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I'm only into the fifth hour of my new job, and I'm already touching my boss' thong.

Somehow, I'm strangely in awe of it? Because these panties don't wedgie their way between just any old pair of plebian butt cheeks. Does this thong—this completely non-sentient piece of shiny red satin, which I currently hold—realize that it belongs to the Rosalind Lindbergh?

Just, wow. What I wouldn't give to be Rosalind Lindbergh's thong.

Okay, nope. Actually, I take that back, because that sounds absolutely terrible and creepy and wrong, and she is my boss.

She could probably step on me though. That's reasonable. I feel like anyone would be okay with that.

I toss the thong into Rosalind's linen laundry bag. I'm kind of bummed that I'm out here doing laundry instead of, I don't know, giving her a firm-handed shoulder rub (I'm joking) while she writes her next bestseller, but I understand.

Apparently, being an award-winning author/executive producer/one of Forbes' 30 under 30 takes time and effort. Certainly too much time and effort to have to do laundry of all things.

If this was any other rich person making me do their laundry, even for this pay, I might quit. But Rosalind Lindbergh has been my writing idol since I was fucking fourteen. They say "don't meet your heroes"—but they never really mentioned anything about working for them.

And besides, obsessing over Rosalind's underwear (as depraved as it may sound) is keeping me from thinking about my sixth agent rejection this week. I know I shouldn't be upset that they've each given me such specific feedback, but they're all saying different things about my book. All the feedback is conflicting, bordering on grimace-inducing.

Like, "Leona's character is very well-defined" and "Leona just doesn't seem to have much of a voice within the narrative." Or, "Leona clearly has goals for herself, but she doesn't have to push herself out of her comfort zone to achieve them" versus—straight up—"Leona's character arc is clear from the get-go, but her end goal is, well, boring."

I pick up another pair of silky, expensive underwear and try not to ogle.

But, ugh, now I'm back to thinking about it. Why did I think majoring in Creative Writing was a smart decision? In this economy?

Days like these, I just wish I could be successful like Rosalind Fucking Lindbergh and never have to think about finances again. Just roll out of bed in the morning and say, "Ahh, good morning, world. Fuck each and every one of you pustulent assholes! I'm rich as shit! Eat dirt!"

And what is Gina going to say? Finally getting a job was a good first step to repairing our relationship, but I'd much rather be able to go home and say that I've finally done it: sold my book.

That freaking book was the whole reason I spent the last year unemployed and put almost the entirety of responsibility for paying rent on Gina. (Well. Gina's parents.)

But honestly, parents aside, I'd do the same if it was her dream. Hence why I took this job—so Gina can take her dream job with a movie production company, and I can touch other people's underwear.

And, hey, it just so happens to work out that my boss is my long-time personal hero. Call it a perk, if you will.

"Are you nearly done with that, Macie?"

I jump, too startled to correct my name. Rosalind's footsteps were light enough that I didn't hear her walk across the light-stained wood floors, but when I look to the doorway of her laundry room (who even has a full-on laundry room in New York?), there she is.

Rosalind.

Her dark hair is slicked back into an impossibly perfect ponytail; her lips are a shiny cherry red, lined to perfection. One of her eyebrows is quirked upwards, a move I've seen in enough interviews to know that she's joking right now but is about to not be. Her sleeveless blue dress strains against her chest, and I am officially the worst person in the world for having to struggle to keep my eyes to myself.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry." My face is hot. I hope I don't look flushed. I definitely look flushed. "I was just, um, thinking, and—"

"It's fine, I really don't care. I just really need some clean panties before the banquet tonight." I'm focused on the warm, velvety richness of her voice, until what she's said soaks in.

Fuck.

"There's a banquet? Do I need to do anything?" Are personal assistants supposed to go to those? I didn't know. I don't know. Maybe Gina would let me borrow one of her dresses? No, that's a stupid idea, it wouldn't fit me right. Gina and I are a terrible match when it comes to sharing clothes. She's petite and curvy; I'm tallish and built like a twig. But I don't own any proper dresses. Maybe I can make an emergency run to—

"Don't worry. It's not your concern," Rosalind says, smiling gently, and yeah, okay, she could definitely step on me. There's no doubt in my mind right now that I'm blushing, which is just beyond terrible. Devastatingly embarrassing, perhaps. What this woman must think of me, I don't even want to know.

I hesitantly hold my hand out, the panties I was just accidentally hyper-fixated upon dangling on the end of my fingers. "Um, do these work?"

"Oh no, those aren't mine," Rosalind says.

I drop the panties. As they hit the grey tile, I remember that they're clean, but also, fuck that. I scramble to pick them up, then clear my throat. "Who–whose are they?" It still comes out a little too squeaky for my liking. Oh my god, she must hate me. I'm the worst. I am literally the worst.

Rosalind squints at the panties, which still lie in my outstretched hand. Okay, wow, I am literally kneeling on the tile before her. Oh my god. Holding underwear out on my knees to this goddess of a woman? This real-life Bond girl? It's Rosalind Lindbergh. This whole thing is surreal, in the best and most terrible, stomach-pain-inducing way. "Ummm.... Y'know, that is an excellent question."

"You don't know?" I kind of want to shout HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHOSE PANTIES THESE ARE?! but manage to refrain. Gina told me that, outside of the writing world, Rosalind has a reputation for being somewhat of a womanizer—a word choice which doesn't entirely make sense to me given that she herself is a woman, but oh well. Guess Gina was right on this one. I can't tell if I'm disappointed, or proud.

Rosalind reaches behind her and tightens her ponytail. "Right, those red ones in there should work," she says, gesturing with a nod.

"Oh, right, yeah, of course." I fumble while trying to grab the red thong—that lucky, lucky red thong (I think I have a problem)—before attempting to give it to her.

