The Terrible Personal Shopper (Surprised by Love Book 1) Read online

  The Terrible Personal Shopper

  Laura Burton

  Contents

  1. Leila

  2. Blaze

  3. Leila

  4. Blaze

  5. Leila

  6. Blaze

  7. Leila

  8. Blaze

  9. Leila

  10. Blaze

  11. Leila

  12. Blaze

  13. Leila

  14. Blaze

  15. Leila

  16. Blaze

  17. Leila

  18. Blaze

  19. Leila

  20. Blaze

  21. Leila

  22. Blaze

  23. Leila

  24. Blaze

  25. Leila

  Epilogue

  Preview of The Makeover Surprise

  Surprised by Love

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  The characters and storylines are fictitious, and any resemblance to real-life people and events are purely coincidental. The author retains all of the rights to this work which may not be copied and distributed online or elsewhere without the written permission of the owner of the rights.

  All rights reserved by Laura Burton 2021.

  First Edition

  Edited by Tochi Biko

  Cover Design by Lara Wynter @Wynter Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  Leila

  “Leila Scott, you are, by far, the most incompetent staff I’ve ever had the displeasure of hiring. You’re fired!”

  The sous chef is currently looming over me in a cloud of garlic and ginger; his bloodshot eyes are bulging in fury.

  I pinch myself.

  Dang.

  I’m awake.

  This isn’t my first rodeo. But no matter how many times it happens, getting fired hurts.

  You’d think I’d be used to it by now – every job I’ve ever taken hasn’t lasted more than months before I either willingly head out of the door, or my boss shows it to me.

  Take my current situation for example. I’ve only been a waitress at the Perrier Francé for two weeks, and I just broke my third glass of the evening. Honestly? Those glass stems are just too thin. It’s not like I’m the Incredible Hulk – my arms are as skinny as they come, and a lot of people tell me I have ‘dainty’ hands. I pretty much have the strength of a baby.

  On second thought, that might not be the best comparison. I had a baby boy grip my finger that one time I worked in a daycare center, and no matter how hard I tried to prise his fingers open, the kid just wouldn’t let go. Babies are crazy strong.

  Anyway, I digress.

  My first week at Perrier Francé, I dropped a couple of meals on the floor. But if I can just defend myself here; carrying three plates of food is hard. I mean, I only have two hands!

  The sous chef didn’t want to hear that, though. He demoted me to dishwashing duty in the kitchen, and that went fine, until I cut my hand on a steak knife. I didn’t notice until Ted, the health and safety guy, saw the pool of blood at my feet and started screaming about health code violations.

  After that, the only things I was allowed to touch were wine glasses and glass cups.

  But what can I say? Those things keep breaking.

  I guess I’m small but mighty, and clearly destined for greater things than working in the back of a restaurant.

  I pick up my jacket and trudge out into the alley with whatever is left of my pride, wondering what I’m going to do next.

  A brisk, cool breeze whips at me as I trudge home, but the sparkling lights of New York City are warm and encouraging.

  In this city that never sleeps, the night is young and so am I. I tilt my chin up at the skyscrapers and take a deep breath of smog and exhaustion fumes. This is the land of hope and opportunity.

  My purpose is waiting for me. I know it. I just have to discover it.

  I follow the stream of people marching along and jabbering away on their phones or to each other. Everyone moves with intention here, like they all have somewhere very important to be.

  I match their speed; it’s either that or be trampled like Simba’s dad in the Lion King. Plus, I do have somewhere important to go.

  Somewhere very important.

  I round the corner, look up, and grin at Elle’s Kitchen. This is the one place I know I can get the best chocolate fudge squares I’ve ever tasted. Besides, Elle, who owns the bakery, is my go-to person in the city. She’s a great listener, and she knows everyone, so my next job is probably going to come from her.

  The bell above the door jingles as I push into the store. I look around at the many cake stands dotting the place. People are seated at small circular tables, talking about their day over a strawberry milkshake or an oversized cupcake.

  Elle looks up from the counter. “Hey Leila! It’s been a while,” she says. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a high ponytail and her luscious locks are literally glowing under the LED lights in the store.

  One thing about Elle is, her smile can light up a room. Right now, she’s smiling at me like she doesn’t have a care in the world, and suddenly, I’m grinning like I don’t have any problems either.

  I don’t think anyone would be able to resist smiling back.

  “Hi, Elle. Can I get three fudge squares, a vanilla cupcake, and maybe throw in a cinnamon bun just for good measure?” I position myself on a barstool by the counter while Elle hums and studies me with a thoughtful look. “Bad day?”

  I rest my head on one hand and drum my fingernails on the counter with the other. “What gave me away?”

  Elle shakes her head and her perfect blonde ponytail shimmers as it swooshes from side to side. She gathers up my order and I tap my card on the card reader as she slides my bag of comfort food to me. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

  My shoulders sag and I heave a big sigh. “What’s there to talk about? I can’t keep a job if my life depended on it. My mom is ashamed of me, and if I didn’t live with my sister, I’d have bailiffs at my door before the month is out.”

