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Miranda was in the middle of drawing a line through a layout when she heard frantic muttering from her assistants’ area. She set her pen down carefully and turned around, leaning on the edge of her desk to watch Emily and the new girl out of the corner of her eye.
Andy — Andrea, really, though Miranda really had no reason to even remember it at this point anyway — was standing in front of her desk, looking down at the horrible cerulean sweater she’d found fit to wear that day.
“It’s just, ugh,” Andrea murmured, tugging at the hem of the sweater.
Emily sped around the corner, hair swinging side-to-side cartoonishly as she presented Andrea with a wad of paper towels. “I have a list, you know.”
Andrea patted her chest with the damp towels, the water leaving dark streaks across the cheap fabric, and she cocked her head in what seemed like deep annoyance.
Miranda had to press her lips together to swallow a laugh. Emily certainly wasn’t the worst assistant she’d ever had, but she was, as Andrea had already puzzled out, quite annoying.
“A list,” Andrea was saying dryly.
Emily examined her nails with put-upon boredom. “Of all the reasons you’re completely wrong for this job.” Her eyes landed on Andrea’s sweater again, and she pointed a finger at where Andrea was dabbing, drawing a circle in the air. “And this is going on it. Chowder, Andy? What the bloody hell were you thinking?”
Andrea heaved a sigh and tossed the paper towel into the wastebasket. “Okay. It was an accident, you know. Ugh, I’m just going to take it off.”
“And burn it, I hope,” Emily sneered as she returned to her desk.
For some reason, Miranda didn’t look away. Later, she wondered if she should have thought better of it. But she kept watching Andrea, who was now bunching up the hem of the sweater in her fingers and tugging it over her head.
It was a disastrous display: the sweater caught on the blouse underneath, and in her attempts to pull it down, Andrea got her left elbow in the sleeve and resorted to some unbecoming twisting motion to free herself. Miranda would have turned around in impatience had it not been for what the tangled clothing revealed. The sight, oddly, took her breath away.
She’d seen hundreds if not thousands of naked women over the years, at photoshoots and fashion shows and even in the Closet. She appreciated the nude form; in essence, dressing it was her job as Editor in Chief, and she looked at bodies more as blank slates than sexual things.
Until now.
Because her new second assistant was currently half-topless in her anteroom, her lumpy sweater caught in her armpits to reveal a toned, sculpted abdomen that would more likely be found on the cover of GQ than Runway. Shock coursed through Miranda’s body, followed by something else that she had no interest in thinking about further, and she pressed her thighs together before turning around. She stared through her office window absently, touching her cheek to feel the heat there.
She’d fire the girl tomorrow, Miranda decided that evening. Her antics were a total distraction, from her spluttering excuses to her sloppy errands. It didn’t help that her blouse had kept coming untucked from one side of her skirt throughout the remainder of the day, reminding Miranda for five hours straight of what lay underneath.
—
Miranda did not, in fact, fire her. Andrea returned to the office the next day in something else extremely lumpy, and Miranda did her best to convince herself that the contoured abdomen that she’d seen the day before had been a trick of the light. She sent Andrea on endless errands to keep her out of the office, and let herself get lost in back-to-back meetings until she’d forgotten about her entirely.
Late afternoon brought a meeting with Nigel to review an ad campaign that was in its final phases. They were standing over her desk, flipping through photos, when heavy footfalls and the squeak of the anteroom door made him look up.
“Ah,” he said after a moment, and turned to look at Miranda. “How is Six working out?”
Miranda felt her eyes go wide, and she blinked before glancing at Nigel. “Excuse me?”
“Your new Emily.”
“I—so you’ve also seen… them?”
Nigel opened his mouth, closed it, and adjusted his glasses. “I’m sorry… seen what?”
“You called her ‘Six,’” Miranda huffed, “So I—”
She stopped herself when Nigel’s confusion didn’t fade, and cleared her throat before bringing her focus back down to the photo they’d been looking at. “There are too many shadows here.”
