French Runway 1: I love Paris, for Punky_96
Title: French Runway 1/3: I Love Paris
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Rating/Genre: g/AU
Characters/Pairings: Miranda, Andy/Nate (for now, ‘cause it’s canon, you know…), Emily, Serena, Jacqueline, Marie (oc).
Summary: Andy lives with Nate in Paris, where she works as Jacqueline’s second assistant and life is good. When Miranda Priestly shows up things begin to change - thanks to something bad that happens to Emily… or is it something good? The story alternates between Andy’s and Emily’s point of view.
Word count: 2 573 (this chapter)
Spoilers/Warnings: No.
Notes: Very late fic for punky_96 and fandomaid’s Help Japan auction. Thank you for all the prompts and ideas. I’m very sorry I didn’t finish this earlier.
Notes2: “I Love Paris” by Frank Sinatra: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WF_yN1R2b5M&feature=related
Andy ended the call and put her cell phone down and looked at her boyfriend across the table. He didn’t look particularly happy.
“What the hell was that about, at this hour? And what’s with the English?”
Andy giggled. Her employer was French to the backbone and although her English was very good she rarely used it even with her American assistant.
“I don’t know. That was Jacqueline; something about this business seems to make her nervous. She usually shifts to English when she talks about la Priestly. It’s as if she does it unconsciously. I wonder what this woman is like!”
‘This business’ was a joint French/American Runway project and the way Jacqueline made Andy work her ass off for it made it look more important than three Paris Fashion Weeks together.
Andy had never met Miranda Priestly but rumour had it that the two women didn’t like each other, and some people also said that Miranda Priestly was a fashion icon in a way that Jacqueline Follet could only dream about being. Andy had her suspicions about the upcoming event; it wasn’t so much a friendly collaboration between colleagues as a chance for her employer to prove that the French contribution to the project was going to be much better than the American side’s.
“I still don’t see why she has to call you in the middle of the night,” Nate complained. “Even I am off my shift.”
Andy often thought that she was lucky to have a boyfriend who, while he was profoundly uninterested in fashion, worked at one of the most fashionable restaurants in Paris. He knew what it was like to work your ass off for nothing more than to get one single little detail right; he knew that this detail could make the whole difference between disaster and success. He couldn’t tell the difference between ‘cerulean’ and any other kind of blue but he knew everything humanly possible, this Andy was sure of, about food. He was a workaholic, too - wasn’t all young, ambitious wannabe-star chefs that? - but he had a bit of a hard time coping with the idea that Andy never was off duty, when he could relax as soon as he was at home.
“Look,” she said, “don’t start complaining about my job again. I’m not even talking anymore, am I? Do you want a banana split?”
Nate tried in vain to fight back a smile.
“Trying to distract me with food, are you?”
He wanted a banana split. Yes, he was the chef of their little household, but if it was something Andy could make to perfection, then it was banana splits.
And unlike other people in the fashion industry, she didn’t mind eating them either. She knew she wasn’t fat, no matter what the pictures in the magazine said, and Nate quite appreciated her curves in all the right places, too.
And even Jacqueline Follet appreciated her. Andy remembered their first meeting.
“Most girls who come to work for me,” the editor had said, “want to become models, designers or fashion photographers. Or they want to eventually become me. I can see that you’re not aspiring to the first profession mentioned, so which of the other ones is it?
Jacqueline’s office was very spacious with big windows that let the daylight in. Andy had noticed the shelf with glass sculptures, the messy desk with paper all over it, the flowers - were they called freesias? - and the bags with designer names on them. Andy, too, wanted to have such an office one day. Not necessarily one that belonged to a fashion magazine, though.
“None of them,” she said. “I want to become a journalist. I’d like to be a foreign correspondent.”
“I see,” Jacqueline Follet raised an eyebrow, “then what brings you here? Shouldn’t you rather work at some newspaper? Do you even read Runway?”
“Sometimes,” Andy said, deciding to be honest and not exaggerate. “Frankly, my French is not good enough to work as a journalist here but I think I could do a good job as your assistant, Madame Follet.”
“It’s Jacqueline,” the French woman said, “and we’ll see. You will start tomorrow, and you’re going to work directly under Marie, my first assistant.”