  Elle hums in acknowledgement and I know she has some pearls of wisdom to offer. But another customer approaches the counter just then, and she turns to attend to them. I take the opportunity to pull out a fudge square and take a bite.

  Usually, the taste of chocolate and gooey fudge is enough to turn any kind of day around. That isn’t the case today. I swallow the piece and frown at the square, surprised that I didn’t feel a rush or even an ounce of happiness.

  “I’m so sorry,” Elle says. I have her attention again now, and her eyes are full of sympathy.

  I cringe. If there’s one thing I hate more than getting fired, it’s being pitied.

  “I don’t suppose you want me to cover maternity leave?” I ask, testing the waters. Elle steps back and fiddles with her apron. Her bump is even bigger than the last time I dropped by for a donut.

  Elle clutches her bump and giggles “Maternity leave? I’m not taking one. Besides, Zane already hired staff to help out.”

  Zane Masters, the billionaire CEO of Got Cake? AKA Elle’s husband. I’ve always found it odd that two owners of competing businesses got married. I mean, how did that happen? Word on the street is they were enemies. Now they’re married and sealing the deal with a baby.

  I sigh in defeat.

  “Okay, it was worth a shot,” I say, picking up my bag.

  Elle is friendly and all, but I guess, with my track record, she wouldn’t want to take a risk on me. But how hard can it be to serve customers at a bakery? The only thing I see going wrong is a waistline expansion afte
r I’ve eaten more than my wage’s worth of cake.

  On second thought, not working at Elle’s Kitchen might be for the best.

  “Well, if you hear of any openings… You know, maybe some store manager crying about his lack of staff over a brownie...” I plop down from the barstool, and with a soft wave, leave the bakery.

  I guess I was wrong. My next job isn’t going to come that easily.

  I follow the stream of pedestrians again, this time to the subway station, with my head down, and ride the subway train in thoughtful silence.

  On a normal day, I’d look around and start talking to a stranger, or watch people. But the worry of where to find the next paycheck and how I’m going to break the news to my sisters is all-consuming.

  I’m the oldest sister. I should be the example for them to follow - paving the way to health, happiness, and success. Without the good influence of our so-called parents, it’s down to me to show the way. But I’m still figuring everything out, mostly with trial and error. And these days, error is the recurring result.

  One thing I’m good at is acting calm. For the most part, I manage to hide my insecurities and clumsiness from my sisters. Around them, I’m a glass-half-full girl with a can-do attitude and the ability to turn any bad day into a great one.

  To them, I'm Miss Silver Lining.

  But on the inside, I’m an awful whirlwind of stress and worry. And that fact tends to present itself in particularly worrying ways. Like the time I closed a grocery store cash register with so much force, the dang thing fell off the counter with an almighty crash.

  Or the time I tripped over my own feet while dog walking and dropped the leashes, setting six Great Danes free in the biggest park in New York.

  Most people grow up to discover their talents or find their life’s calling before they reach thirty. But here I am, months away from my thirtieth birthday, with no clue what I’m doing with my life. Where am I going? What do I want?

  I know I don’t want a big shot career. I’m not interested in wrestling with bureaucracy or spending the best portion of my life stressing over performance reviews and promotions.

  No. Life is too short for that kind of stress.

  I want to earn enough money to get my own place, and that’s it.

  Okay, maybe I’d also like to find a guy who can cook. Preferably, someone with the patience of a saint and the humor of a stand-up comedian...

  Captivating eyes. Impressive cologne. Big, veiny arms. A heart-melting smile. Loves to clean. Respects his mom...

  It’s worrying how much the list grows each year.

  I could totally settle down in the quiet suburbs with my shining knight, and then I can finally be a good role model for my sisters.

  Instead of the total loser that I am now.

  As I get off the subway and flag down a taxi, my phone vibrates in my pocket. All my thoughts scatter – which is definitely a relief, because I was starting to spiral into a dark place.

  I pull out my phone, and my heart sings at the caller ID. “Josie! I’m so happy to hear from you.”

  It’s true. Josie and I were roommates in college and I can’t even remember the last time we spoke on the phone, let alone met in person. Soon after graduating in Fashion and Design, Josie reconnected with her high school boyfriend at a school reunion, married him, and started up her own business as a personal shopper.

  She’s the total opposite to me – refined, assertive, and has an eye for fashion.

  Plus, she’s totally successful in life, just ticking all the boxes.

  Happy marriage – check

  Great fulfilling job – check

  A teddy bear-looking dog – check

  Yep. The whole package. I half-expect this call to be the news that she’s expecting twins. That would probably be the cherry on the cake.

  “Leila, I’m in trouble.”

