The Ugly Duckling (Excerpt)

Running Late

I brushed my teeth and avoided looking at myself in the dingy mirror as I did. This would be the first day in three years I might actually be late for work, and although I couldn't blame my usually unflappable mother for her meltdown, it was inconvenient.

This movie might be the biggest production our company ever worked on with two big-name actors in the lead roles, but stuff went wrong from the word go, and three days in, we've not shot any footage—a first.

Why was that a problem for me when I couldn't tell you my current job description? Porter Harris, and yes, the famous producer.

Most days, he couldn't keep my name straight, but I did everything from fetching his laundry to correcting his emails to buying his girlfriends' gifts, yet he had a PA and a secretary.

Life was fine as long as he paid my salary and I didn't have to ask my mom for money. But... he could be a bit of an asshole if things consistently went wrong, especially if it happened because people were not doing the work he paid them to do.

If I had to describe him? Simon Cowell. Perfectionist. He knows what he wants and how to get it out of people. He has an eye for talent and a nose for what works, and his colleagues call him "King Midas" behind his back.

He's also quite enamored of himself and yet capable of extraordinary acts of kindness, but he even scared me the last few days.

Arriving late would not go down well.

The studio car honked outside.

"Shit!" I spat out the toothpaste.

There was no time for concealer or gloss as I ran to my room, jumped into my pants, and grabbed my purse.

I clenched the strap between my teeth on the way to the door and wiggled them over my thunder thighs before grabbing my phone and keys as I finally got the zip up while halfway through the door, pausing only long enough to get the button through.

The car honked again, and I ran halfway down the tiled corridor before realizing I had socks on with no shoes.

"Dammit," I grouched as I ran back, unlocked everything again, and grabbed the nearest pair of shoes before running back out again.

Midway into the car, the driver took off, nearly dumping me sideways.

I hadn't brushed my hair.

The thought iced the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I tried to catch my breath, and glancing in the rearview mirror, I groaned.

I looked like that ad where the gorilla dragged the guy around by his hair in his sleep.

We were almost at the studio and weaving through traffic like we were in a chase scene as I dug through my purse, nearly crying with relief when I discovered my spare hairbrush and a rather dirty hair tie.

It would have to do.

I grabbed the shoes and just stared at them.

Slippers.

How the actual...

At least these were sensible and not my hot pink bunny ones.

I glanced down at myself and just stared. How did I still have my flannel pajama top on that looked like one of those red and black checkered lumberjack shirts?

"No one will notice," the driver said.

It was the first sentence he had spoken to me in over six months of picking me up as I tried to adjust the slightly snug top that clung to my ample curves.