That was how it started. Just like that - and with some paper work - Andy went from being an exchange student fresh out of graduation from Sorbonne to working at Runway, a magazine she normally only read when she was at the hairdresser or in the dentist’s waiting room. She did it for Nate - and for Paris. The perfect boyfriend was in the perfect city, so how could she not want to be there?
Andy’s family at home had laughed out loud when she told them, of course. They had expected her to come home with a boyfriend with a sexy foreign accent, not some American dude who spoke very rusty French apart from the words related to food and kitchen work. Andy herself thought it was kind of funny that she had gone to Europe just to hook up with a countryman but hey, you don’t get to choose who you fall for…
And most of all, she had fallen Paris. She loved how there was something unique to be seen in every part of the city, the old building and the bridges, the parks, she even loved the crammed métro and the masses of tourists strolling up and down Champs-Élysées. She knew that many people hated that, but Andy liked to see how cheerfully, seriously, strenuously, admiringly people walked up and down that long street to window-shop, or to spend lots of money, or to watch that great monument up there, or all of that…
Not that Andy had a lot of time to spend on people watching. She quite liked the sport, but her job didn’t permit much idle strolling - wasn’t Paris a city just made for that? - or sitting down in bars or cafés. No, she had to do what Jacqueline asked of her, and she was good at it, too. Jacqueline was a bit of a diva, hot-tempered at times, often stressed, and a little too obsessed with money, work and beauty - but who in the business was not? - but on the whole, not bad to work for. And Andy’s French was getting better for each day, with every new and challenging situation.
Her career, and Nate’s career, and their life together - everything seemed to go in the right direction. Not even the arrival of Miranda Priestly, the woman most people seemed to fear, gossip about and admire at the same time, could change that.
Or maybe it could…
***
Emily was always going to say that it was fate, not her own clumsiness (something she later heard Miranda suggest with a roll of her eyes) that made it happen.
It wasn’t her fault that the phone started ringing. Miranda demanded that all phone calls should be taken care of at all times, and she had to manage holding far too many bags filled with scarves with only one hand because of the phone. Add to the equation that people in Paris obviously had no manners and drove their bloody cars like madmen and maniacs…
One phone call, one look too many at the bags instead of at the street, and one maniac who somehow mysteriously enough had managed to keep his driver’s licence at least until then - that was all it took, and Emily was on her way to the hospital with a broken leg and bruises everywhere.
The pain didn’t make her cry. The pain was nothing - but Paris! Paris was there, right outside the windows of the hospital. The windows on that floor couldn’t even be opened. Why? What were they afraid of; that people who were victims of car accidents were going to be so depressed about not getting to see more of Paris than the airport, a taxi and a close-up of the hard street that they wanted to throw themselves out of the window?
Emily wasn’t that desperate, not yet. The guys in the ambulance spoke English, and Emily thought the nurse said ‘You’re going to be alright soon!’… But maybe she said something else entirely, because then Miranda walked in, and what she said really made Emily want to throw herself out of the window.
***
Andy had heard a lot about Miranda but she hadn’t been able to understand anything until she saw with her own eyes what happened.
Marie, Jacqueline’s first assistant, was shocked, relieved and envious when Jacqueline decided to let her American colleague ‘borrow’ Andy and not Marie after the accident.
Andy was just shocked but she didn’t know if the new turn of events was something to be proud or scared of - never could she have imagined such a thing, that somebody could ‘borrow’ another person just as easily as she asked for someone to hand her a pen. But just as easily, Andy was now Miranda’s temporary assistant, and everything she thought she knew began to change.
She noticed the little things first. Miranda’s hair was white and incredible. Her voice was low and calm and incredibly commanding. Miranda didn’t smile. Miranda did not repeat herself. Miranda did not say thank you. When Andy tried to recommend museums and very Parisian, very picturesque cafés and lunch places, Miranda looked at her like she was out of her mind. Andy concluded that Miranda worked even in her sleep and didn’t care about anything that wasn’t related to fashion.
Nate did not understand, late that first night after working a day for Miranda.
“You say these things about her,” he said, “as if they make her admirable?”
“I know,” Andy nodded eagerly. “Isn’t it strange? Miranda is not… not like a person I would like, normally. You know, she actually criticized the way I dress.”
