SNAP: The World Unfolds Read Online Free
Author: Michele Drier
dreamed about small cows.
CHAPTER FIVE
The SNAP limo picked me up at LAX. I insisted on a quick stop at my condo. The driver waited while I schlepped my bag upstairs and checked to see if my stuff arrived.
It had. The foyer and living room were stacked with boxes, the furniture was crammed in and my bed had been set up against the wrong wall. Welcome home. I found the box marked “bathroom,” took a fast shower, dressed in clean clothes from my travel bag—glad I hadn’t taken Mira’s packing advice—and was back in the limo in under 30 minutes.
This time I knew the ropes. I used my card key in the back elevator when the limo dropped me off in the garage. When the doors slid open on the 18 th floor, I was greeted by a dim hush. None of the bright mirrors and Ice Princesses here, it was back to the hushed gurgle of the phones, murmurs, clacking keyboards and points of light coming from individual cubicles in the pods.
My spine tingled every time I came here.
Jazz met me and took my case and purse.
“How was your trip, Boss? You look a little lagged still. I have coffee waiting. Your first meeting is in an hour with the print art director.”
“Quick but interesting.” I shrugged my light jacket off. “Most of the women I saw in Brazil could be in any of our issues. Thanks for the coffee. I’d feel a lot more stable if the movers hadn’t just dumped my stuff.”
“I didn’t want to do anything while you were gone.” Jazz sounded hesitant. “I have an organizer and a designer on tap. They’ll start on your house as soon as you give me the word.”
The word was speechless. I knew that taking this job would give me a lot of the richie-rich perks (beyond limos, SNAP had corporate jets and apartments) but I’d never had personal personnel at my disposal before. This I could get used to.
“Thanks, Jazz,” I said as I went into my office. The smell of strong French Roast came from the service on the credenza. “Tell me about the art director. I know he’s fairly new, too, but I only saw him briefly before I flew to Rio.”
“He’s mid-thirties, very metrosexual, dishy in a glam sort of way. Came from one of those regional magazines like Southern Living , but not that. Book is 7 to 5 on gay but I don’t have a horse in that race. The word is one of the corporate VPs brought him on board. He got to bring along his own AA, but haven’t met her—or him, I guess—yet. His name is Jean-Louis, but there’s a rumor that he was named Johnny Lew for the first 18 years. He’s still new enough that the long knives have left him alone. Plus, it seems that someone up there,” she raised her well-shaped and waxed eyebrows, “has his back.”
Unloading my briefcase, transferring a couple of files from my laptop and double-checking my calendar took up the time until Jazz appeared at my door with Jean-Louis in tow. She hadn’t exaggerated, he was dishy on the hoof. In his early-thirties, he was just under 6 feet tall and well-enough proportioned that I knew he’d worked on it for several years. There may have been some carving included, but it was hard to tell. I might break a cardinal rule about getting involved with a work colleague to check this out more closely. His eyes were such a dark blue they verged on violet, his black hair was the “just out of bed” look and he had his razor set on two-day growth.
“Hello.” His voice was tenor with a hint of drawl, “I’ve heard a lot about you. You just got back from Rio? How did you like it?”
“I did and I did,” I caught my breath. “Have you ever been?”
“Not yet. I’m planning to get there for Carnival this year, though. A good time to check on the locals and see first-hand what all the noise is about. I thought we could go over a few things. Let me download to your desktop so we can view it on your screen.”
Wow. This one didn’t waste any time on the preliminaries. I
CHAPTER FIVE
The SNAP limo picked me up at LAX. I insisted on a quick stop at my condo. The driver waited while I schlepped my bag upstairs and checked to see if my stuff arrived.
It had. The foyer and living room were stacked with boxes, the furniture was crammed in and my bed had been set up against the wrong wall. Welcome home. I found the box marked “bathroom,” took a fast shower, dressed in clean clothes from my travel bag—glad I hadn’t taken Mira’s packing advice—and was back in the limo in under 30 minutes.
This time I knew the ropes. I used my card key in the back elevator when the limo dropped me off in the garage. When the doors slid open on the 18 th floor, I was greeted by a dim hush. None of the bright mirrors and Ice Princesses here, it was back to the hushed gurgle of the phones, murmurs, clacking keyboards and points of light coming from individual cubicles in the pods.
My spine tingled every time I came here.
Jazz met me and took my case and purse.
“How was your trip, Boss? You look a little lagged still. I have coffee waiting. Your first meeting is in an hour with the print art director.”
“Quick but interesting.” I shrugged my light jacket off. “Most of the women I saw in Brazil could be in any of our issues. Thanks for the coffee. I’d feel a lot more stable if the movers hadn’t just dumped my stuff.”
“I didn’t want to do anything while you were gone.” Jazz sounded hesitant. “I have an organizer and a designer on tap. They’ll start on your house as soon as you give me the word.”
The word was speechless. I knew that taking this job would give me a lot of the richie-rich perks (beyond limos, SNAP had corporate jets and apartments) but I’d never had personal personnel at my disposal before. This I could get used to.
“Thanks, Jazz,” I said as I went into my office. The smell of strong French Roast came from the service on the credenza. “Tell me about the art director. I know he’s fairly new, too, but I only saw him briefly before I flew to Rio.”
“He’s mid-thirties, very metrosexual, dishy in a glam sort of way. Came from one of those regional magazines like Southern Living , but not that. Book is 7 to 5 on gay but I don’t have a horse in that race. The word is one of the corporate VPs brought him on board. He got to bring along his own AA, but haven’t met her—or him, I guess—yet. His name is Jean-Louis, but there’s a rumor that he was named Johnny Lew for the first 18 years. He’s still new enough that the long knives have left him alone. Plus, it seems that someone up there,” she raised her well-shaped and waxed eyebrows, “has his back.”
Unloading my briefcase, transferring a couple of files from my laptop and double-checking my calendar took up the time until Jazz appeared at my door with Jean-Louis in tow. She hadn’t exaggerated, he was dishy on the hoof. In his early-thirties, he was just under 6 feet tall and well-enough proportioned that I knew he’d worked on it for several years. There may have been some carving included, but it was hard to tell. I might break a cardinal rule about getting involved with a work colleague to check this out more closely. His eyes were such a dark blue they verged on violet, his black hair was the “just out of bed” look and he had his razor set on two-day growth.
“Hello.” His voice was tenor with a hint of drawl, “I’ve heard a lot about you. You just got back from Rio? How did you like it?”
“I did and I did,” I caught my breath. “Have you ever been?”
“Not yet. I’m planning to get there for Carnival this year, though. A good time to check on the locals and see first-hand what all the noise is about. I thought we could go over a few things. Let me download to your desktop so we can view it on your screen.”
Wow. This one didn’t waste any time on the preliminaries. I
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