39. Indulgence

I always say that the key to my job is paying attention.

Not that anybody asks, but in the imaginary press interviews I hold in my head, that’s what I say.

Every glance, each random comment, any magazine left open on a specific page. Absolutely anything and everything.

Sure, some of it (okay, the vast majority of it) ends up being useless. But on the rare occasions when I need it? Priceless.

I know Miranda appreciates how closely I pay attention—how I clock the smallest details and quietly store them away. I’ve always assumed that appreciation was purely professional. That she liked how my observation skills made her life easier.

Until now.

Spare clothes and toiletries, she’d said.

I think we might have different definitions of “spare.” Because nothing in that guest bathroom or closet was random.

The shampoo? My usual brand, down to the exact purple-tinted bottle I only ever find at the nicer drugstores.

The toothpaste? Same one I use at home.

And the clothes…

They aren’t just designer. They’re right. The colors I gravitate toward, the silhouettes I feel good in. There’s a navy blouse I swear I almost bought three separate times before talking myself out of it. A pair of jeans I already own in a darker wash.

Every single item feels like it was chosen for me—not just to fit, but to fit.

I guess I’m not the only one who pays attention. And maybe—just maybe—that’s why Miranda values it. Not because it makes me better at my job, but because it’s something she does too.

I slip into a beige sweater and jeans—simple, stylish, comfortable—and make my way back to the kitchen. I’m a little dizzy, and I can’t tell if it’s from the hot shower or from tumbling headfirst down this rabbit hole to Wonderland.

Were Alice’s crazy adventures actually from a concussion? Can you get a concussion in a dream?

I step into the kitchen in time to see Miranda setting breakfast on the table.

She must have finished getting ready while I was off steam-cleaning my existential panic, because her hair is back to its perfect coiffe, and I can’t seem to look away from the way her plum sweater dress clings to her figure and leaves her collarbones exposed.

Does she really have to bend over the table like that? Where’s an assistant when I need one?!

Oh, right. That’s me.

“Please,” I say, hurrying forward, reaching for the serving plate. “Let me.”

A jolt of electricity zips through my fingers as they graze hers.

Does she feel that—?

I don’t get to finish that dangerous thought because my eyes land on the contents of the plate.

“Brownies?” I blink.

Miranda chuckles, low and easy. She gently reclaims the plate and sets it in the center of the table.

“Well,” she says, almost breezy. “We might as well indulge. Less for Patricia to get into.”

“Of course,” I murmur, pulling out a chair and sitting before I overthink something else.

There’s a long, rectangular platter of fruit—some familiar, some looking like they were flown in from a planet that grows its produce in jewel tones—and another platter with thin slices of meat and cheese arranged with geometric precision. And then, like some tragicomic centerpiece, the brownies.

Miranda begins serving herself, and I follow suit. For the next few minutes, it’s… awkward.

For all the situations I’ve been in with Miranda—tense meetings, chaotic events, moments of quiet vulnerability in her den—I’ve never once imagined this.

Just the two of us, eating breakfast.

Here she is, this woman who moves through the world like a blade, who has quite literally terrified men out of their jobs with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. And now she’s across from me, placing fruit on a plate and sitting down to eat like we’re just two normal people who slept in and decided to make a morning of it.

I’ve probably spent more time with her than any of her husbands.

No.

Not probably.

Definitely.

And yet, after everything—after all the long nights and heated debates and stolen glances—I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.

“The girls said they were lonely.”

I choke.

A slice of strawberry makes a bid for freedom from my throat, and I cough into my napkin, blinking through watery eyes as my life flashes behind them. Most of it is just a supercut of the last ten months.

Miranda’s eyes go wide, something like panic blooming there.

“Sorry?” I rasp.

“Are you alright?” She reaches across the table instinctively—almost takes my hand—but stops just shy, placing her fingers flat against the table between us.

I nod, recovering with a sip of coffee that is far too hot for my fragile throat.

“I’m okay,” I manage. “Sorry. You were saying? Um, about the girls?”

Miranda watches me closely for another beat, then continues. She reaches for the brownie knife, slices off a corner piece, and slides it onto her plate like it’s a matter of national policy.

“They were lonely,” she repeats, spearing a bite with her fork. “That’s why we adopted Patricia.”

It’s deceptively casual. But I know better.

There’s weight behind that admission. Quiet grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or something else entirely.

She lifts the fork to her mouth.

And now I have the dubious honor of being one of—what, three? Less?—people who have ever seen Miranda Priestly eat a brownie.

Emily would pass out.

I smile and reach for my own piece.

“My family had dogs growing up,” I offer.

“Oh?” Her voice is light, but I swear the interest is genuine.

“Yeah. Two mutts when I was really little. My parents called them their first kids. They died when I was maybe ten.”

“Old age?” Miranda expertly spears a grape with her fork. 

“Thankfully.” I try to stab a grape with my fork, but it rolls like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. “We went a few years without any pets, but when I was twelve, I just had to have a puppy.”

I glance up and catch her smiling—just faintly—but it’s aimed directly at my plate, watching my increasingly pathetic attempts at grape assassination.

I keep going.

“I started dropping hints to my mom. Which, in hindsight, were really just statements. Like, 'I think the house needs more barking.’ She told me to ask my dad. So I did.”

“And?”

“Oh, I went full campaign mode. PowerPoint. Charts. A promise I’d be solely responsible, which was a total lie, but I was very persuasive.”

“I can imagine.” Her voice is warm. Almost amused.

“It actually wasn’t the best timing. My dad had just gotten a big promotion—more money, more hours. More stress.”

I haven’t given up trying to pierce the grape with my fork. “I don’t know why he said yes, but we went to the shelter the next weekend, and I came home with the fluffiest, clumsiest mutt you’ve ever seen.”

I take a breath.

“She was my best friend. Through middle school, college… she was my girl.”

Miranda doesn’t reply right away. I meet her eyes.

“She was lucky to have you,” she says. Simply. Gently.

It’s not dramatic, or overstated. It’s barely even emotional. But it’s somehow perfect. 

“Thanks,” I say, a little unsteady.

I take another deep breath and finally give up, pinching the grape between two fingers. 

I’m sure I imagine her eyes tracking my movements as I pop the grape into my mouth.

“Good thing Patricia’s okay. Who knows what the girls will want next? They might be future snake whisperers.”

Miranda lifts a brow. “I think a snake might mysteriously disappear. Though they’d get very nice bags for the holidays.”

I burst out laughing. The kind that starts in your belly and makes your shoulders shake.

And as I glance across the table, I see the exact same thing mirrored in her face.

I never expected this morning to end with me laughing over coffee and stolen brownies in Miranda Priestly’s kitchen.

But somehow…

Here we are.

And no matter how dangerous it is, I don’t want to leave.