The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(2)

She dips her spoon into her soup and sniffs. “I heard from your father.”

Translation: I’m well aware you were afraid to tell me yourself that you were turned down for a transfer into the skin-care division’s global marketing department when the paper-goods division failed to meet production expectations last quarter, hence why you were summoned tonight.

For a woman whose position on the board of directors for the world’s largest consumer goods manufacturing company is ceremonial only, she still has pull, and she still hears all.

At least, when it comes to the portion of the company she inherited from her own father-in-law.

No surprise.

Gigi is the reason the Remington family is no longer involved in any of the operations of Remington Lightly.

Not that much of our family is left in the family business either. It’s Gigi on the board of directors, my father in the legal department—also a ceremonial role at this point, as I understand it, and I’m surprised to hear he knew anything about what I’ve been up to—and me working my way up through the management chain. My mother, brother, and sister have pursued other interests, though all of us together hold the largest minority share of stock in the company.

Held in trust funds controlled by Gigi, but unlike my siblings, I work for what I earn.

But it’s not about the paycheck.

It’s about the fact that I’m on track to be the next Lightly to sit at the helm of the company my ancestors founded, which hasn’t been done since my great-grandfather retired.

I want that top-floor office. The Manhattan-skyline view. The role my family heritage has bred me for. The destiny I was born to fulfill.

I, Phoebe Sabrina Lightly, will be the first Lightly in three generations—and the first woman—to rule as chief executive officer of Remington Lightly.

I want it all, and when I have it all, I’ll get the other thing I’ve always wanted—my grandmother’s unconditional seal of approval.

I take a glass of bordeaux from Gigi’s personal assistant. “A good leader understands the challenges faced in every department, and environmental issues aren’t going away. We can’t stay at the forefront of consumer goods if we don’t—”

“Yes, yes, save the whales, bamboo is the future, talking points, buzzwords, et cetera. Did you hear that Alexander Bentley is back from his Italian sabbatical?”

This is dinner with Gigi.

Work hard. No, harder. Care about something. No, something else. Your roots are showing. Marc Jacobs doesn’t suit you, Phoebe. You would’ve gotten the promotion if you’d worn your McQueen. The eligible bachelor I picked for you last quarter is no longer worthy of a Lightly, but have no fear—I’ve found another. No, I’m not yet ready to speak about the real reason I’ve called you here. I need to torture you with a litany of your other disappointments first.

We’ve made it through soup, salad, and her dissertation on why Spanx has ruined the younger generation’s self-control when my phone buzzes inside my blazer.

I ignore it, because I don’t have a death wish.

Gigi’s chef enters the dining room with two Limoges plates covered with silver cloches. He sets the first before her and unveils it with a flourish. “Kobe filet mignon with peppercorn brandy sauce on a bed of mesclun, with shaved brussels sprouts and flash-fried shallots on the side, madam.”

“Thank you, Arlo, that will be all.” Gigi manages to murmur softly yet still speak distinctly enough to be heard across the room.

“Yes, madam.”

My phone buzzes again as Arlo delivers my plate and quietly slips out the side door toward the elevator to the kitchen. Gigi dismisses her personal assistant with the subtlest flutter of her eyelashes, and then we’re alone.

Just me, Gigi, the elephant without a name—there is always an elephant, the question is merely which one—and my persistently vibrating cell phone.

“Are you watching more of that reality television, Phoebe?” Gigi asks while she slices a delicate piece of meat.

“No, Gigi. I don’t have time for television.” I am 100 percent bingeing Lola’s Tiny House before bed this week. Lola Minelli and I went to the same college-prep school, and even knowing everything’s staged, I cannot believe she’s actually forcing herself into that tiny house, even if it’s only for filming.

My shoe collection won’t fit into that house.

No idea how Lola’s ego is managing.

And no, I don’t want to talk about the reality show that my sister talked me into for one season in college either.

I pretend that time in my life doesn’t exist.

Gigi eyeballs me like she knows my life outside the office and social commitments is ruled by my streaming services. “I don’t understand anyone’s need for that rubbish when you can have actual scandal and gossip in real life.”

“Gigi, not everyone can live in New York. Some people lead honestly boring lives.”

My phone stops vibrating.

But I’ve barely sliced my own filet before it vibrates again.

And now I’m getting another Gigi eyeball. “Would you either answer that or turn it off?”

I slip it out of my pocket, fully intending to shut it off, except Tavi is calling me.

My sister hasn’t called me in months. And she’s now called three times in a row. “Excuse me, Gigi. It’s the office. If production in Knoxville is being held up by the picketers . . .”