“What?” Nate almost threw himself over Andy in the couch and began to kiss her everywhere. “I can’t believe it; you work at a fashion magazine and you’re gorgeous. She’s obviously crazy.”
“Yeah.” Andy giggled. “Obviously…”
But as impressive and opinionated Miranda was, Andy refused to let herself be intimidated by her. She was stubborn, she worked hard, she knew what she was doing.
After a while she began to notice the more important things that hadn’t been obvious at first. Maybe Andy thought she knew what she was doing, but Miranda felt it, in her fingertips, as if instinctively. She was incredibly talented, and that was the reason for her reputation.
“Instinct?” Miranda sniffed when Andy mentioned her thoughts. “Maybe, but also years and years of hard work. No one can come waltzing in from the street and think they know everything about this business. Even I had to start from the beginning.”
Miranda paused and gave Andy a piercing look.
“You talk a lot, don’t you, Andrea? You smile a lot, too.”
“Uh… I guess so.” Andy shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry?”
Miranda rolled her eyes slightly and turned away to look out of the taxi’s window, but Andy had already noticed something more about her.
Her eyes were incredible. And the way she said ‘Andrea’ gave Andy a sort of funny feeling in her stomach. The way she said it made Andy want to keep talking just to be able to hear more of her voice, but she knew what was smarter, and kept quiet - most of the time - until she was spoken to.
When half a week had passed - though judging by the workload for all of them, it could have been two weeks - Andy noticed something else about Miranda Priestly. Her first impression had been false. Miranda did smile. It was just that she did it very discreetly, when she thought no one noticed, with her eyes.
Andy happened to catch her eyes once, and she saw. It made her realize that although Miranda did not say so, she was pleased with the work Andy did. The realization made her blush and her blush made Miranda look away.
But by that time, Andy had already realized that she was in love with the white-haired magnificent woman. She had been pulled in, little by little, from the very first moment without knowing it, and now she was helplessly stuck in something that was so much more than starstruck inexplicable admiration.
***
“Oh, I’m sorry - perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, Doctor, uh…?”
“My name is Serena,” the doctor said, “and yes, you made yourself perfectly clear. Yet I have to repeat what I have already told you, Madame: It is impossible for you to go back to work right now. Your boss has to understand that. Surely she wants you to do a good job, and the only way for you to do that is to let your body heal first, no?”
Emily stared at the doctor - what was a woman like that doing in a doctor’s robe anyway, instead of being on the cover of Runway? - and spoke with all the Miranda-like ice in her voice that she could find within her.
“If you believe that, then clearly you don’t know my boss. Nothing keeps you away from work, nothing.”
“But - “ the doctor began, but Emily cut her off.
“You don’t understand!” To her own anger, the ice turned to tears. “She has already replaced me with somebody else.”
“Oh, but in that case she’ll be alright, then.”
The doctor seemed to realize that she had said the wrong thing.
“I mean, I’m very sorry, but there is really nothing more I can do. You are very badly injured but you will be able to walk again soon. I have patched you up, and now your own body has to do the rest. That’s all.”
Emily’s tears got, surprisingly, the company of a laugh. Wow. This woman says ‘that’s all’ so gently, as if she’s really… really sweet…
“Yes.” The doctor who called herself Serena smiled. “You understand now, don’t you?”
“No.” I don’t want to understand this, if I stay away too long I’ll be gone forever as far as Miranda is concerned and I can kiss my career goodbye. “No, I want to work and I want to see Paris. This is my first time here and probably my last…”
“I’ll tell you what.” Serena moved closer to the bed and put her hand on Emily’s for a moment; her hand was warm and professional and also strangely unprofessional. “Under no circumstances whatsoever can you work as someone’s assistant right now, but that does not have to prevent you from experiencing Paris. I’ll admit that Paris isn’t the most wheelchair-friendly city in the world, but I know the city, and I’ll be happy to show it to you. If you want?”
The hospital room turned a little brighter, not that Emily was going to admit it.
“Okay.” She nodded curtly. “I accept.”
“Great.” Serena was not discouraged. “I think you’ll be ready to get out of here by tomorrow. Until then, just rest. Now you’ll have to excuse me but I have other patients to see. À bientôt!”
