“I’m telling you, I made the order,” I say for the fifth time into my phone, rubbing my face.
I’ve been sitting at my bedroom desk for the last five hours, and I feel like crap. My back is aching, my eyes keep falling shut, and I haven’t gotten more than four consecutive hours’ sleep in the past five days.
This week has been mental. Sunday’s episode of Three Single Guys was a smash hit. The podcast reached number three on the UK podcast and radio charts, and has barely dropped in popularity since. My socials are blowing up; I’m now at 50K PictureGram followers, and my Twitter notifications are coming in so fast I can’t physically keep up. After I did the ad segment for my upcoming Butterfly collection, I got over a thousand pre-orders overnight, and they’re still trickling in. I’m scrambling to get everything ready for the release day in five months. Sales on my previous collection are through the roof, so I need to get all of those orders packed, processed and shipped. I’ve even had a couple of influencers reach out, asking for free products to promote.
On top of that, I’m having so much fun with Josh and Zack. It turns out, having two boyfriends is great. We’ve hung out pretty much every evening this week, eating together, cuddling, watching movies — and afterwards, I’ve spent every single night in their apartment.
It’s ridiculous how much sex we’re having. Every night, multiple times a night. I’ve never been this horny in my life, but now that we’ve finally broken through the dam, it’s like I can’t stop touching them. There’s something about the fact that there’s two of them, passing me between them, sharing me, that just sets me on fire. Zack pestered me until I finally wrote him the list of all my fantasies, and now we’re working through them, one by one.
Hell, just last night all three of us were up to the early morning. The guys spit-roasted me again. This time, they laid me down on my back on Zack’s bed, sandwiching me between them as they drilled into me hard from both sides. They were merciless, pounding me through the climaxes that wracked and shook through my body, until I was left sweating and moaning in a wet patch in the sheets. After I’d finally taken more than I could bear, I’d dropped to my knees by the bed, alternating between blowing them and jacking them hard and fast. I was never super into giving head, but with Zack and Josh, I can’t get enough of it. I love how every little lick and suckle can draw out a low groan or a flinch. It’s ridiculously hot to feel how I’m affecting them.
I went down on them for what felt like an hour, teasing them until they were leaking and twitching and panting, finally giving in and filling my mouth with come. I can still practically taste them, hot and thick as they pour down my throat.
At the memory, my cheeks heat. I push the thought away, trying to focus. I need to concentrate.
There’s been a problem with my Butterfly line release. We’re less than five months out from release date, and we’re in the final phase of production. I hire a team of London seamstresses to make my clothes; this morning, while I was cuddled up with the guys, I got a call that they’re missing a shipment of lace from one of my fabric suppliers. I called up the company, but they’re swearing blind that I never made the order in the first place.
This lace isn’t easy to get your hands on; there’s no way I can find something as well-priced and ethical at short notice. If they don’t give it to me, I’m screwed.
“It’s the high-gloss ‘thundercloud grey’ insertion lace,” I say into the phone, trying to keep my temper. “I ordered it last September.”
“We have no record of purchase from you,” the woman says, as if I am very slow.
“No? Because the money is missing from my bank account. So unless I’m getting scammed by one of those foreign princes that keeps emailing me, I’m pretty sure that I paid you for it.”
“We have no record of your invoice or order, Miss Thompson,” she says, sounding bored. “If you don’t have any other queries, I have other clients who need my attention.”
I frown. “No, wait—”
A beep sounds down the line. I stare at my phone, wide-eyed. She hung up on me.
No. Screw this. I know I made that order. Pushing my laptop across my desk, I drop to my knees and pull out my big box of receipts, yanking off the lid and scooping through the papers. My stomach sinks when I realise that the papers are mixed up. I thought I’d organised them properly, but apparently not.
Heat flushes through me as I start flipping through them faster. Crap. I can’t find it. I’ve screwed up.
If I didn’t make the order, I can’t demand that the company sources it in time. And if I don’t get the fabric in time, the launch won’t happen. Which means that all of the promotion and marketing that I had to schedule months in advance will need to be cancelled. And I’ll have to pay off all of the deposits without any income, which will put me at a deficit. And for all I know, by the time I do get the fabric, the design will be out of trend anyway. Which means I’ll have wasted tens of thousands of pounds.
Crap.
Above my head, my laptop dings from the desk again. And again. And again. It’s been pinging steadily for the last hour, but I’ve been ignoring it to talk to the supplier. Trying to steady my breathing, I straighten and click on my email app, opening up the inbox. I have over twenty new emails. I scan down the subject lines.
Where is my coupon code??
Your website doesn’t work
hello, I need code please
Just a heads-up – don’t advertise something if you’re not going to deliver.
My mouth goes dry. I have a sign-up bonus on my website — if people agree to receive emails about new deals, they get a fifteen-percent-off coupon. But clearly, something is screwing up. I open my email campaign manager and scan through the list of email addresses. It looks like the coupon codes are getting sent, but for some reason, people aren’t getting them.