However, my brain can't decide between holding it out, or simply handing it to her. The unfortunate combination of this is a lackluster flinging of the red thong, which lands on the floor in a sad little pile.

It all happens so fast.

Rosalind bends down to pick it up as I launch forward in such a manner that could only be described as "flopping," not quite unlike a desperate, inebriated seal. There are two sounds, one after the other. The first is the hollow thonk of our skulls thwacking against each other. The second is the deafening rip of fabric tearing in two.

I'm massaging my temple right away, but I can see Rosalind's shocked expression with my good eye. And that's when it registers. What I've done.

I just made Rosalind Lindbergh tear her dress.

This is terrible. This is so-not-good that I am almost inclined to throw up—but that would probably be the cherry on top of the "Way to Get Fired, You Dense Asscanoe" sundae.

Rosalind's hands fly back behind her to try and keep her dress, y'know, on. Her dark brown eyes are wide, her cheeks suddenly a dark, patchy red, her lips pursed. Is she going to cry? Or is she going to shout at me? I think I'd rather her yell at me. I'd prefer being fired like that. I can't go out like this—making my favorite author of all time cry out of humiliation.

Nevertheless, I'd rather not get fired at all, particularly on my first day. So, it's time to do what I do best: grovel.

"Ms. Lindbergh, I am so sorry—"

"It's fine." She takes a shaky breath and stands upright, the thong (bad thong, evil thong, unlucky thong) in hand.

I blink. So ... no groveling? That's a first. "Are you sure?" I stand up, tugging the sleeves of my cardigan nervously.

"Yes, it—it's fine, Macie."

"Marcie." FUCK. Way to go, Marcie, correct your boss after you humiliate her. A-fucking-plus. Great work! This is why you never have trouble finding and keeping a job!

Roz sighs. It's still shaky. I do not deserve oxygen. "Marcie. Why don't you go home early today?"

I open my mouth like I'm about to say something, but I have nothing to say. Nothing comes out. So I shut my freaking yap and just nod, because "going home early" doesn't sound like a termination to me. I'll take it.

But what am I going to tell Gina? Fuck. Fuck. This is not good. Things have been rocky with Gina, for sure. This has felt like a "last gasp" kind of situation—my last chance to keep her. I can't fathom what it would be like to lose her.

I'm so dead when I get home.

"Yeah, no, of course. Of course. I'll just ... I'll be going now." I try to edge around Rosalind to exit the laundry room. Which is of course when she also tries to leave the laundry room. After a moment of awkward shuffling—very, very close awkward shuffling, mind you—I take a step back and gesture to Rosalind the go-ahead. Her smile is terse.

When she walks away, I have to forcefully drag my eyes away from her very visible, very toned back muscles, and the mole on her left shoulder blade.

She turns back at the end of the hallway and I'm pretty sure my face has to be bright red from being caught staring. But Roz just manages an easy smile. "Seriously," she says, her smile slight, but less strained, "don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

And then I'm left standing in the laundry room.

I look back at Rosalind's bougie laundry hamper, chock-full with clothes so expensive it almost feels blasphemous to touch them. There's a slight temptation to fold it all, but I have my own unfolded laundry at home, and I was just told to leave.

But still, try as I might, I can't get rid of the niggling idea that this was a test to see exactly just how shitty my work ethic is—and so, I find myself speedrunning folding Roz's massive hamper of laundry and placing the small stacks of clothes atop the woodblock counter next to her dryer. (I leave the panties in the hamper, suddenly quite averse to touching them.)

Then, before Rosalind leaves her room, sees me still standing in the laundry room, and fires my ass, I sneak down the hall, to the front door—a literal fucking elevator—and manage to exit completely unnoticed.

My walk to the nearest subway station is a lot less fun than usual. On any other normal walk, I'd be people-watching, trying to brainstorm new ideas or characters. I'm too in my own head now, though. I can't believe that this was my first day of working for my hero: touching her thong, tearing her dress, and getting sent home. I'm a disappointment, even to myself.

But ... okay. Okay, is this the worst thing that has ever happened to me? I've fucked up worse at jobs before, and I made it through. And also, Rosalind told me not to worry. Not even just that—not to worry my "pretty little head" about it. Maybe I sound delusional. I know it's an expression. But ... pretty? Like, what, shut up. Aha. Oh my god. ME? Rosalind, you shouldn't have.

In my back pocket, my phone buzzes with a text. I glance at the bustling crowd of people surrounding me and pull off to the side of the cement, whipping my phone out. The noise of the busy Manhattan street fades to a dull ringing in my ears—accompanied by my frantic, panicked heartbeat—as I hastily unlock my phone and tap to view the text from an unknown number.

This has to be it. It's Roz. She's totally going to fire me. I am so incredibly beyond fucked.

Thanks for folding the laundry, Marcie. I'll see you tomorrow.

I don't know how long I stand there on the sidewalk and stare at my phone screen. Rosalind just texted me. Me. And it wasn't to fire my ass.

There's a sudden heat that warms my cheeks. I press the back of my hand to my face and close my eyes. I'm just a little lightheaded, that's all. Lightheaded at the fact that the Rosalind Lindbergh (THE Rosalind Lindbergh, oh my god) has my number and is apparently not going to fire me. Not lightheaded at the sudden realization that I saw Rosalind's exposed back, that I saw the kind of underwear she wears, that I'm about to be in close proximity with her for the foreseeable future.

I can't mess up like I did today. Not again.

And I also need to focus on not getting sidetracked by Rosalind being ... Rosalind. Even if I were single, lusting after her in my head is still not-okay on multiple levels. I mean, she's my boss. The kinds of intrusive thoughts I was having today were beyond inappropriate. I'm not just some fangirl of hers anymore—I'm her employee.

I need to remember that distinction.