A moment passed; she felt Nigel looking out into the anteroom before leaning down next to her again.
“Size Six,” he said softly, then fished out an alternate shot of the shadowy boots in question. “This one is better, I think.”
She pretended not to notice the odd look he gave her when he left fifteen minutes later, and she sent Andrea out on another coffee run without so much as a glance in her direction.
—
Miranda ignored Andrea as much as she could over the following weeks until she practically faded into the background. She passed all instructions through Emily, who was no stranger to Miranda’s cold treatment of new staff, and avoided direct eye contact as much as possible.
She kept meaning to email HR to ask for a replacement, but never quite managed to get around to it, no matter how many times the girl disappointed her.
Then two very unfortunate things happened, in quick succession, that made Miranda wish she’d never hired Andrea in the first place.
The first incident took place in the Closet. The June outerwear spread wasn’t coming along as quickly as she’d wanted, and Miranda called a last-minute meeting downstairs to go through the samples that they had on-hand, no longer trusting her staff to make suitable choices. Emily was stuck on a call with Versace, so Miranda had no choice but to bring Andrea along.
Nigel didn’t hide his surprise to see the second assistant instead of the first when he met them outside of the Closet; he and Andrea exchanged a look that Miranda didn’t quite understand. She tried to pay it no mind as she flicked through the summery looks that the Closet staff had arranged, finally pulling out a compelling, dramatic Balenciaga raincoat.
“Let’s see this with the shoes I liked yesterday,” she said, “And with… yes. This blouse.”
“See it on…” Jocelyn said.
Miranda spun around, the hangers still dangling from her fingers, and narrowed her eyes.
“Big Bird,” she spat. “Or perhaps a float from the Macy’s Day Parade. Maybe one of the security guards can—”
Nigel plucked the hangers from Miranda’s hand and cleared his throat politely; Miranda flexed her jaw and spared Jocelyn, for now.
“Amanda, Jodi, and Maren are doing the promotional shoots for Project Runway,” Nigel told her. “It’ll take them at least two hours to get back here for try-ons.”
Jocelyn motioned toward a dress form in the corner, but Miranda shook her head, her annoyance tripling with every passing second. “If I wanted to see couture on a chunk of fiberglass, I would have called Kate Moss. No.”
An awkward silence fell over the room, and Nigel scratched his head before pointing at the woman behind Miranda. “Andy can do it.”
Every head turned to face Miranda’s second assistant.
“I–I can?” Andrea said, her voice higher than Miranda had ever heard it.
Nigel looked her up and down, and Miranda couldn’t keep herself from doing the same. Andrea squirmed in her unflattering short-sleeved sweater and skirt.
Before Miranda could respond, Nigel tapped on his glasses and held up the hangers to Andrea’s body. She practically recoiled as the metal touched her chin, looking scandalized by the thought of being in close proximity to luxury. Once again, Miranda found her lips thinning to hold back a smile at the ridiculous display.
Nigel shrugged and looked over at Miranda. “Should fit… ish.”
“Nigel…” Andrea murmured, her cheeks going a pleasing pink. She also looked at Miranda, who sighed in mock boredom and tried not to think about why a simple blush was making her feel a little jittery.
“Take your time,” she said dryly, fiddling with the back of her earring. “I’d love to belabor this conversation as long as possible.”
Andrea’s eyebrows reached her hairline, but she took the first hanger from Nigel anyway. “O-okay,” she stuttered. “Where can I…?”
“No dressing room,” Nigel said curtly, already walking away to find the shoes Miranda had mentioned. Jocelyn scurried to find some accessories, and Ava was left to hold the other outfits for Andrea, whose eyes found Miranda’s immediately.
“Is there a problem?” Miranda asked, trying for bored had her voice not been uncharacteristically apprehensive.
Andrea blinked. The coat she was holding swayed on its hanger like a light breeze had come through the Closet. “Um. No.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Thrilled to hear it.”
