unvoiced question. “For the duration of the rest of the process.” 

“There’s no way he can do that,” I say, horrified. “Can he?” 

Miranda’s nostrils flare. “Certainly not.” 

The tightness in my chest loosens a bit. Of course Miranda won’t let her girls go, temporarily or not, without a hell of a fight. 

The end table next to Miranda shakes as a herd of elephants stampede down the stairs. 

“Speak of the devils,” Miranda says, with an amused smile. 

My own chuckle is drowned out by a chorus of, “Mom! Mom! Mom!” 

Cassidy and Caroline skid into the entrance of the den, each in a set of silk pajamas, hair in loose braids down their backs. 

“Girls,” Miranda lightly scolds. “I’ve told you not to run down the stairs. One of these days you’ll slip and hit your heads. Do you want to see your own brains scattered on the landing? I certainly don’t.”

“Ok, Mom,” Caroline tries for contrite, but she’s clearly too excited, bouncing up and down on her toes. “But Andy’s here!” 

Miranda looks to me, then back to the girls. 

“Yes. She is. And?” 

I see Cassidy start to roll her eyes, but think better of it at the last second. 

Smart choice. 

“Mom, you get to have Andy every day. We want a turn!” 

“We’re working, girls.”

“But it’s Friday,” Cassidy pleads. “There’s not any work tomorrow, not unless there’s an emergency.” 

“Yeah!” Caroline agrees. “So Fridays can be our turn.” 

“Oh?” I tease. “Am I a Barbie doll to take turns with?” 

Miranda and the girls share a conspiratorial glance, then all turn to me. 

“Yes,” they all say at once. 

It’s so unexpected, I don’t stand a chance at holding back my giggles. 

When I finally come up for air, the twins are tugging on my arms, pulling me out of my seat. 

“Come on, Andy,” Caroline says. 

“Yeah, we’re gonna watch She-Ra!” 

“The ‘80s animation?” I can practically hear the tilt in Miranda’s head as she trails behind us. 

“What? No, it’s new! Everyone’s talking about it.” 

I’m dragged up the forbidden stairs and put in the middle of the living room couch. There’s no time to take in the room as the twins take seats on either side of me, Miranda casually eases into a nearby armchair, and an upbeat theme song starts. 

Within a few seconds, I’m dancing in my seat. Miranda eyes me, an eyebrow lifted. 

“It’s catchy,” I shrug with a small smile. 

The girls out do me, jumping out of their seats and dancing full out. 

Miranda watches them, the indulgent smile on her face drawing me in like a magnet. 

After the theme song, the girls settle back in, and we’re introduced to a competent, serious soldier, and her cunning, feral feline best friend. 

If this is what Friday nights look like from here on out, I can’t think of any complaints.