Other patients? Emily blinked. For just a moment, she had forgotten that Serena was her doctor.
…Wait a minute… Did she mean - is this a date, or what?
Emily shook her head - her neck hurt but just a little. No, that was impossible. A woman like Serena couldn’t possibly want… Or could she?
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Rating/Genre: g/AU
Characters/Pairings: Miranda, Andy/Nate (for now, ‘cause it’s canon, you know…), Emily, Serena, Jacqueline, Marie (oc).
Summary: Andy lives with Nate in Paris, where she works as Jacqueline’s second assistant and life is good. When Miranda Priestly shows up things begin to change - thanks to something bad that happens to Emily… or is it something good? The story alternates between Andy’s and Emily’s point of view.
Word count: 2 573 (this chapter)
Spoilers/Warnings: No.
Notes: Very late fic for punky_96 and fandomaid’s Help Japan auction. Thank you for all the prompts and ideas. I’m very sorry I didn’t finish this earlier.
Notes2: “I Love Paris” by Frank Sinatra: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WF_yN1R2b5M&feature=related
Andy ended the call and put her cell phone down and looked at her boyfriend across the table. He didn’t look particularly happy.
“What the hell was that about, at this hour? And what’s with the English?”
Andy giggled. Her employer was French to the backbone and although her English was very good she rarely used it even with her American assistant.
“I don’t know. That was Jacqueline; something about this business seems to make her nervous. She usually shifts to English when she talks about la Priestly. It’s as if she does it unconsciously. I wonder what this woman is like!”
‘This business’ was a joint French/American Runway project and the way Jacqueline made Andy work her ass off for it made it look more important than three Paris Fashion Weeks together.
Andy had never met Miranda Priestly but rumour had it that the two women didn’t like each other, and some people also said that Miranda Priestly was a fashion icon in a way that Jacqueline Follet could only dream about being. Andy had her suspicions about the upcoming event; it wasn’t so much a friendly collaboration between colleagues as a chance for her employer to prove that the French contribution to the project was going to be much better than the American side’s.
“I still don’t see why she has to call you in the middle of the night,” Nate complained. “Even I am off my shift.”
Andy often thought that she was lucky to have a boyfriend who, while he was profoundly uninterested in fashion, worked at one of the most fashionable restaurants in Paris. He knew what it was like to work your ass off for nothing more than to get one single little detail right; he knew that this detail could make the whole difference between disaster and success. He couldn’t tell the difference between ‘cerulean’ and any other kind of blue but he knew everything humanly possible, this Andy was sure of, about food. He was a workaholic, too - wasn’t all young, ambitious wannabe-star chefs that? - but he had a bit of a hard time coping with the idea that Andy never was off duty, when he could relax as soon as he was at home.
“Look,” she said, “don’t start complaining about my job again. I’m not even talking anymore, am I? Do you want a banana split?”
Nate tried in vain to fight back a smile.
“Trying to distract me with food, are you?”
He wanted a banana split. Yes, he was the chef of their little household, but if it was something Andy could make to perfection, then it was banana splits.
And unlike other people in the fashion industry, she didn’t mind eating them either. She knew she wasn’t fat, no matter what the pictures in the magazine said, and Nate quite appreciated her curves in all the right places, too.
And even Jacqueline Follet appreciated her. Andy remembered their first meeting.
“Most girls who come to work for me,” the editor had said, “want to become models, designers or fashion photographers. Or they want to eventually become me. I can see that you’re not aspiring to the first profession mentioned, so which of the other ones is it?
Jacqueline’s office was very spacious with big windows that let the daylight in. Andy had noticed the shelf with glass sculptures, the messy desk with paper all over it, the flowers - were they called freesias? - and the bags with designer names on them. Andy, too, wanted to have such an office one day. Not necessarily one that belonged to a fashion magazine, though.
“None of them,” she said. “I want to become a journalist. I’d like to be a foreign correspondent.”
“I see,” Jacqueline Follet raised an eyebrow, “then what brings you here? Shouldn’t you rather work at some newspaper? Do you even read Runway?”
“Sometimes,” Andy said, deciding to be honest and not exaggerate. “Frankly, my French is not good enough to work as a journalist here but I think I could do a good job as your assistant, Madame Follet.”