She angled her body away from Andrea, pretending to busy herself with the remaining rack of outfits to give the girl at least some modicum of privacy. Her heart was beating unusually quickly, which she chalked up to the unnecessary warmth in the Closet. She’d have to speak to Emily about adjusting the temperature controls in the basement.
Miranda turned around when she heard Andrea clear her throat softly.
The blouse fit, as Nigel had predicted, but it was sitting oddly on her form. The ruched fabric around the collarbone was crooked, and the darts were off-center. Thankful for something to focus on, Miranda stepped before Andrea and inspected it further. She didn’t miss how the girl inhaled shakily as Miranda narrowed the gap, and did her best to focus on the shirt instead of the person wearing it.
Up close, Miranda discovered the culprit for the off-kilter look: in her hurry, Andrea had skipped the top button, and the entire column was misaligned, leaving an empty buttonhole at the top and bottom of the blouse. Unthinking, Miranda reached forward to redo them, starting from the bottom.
She only made it to the second button before she heard Andrea’s breath hitch at the same time that she registered the solid warmth that her knuckles had brushed up again.
Miranda immediately flashed back to what she’d seen under Andrea’s blue sweater and pulled her hand away. It tingled where it had grazed her abdomen, and Miranda touched the skin unconsciously, expecting heat.
“Oh,” Andrea whispered. Their eyes met briefly; hers were wide and curious as they flicked across Miranda’s face. Up close, Andrea smelled like fruity grocery store shampoo and clean laundry.
Miranda bit the inside of her cheek, unwilling to be the first to break eye contact, but lost for what to do next. They were standing less than a foot apart, and she was only now noticing how much taller Andrea was.
“Got them,” Nigel called, and they sprung apart. Blood rushed to Miranda’s ears, briefly muffling her hearing, and she took a deep breath before turning around to snatch the heels out of Nigel’s hands.
“I have a meeting,” she said, thrusting the shoes at a shell-shocked Andrea. She looked over her shoulder at Nigel as she stalked out of the Closet. “I trust you’ll solve this issue… and leave my assistant intact.”
She paused at the threshold before leaving, concealing herself behind the door.
“Geez, what did you do to her?” Nigel was murmuring.
“I–I don’t know,” Andrea whispered.
Miranda’s luck was such that the second incident came about less than twelve hours later.
She was on the phone with Patrick when she arrived at the office, too distracted by his rambling to offer Emily a glance or notice that Andrea’s desk was empty when she tossed her coat and bag onto it. She only slowed her pace as she approached her desk, and looked up to see an unfamiliar figure standing before her.
She blinked at the belated realization that it was Andrea. Her heel nearly got caught in the fibers of the carpet from how quickly she stopped.
Her assistant was completely transformed: poofy brown hair was now tame and glossy, amateur mascara had been replaced with tasteful eyeliner and blush that still didn’t totally hide the natural pink blooming on the apples of her cheeks. She was dressed in shocking thigh-high Chanel boots that Miranda had seen at a preview just weeks ago, along with their latest lapel dress.
“Miranda?” Patrick said. “Are you still there?”
Miranda cleared her throat, but not before letting the corner of her mouth turn up slightly as she met Andrea’s nervous gaze. She received a bright grin in return, and couldn’t help but turn to stare at Andrea as she left the office with a new spring in her step.
Nigel, Miranda thought, wanting to summon annoyance or anger, but it wasn’t possible when the high cut of Andrea’s dress showcased the toned thighs that her schoolteacher skirts had been hiding for weeks.
—
And so it started. Every day, a new outfit from the Closet, from the latest ready-to-wear to haute couture that hugged Andrea’s figure like each piece had been custom made for her.
Worse, she walked around like she knew how good she looked, and Miranda couldn't keep herself from staring.
The newfound confidence extended to Andrea’s work as well: her competence nearly doubled overnight. While she still approached Miranda with deference, her anxiety seemed to ebb slightly, and suddenly tasks were being completed before Miranda had the chance to passively-aggressively comment on their progress.