  The first thought that crosses my mind is that it’s a good thing I’m taking this call in a taxi. Five seconds earlier and I’d have been face down on the cold sidewalk, my heart hammering in my chest.

  Josie is never in trouble. Ever.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The panic in my voice must be obvious because Josie’s tone shifts. “Oh gosh, no. Nothing’s wrong.”

  I exhale, my chest unhitching with relief. “Okay, so, what do you need?”

  If nothing is wrong but she’s in trouble, then Josie must be calling in a favor. And it’s about time. I’ve lost count of the IOUs I’ve collected over the years.

  “Right. So you know what I do for a living, right?”

  I nod. I have a vague idea. “You buy clothes for rich people.”

  There’s a pause and a light cough. I can picture Josie pursing her lips in an attempt to stop herself from correcting me.

  “I help my clients update their closets, yes.” She says it like she’s repeating what I said.

  “Anyway, I’ve got an appointment in an hour at the Hilton in New York, and I’m stuck in Chicago.”

  I clamp my jaw. “You want me to cover for you?” I ask, my voice rising in pitch.

  “It’s just a meeting. There’ll be no shopping or advising needed. I just need you to take my client’s measurements, write down their likes and dislikes, and then hand them over to me.”

  I hum to myself as I think about it.

  I wonder how many ways I can mess this up?

  As I think it over, I can sense Josie getting nervous. She sucks in a deep breath. “I’ll give you three hundred dollars if you do this for me.”

  I almost drop my phone. Instead, it flops from hand to hand, like I’m handling a fish. I grapple with it and then hold it to my ear again. “Three hundred dollars? Wow, Josie, you’re really raking in the cash.”

  Three hundred dollars will help me find work. I might even get away with not telling my sisters that I lost my latest job. I can just tell them I left for a better one instead.

  “Does this mean you’ll do it?” Josie asks, sounding hopeful now.

  There are butterflies in my stomach as I agree to it and end the call.

  A few moments later, my phone pings with a last name, Hopkins, and a hotel address. Then I look down at my black pants and gray shirt.

  I can’t go looking like this.

  Josie’s clients are the cream of society. If I show up to a Hilton hotel the way I look right now, security will mistake me for a cleaner. Or worse, some kind of petty thief.

  The taxi pulls up outside my sister’s apartment and I storm in through the front door like a whirlwind.

  Lucy jumps to her feet with a yelp and a game controller flies out of her hands.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks as I peel my clothes off and start to cover my body in a cloud of perfume.

  Completely forgetting that I was going to lie to her, I tell Lucy everything at top speed as I get into my cutest outfit. Lucy just watches me, her eyes like two fried eggs.

  “You got fired… Again?” she asks.

  I ignore her while I grapple with false lashes for the first time this year. Lucy stands behind me, her big eyes unblinking in the mirror. “Aren’t you worried about getting the measurements wrong?”

  I chew my lip while Lucy takes the opportunity to list the infinite number of concerns that have magically come to life in her brain.

  Everything from ‘What if you need the bathroom during the meeting?’ to ‘What if they ask what your opinion is on French designers? Do you know any?’

  Trust Lucy, the worry-wart, to flood my mind with all of her worst-case-scenarios.

  What are middle sisters for, right?

  Finally, she’s done. I shrug and smooth my hair back into a plain bun. “Do you have a tape measure I can borrow?”

  If I asked Chessy, our baby sister, the answer would be something like ‘What the heck is a tape measure?’

  Chessy is a fashionista, but her delight is in the art of buying clothes. Not making them.

  Lucy is my nerdy sister on the autism spectrum
, with a passionate love of Lord of the Rings and cosplay.

  Lucy beams at me like I just asked her to show me her Middle Earth memorabilia, then she disappears into her room.

  I step into my black heels and look up to see Lucy has returned with a tape measure. She’s holding it out like it’s a Laurel wreath at the end of the Olympic Games in Ancient Greece. She drapes it across my shoulders and gives a little bow.

  “Good luck,” she says in a low and dramatic voice. I was a little nervous before, but now I feel like I’m about to take a gold ring to a fiery pit of doom.

  I force a smile.

  “See you later,” I say. My wave a little too vigorous to be authentic. Lucy settles on the couch with her controller and puts her headset back on.

  I let myself out and wobble down to the taxi waiting for me. “Take me to the Hilton in New York City, please,” I tell the driver. Then I sit back and shut my eyes, trying to visualize myself not messing this up.

  Chapter 2

  Blaze

  There are many reasons why I should be the happiest guy on the planet. I’m the highest-paid actor in Hollywood, for one thing, and I see my name, Blaze Hopkins, everywhere I go.

  I’m almost always trending on social media, and my producers assure me that my latest movie is going to blast ticket sales records out of the water.

  They call me Blaze. Blaze as in I’m a blaze of glory just surging through Hollywood like some kind of mythological hero. Everyone wants me to sign with them.

  I have great friends who, despite my wealth and fame, treat me like a normal guy.