For God’s sake.
Leaving the stack of receipts for now, I settle down in my desk chair and open my search engine. I need to work this out right now.
After four hours of running tests and checking filters and a bunch of other stuff I don’t really understand, I finally come to the conclusion that my IP is on a ton of blacklists because someone using it is sending spam.
I don’t know what the Hell to do about that. I’m not even really sure what an IP address is. Irritation boils in my stomach. I don’t have time for this. My eyes flick to the clock at the bottom of my laptop screen. I need to find the invoice before my fabric supplier closes for the night.
Another email comes in.
Subject: I one-starred you on Google. You need to treat your customers better than this.
Swearing, I grab my phone and stab Zack’s contact. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, baby. I was—”
“What’s your email campaign rate?” I demand.
“What?”
“What are your click and open rates?”
“As your fake boyfriend, I have to say, this isn’t really turning me on. You wanna know a secret? Men love when you say ‘hello’ to them, instead of barking questions at them like you’re trying to use Siri. We’re sensitive like that.”
“Zack.”
He sighs. “I dunno. Me and Josh are both at a printing press. Hang on, he’s a nerd like you, he probably has them memorized. Let me check.”
“What?” I frown. “Why are you at a press?”
“We’re testing merch quality. All of these t-shirts look great on me. If you were wondering. Hang on, I’ll send a pic.”
I rub my eyes. It’s all so easy for them. They can record and edit a podcast, and film behind-the-scenes footage, and do bonus episodes, and update their website and social media every day, and stay on top of emails, and make new advertisements, and put out new merch every month — and I’m struggling to send a bloody email.
“He says fifty percent open, and eighteen percent click,” Zack says eventually. “Dunno if that’s good or not.”
I sputter. “Fifty percent? Are you sending people treasure maps, or something? How is that so high?!”
“I put grey sweatpants pictures in some of them.”
“Jesus.” I lean back against the wall, breathing hard. “Right. Okay, then.” Clearly, I’m really messing something up. I just have no idea what.
Zack’s tone changes. “Hey. You okay, honey? You don’t sound so good.”
“I’m fine. Just. Having some issues on this end.”
“Luke’s at home. I’ll see if he can come over and check it out for you.”
“No. No, it’s fine. I’ll work it out myself.”
“He won’t mind—”
“I said no,” I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I meant it. The line falls silent, and I sigh. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just stressed. But I’m fine. I don’t need help.”
“Okay, gumdrop.” There’s some muffled speech in the background. “Listen, we gotta go. We’re still on for our date at eight tonight, yeah? Surprise location, wear something pretty.”
My eyes widen. I completely forgot we were due to have another date.
Anxiety clutches at my throat again. I can’t do all this. I take a deep breath, and it comes out more like a hitched sob.
“What is it?” Zack asks, sounding alarmed. “Hey, are you crying? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing. Bye.” I hang up and turn back to the computer. My pulse is beating in my throat. I can’t breathe right. My inbox is filling up with more and more complaints, and the invoices scattered on the ground stare up at me. Before I can work out which problem to handle next, my phone rings again.
I take a deep breath and pick it up. “Her Treat, this is Layla speaking.”
“Miss Thompson,” a woman says on the other end. “This is Vivian White, Anna Bardet’s assistant. I contacted you on behalf of Anna Bardet Couture a few days ago about her latest scholarship scheme, but we’ve had no response from you.”
My eyes widen. Anna Bardet is a huge lingerie designer. Every year, she holds an exclusive scholarship programme for up-and-coming indie designers, where they have to enter design ideas for her upcoming collections. The winning applicant gets to do a collaboration with her.
It’s a massive deal. The kind of thing that could move my career onto a whole other level. I just don’t remember being emailed about it.
I glance at my inbox, my heartbeat speeding up. “I… one sec.” I scroll down, trying to find the message.
“Anna hand-selects twenty applicants for the scholarship every year,” Janie says. “All of the other contestants have responded already. We’re just waiting on your entry.”
“That’s great,” I say through gritted teeth as I scroll frantically. I can’t find the email. “Um, can I get back to you?”
She sounds pissed. “No, not really. We need your response today. We’ve waited long enough.”
“I just…” My hand tightens on the receiver. “Now’s not a good time. I’ll call you back in, like, a minute.”
“Miss Thompson, if you’re not serious about this collaboration, I’m sure there are plenty of similar brands dying for the opportunity to—”
“I’ll do it, I promise. I… just need a sec,” I say, setting the receiver down and putting my face in my hands. Tears pop into my eyes.
I can’t do this. It’s too much. My laptop dings with another notification. And then another. And then another. My office phone starts to ring again. My mobile chimes with a meeting reminder, but I can’t bring myself to check it. I feel completely overloaded. Sinking onto the floor, I put my head in my hands, trying to shove down my panic.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