So Miranda could hardly avoid her now, not when Andrea was fulfilling her needs at twice the speed of Emily, and worse, becoming surprisingly enjoyable company. In brief moments of casual conversation, Andrea proved herself interesting and curious; she was clearly making an effort to learn more about Runway and the industry despite her initial disdain for the entire world of fashion. Miranda was increasingly impressed and, worse, increasingly… intrigued.
They hadn’t gotten within two feet of each other since the moment in the Closet, and Andrea’s fashion choices still edged on the conservative, effectively concealing what still occupied Miranda’s thoughts during inopportune moments. And far from helping Miranda forget, it only left her feeling hungrier for it.
Then the kitchen incident happened, and it was all over from there.
Miranda rarely ventured into the kitchen, but Emily had forgotten a fork for her lunch, and she was now tied up on some ridiculous phone call and hadn’t noticed Miranda’s glares. Hungry and annoyed, Miranda didn’t think to question Andrea’s empty desk until she was two feet away from her in front of the sink.
Two feet away from Andrea and her very exposed abdomen as she reached towards the top shelf for something Miranda couldn’t see. Her Versace blouse had come untucked from her slacks, and the outline of her abdomen was only highlighted by the harsh kitchen lighting where her shirt was riding up.
It was just as Miranda remembered: pale, toned skin that looked soft but that she now knew was firm to the touch. She inhaled and touched the back of her neck, trying to redirect her gaze towards the silverware drawer… wherever that was.
“Oh, shoot,” Andrea said, her eyes growing wide when she noticed Miranda. She let go of her grip on the counter and slid backwards, rocking back on her heels with a slight grimace as she put some distance between them. She only realized that her shirt had come untucked when she moved to put her hands in her pockets, and frantically shoved the fabric back into her pants.
Miranda didn’t realize how closely she’d been watching until Andrea cleared her throat, and she blinked before looking up at her assistant, whose eyes were suddenly twinkling.
“Sorry,” Andrea said softly, but she didn’t look sorry at all. She looked… amused, and her expression only grew warmer as she opened the silverware drawer that she was standing in front of and fished out a fork for Miranda.
“How did you…” Miranda began, and Andrea smiled as she held the fork out.
“I figured there was only one reason you’d come in here at one in the afternoon,” she said matter-of-factly.
Miranda felt slightly thrown, and looked down at the fork in her hand like it was some foreign object. “Ah.”
The kitchen felt warm, too warm, but she didn’t want to leave just yet. She met Andrea’s eyes and smirked. “You were… looking for something?”
Andrea stared at Miranda for a moment, running her tongue along the inside of her lower lip, then nodded once. “Paper plates. It’s Serena’s birthday, and Emily got her a cake.”
Miranda swallowed. “Well, carry on.”
Andrea bit her lip as she approached the counter again, gripping it with one hand as she stood on her tiptoes and reached for the high cabinet. Her shirt rode up immediately, and this time Miranda didn’t bother to conceal her stare. When Andrea hopped down a moment later, paper plates in hand, something like victory crossed over her face before she replaced it with her usual expectant, puppy-dog gaze.
Miranda had half a thought to reach out and tuck her shirt back in, and if Emily hadn’t stormed in at that same moment, crowing about how sorry she was for forgetting the fork, she might have. Instead, she ignored her assistants and slammed her office door behind her before slicing into her steak with a vengeance.
—
“Andrea.”
Miranda got up from the chair in her study when she heard the clack of heels on the marble floor approaching. Andrea appeared a moment later, her expression carefully neutral as she set the Book down on Miranda’s desk.
“Yes, Miranda?” she said lightly. One corner of her lip lifted — a little too easily, Miranda thought, than it would have months or even weeks earlier.
They hadn’t seen each other much that day — Miranda had been in endless board meetings and Andrea had been darting around preparing for Paris — so she gave herself a moment to appreciate Andrea’s outfit. She’d paired a houndstooth sweater vest with a short-sleeved white blouse and tight black slacks. After a nod of approval, Miranda moved her gaze to one of the bookshelves in her study.
“There’s an anthology of Paris fashion houses three shelves up,” she said, gesturing vaguely as Andrea followed her.
Andrea hummed knowingly. “And you… need me to get it?”
Miranda shrugged. “If you can reach it.”
Andrea moved the stepstool out of the way and steadied herself with one hand on a shelf as she reached for the book in question. Her shirt rode up as she traced the spines of the books, the warm glow of the nearby lamps casting shadows on the contours of her stomach. With a triumphant huff, she pulled the book off of the shelf and presented it to Miranda before fixing her bangs.
“I’ve been wondering, you know,” Andrea said warmly. Miranda looked up from the page she’d opened the book to. “If that’s why you asked me to come to Paris. To fetch things from high places.”
“Yes, Andrea,” Miranda drawled. She closed the book and held out her free hand to grab Andrea’s vest, pulling her close. “You’re very fetching.”
—
“Where are they?” Miranda murmured thickly.
Andrea stopped nibbling the skin under Miranda’s ear, and she missed the warmth of her mouth immediately. “Where are what?”
Miranda twisted her fingers in the silk that clung to Andrea’s hips, feeling dangerously wanton about having her assistant in her hotel room like this. Her skin felt buzzy. Maybe it was the bubbles from the many glasses of Veuve Clicquot at the LVMH lunch. Or maybe it was Paris, or maybe it was…
She cleared her throat and pressed her thumbs just above where Andrea’s bellybutton might be. “The… your…”
When she pulled away from Miranda, Andrea was already narrowing her eyes suspiciously. She dropped her arms to her sides; they swung slightly, outlines of their lithe muscles sculpted in the shadows of the late-afternoon sun.
“Is this the only reason you want to—“ Andrea began, but Miranda cut her off, holding up her hand and feeling mortified. The bubbles on her skin popped and she suddenly felt far too warm.
“No,” she said quickly. It felt very important that Andrea knew this. “No, it is not.”
Andrea stared at her for another moment, and slowly the suspicion on her face settled into something Miranda couldn’t totally decipher.
“I mean,” Andrea began, pushing Miranda’s hands away and replacing them with her own. The silk caught the light where she wrapped it around her knuckles. “I know that you like them.”
Miranda pursed her lips. Though already she missed touching Andrea, the distance made it easier for her to think clearly, and she swallowed before replying. “Must you narrate every single waking thought?”
Andrea’s long, thin fingers began to make easy work of the pearl buttons on her Pucci top, which fell to the ground silently. She placed her hands on her hips and looked down at her half-naked form. “I do have to, uh,” she said, her earlier bravado fading slightly.
Miranda’s eyes flicked between Andrea’s face, now flushed with embarrassment, and her stomach, where, after a deep breath, the light, soft contours became a bit more taut. Sculpted. It lit a match in Miranda’s body far too easily, and she reached out to trace the lines that had crossed her mind at the most inopportune times over the last eight months.
“All this time, showing off,” she tutted.
Andrea let out an exasperated huff. “Not… intentionally!”
Miranda arched an eyebrow.
“Not every time, anyway,” Andrea conceded.
Whatever snarky response Miranda had died in her throat as Andrea brought their bodies together. Her breath caught when she felt a hand press into the small of her back before sliding up to tug on the zipper beneath her shoulderblades.
“This okay?” Andrea muttered.
Miranda’s thumbs pressed in between abs three and four. “Yes.”
—
“I can’t believe that’s how you two got together,” Cassidy said, wide-eyed as she looked between Miranda and Andrea.
“I can’t believe you told them,” Miranda huffed, glaring at her wife.
Andrea threw her head back as she laughed. “It’s been fifteen years. The statute of limitations for your pride has long expired.”
“Thank god you didn’t go to law school. You would have been absolutely insufferable.”
“And with all that studying, who knows if I would have had the time to keep up my workout routine,” Andrea said with a wink.
“And what a shame that would have been,” Miranda said, ignoring her daughters’ mimed puking reactions.
“That’s so vain, Mom!” Caroline said.
Andrea laughed again. “She’s the editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine. What else would you expect?”