“It’s Jacqueline,” the French woman said, “and we’ll see. You will start tomorrow, and you’re going to work directly under Marie, my first assistant.”
That was how it started. Just like that - and with some paper work - Andy went from being an exchange student fresh out of graduation from Sorbonne to working at Runway, a magazine she normally only read when she was at the hairdresser or in the dentist’s waiting room. She did it for Nate - and for Paris. The perfect boyfriend was in the perfect city, so how could she not want to be there?
Andy’s family at home had laughed out loud when she told them, of course. They had expected her to come home with a boyfriend with a sexy foreign accent, not some American dude who spoke very rusty French apart from the words related to food and kitchen work. Andy herself thought it was kind of funny that she had gone to Europe just to hook up with a countryman but hey, you don’t get to choose who you fall for…
And most of all, she had fallen Paris. She loved how there was something unique to be seen in every part of the city, the old building and the bridges, the parks, she even loved the crammed métro and the masses of tourists strolling up and down Champs-Élysées. She knew that many people hated that, but Andy liked to see how cheerfully, seriously, strenuously, admiringly people walked up and down that long street to window-shop, or to spend lots of money, or to watch that great monument up there, or all of that…
Not that Andy had a lot of time to spend on people watching. She quite liked the sport, but her job didn’t permit much idle strolling - wasn’t Paris a city just made for that? - or sitting down in bars or cafés. No, she had to do what Jacqueline asked of her, and she was good at it, too. Jacqueline was a bit of a diva, hot-tempered at times, often stressed, and a little too obsessed with money, work and beauty - but who in the business was not? - but on the whole, not bad to work for. And Andy’s French was getting better for each day, with every new and challenging situation.
Her career, and Nate’s career, and their life together - everything seemed to go in the right direction. Not even the arrival of Miranda Priestly, the woman most people seemed to fear, gossip about and admire at the same time, could change that.
Or maybe it could…
***
Emily was always going to say that it was fate, not her own clumsiness (something she later heard Miranda suggest with a roll of her eyes) that made it happen.
It wasn’t her fault that the phone started ringing. Miranda demanded that all phone calls should be taken care of at all times, and she had to manage holding far too many bags filled with scarves with only one hand because of the phone. Add to the equation that people in Paris obviously had no manners and drove their bloody cars like madmen and maniacs…
One phone call, one look too many at the bags instead of at the street, and one maniac who somehow mysteriously enough had managed to keep his driver’s licence at least until then - that was all it took, and Emily was on her way to the hospital with a broken leg and bruises everywhere.
The pain didn’t make her cry. The pain was nothing - but Paris! Paris was there, right outside the windows of the hospital. The windows on that floor couldn’t even be opened. Why? What were they afraid of; that people who were victims of car accidents were going to be so depressed about not getting to see more of Paris than the airport, a taxi and a close-up of the hard street that they wanted to throw themselves out of the window?
Emily wasn’t that desperate, not yet. The guys in the ambulance spoke English, and Emily thought the nurse said ‘You’re going to be alright soon!’… But maybe she said something else entirely, because then Miranda walked in, and what she said really made Emily want to throw herself out of the window.
***
Andy had heard a lot about Miranda but she hadn’t been able to understand anything until she saw with her own eyes what happened.
Marie, Jacqueline’s first assistant, was shocked, relieved and envious when Jacqueline decided to let her American colleague ‘borrow’ Andy and not Marie after the accident.
Andy was just shocked but she didn’t know if the new turn of events was something to be proud or scared of - never could she have imagined such a thing, that somebody could ‘borrow’ another person just as easily as she asked for someone to hand her a pen. But just as easily, Andy was now Miranda’s temporary assistant, and everything she thought she knew began to change.
She noticed the little things first. Miranda’s hair was white and incredible. Her voice was low and calm and incredibly commanding. Miranda didn’t smile. Miranda did not repeat herself. Miranda did not say thank you. When Andy tried to recommend museums and very Parisian, very picturesque cafés and lunch places, Miranda looked at her like she was out of her mind. Andy concluded that Miranda worked even in her sleep and didn’t care about anything that wasn’t related to fashion.
Nate did not understand, late that first night after working a day for Miranda.
“You say these things about her,” he said, “as if they make her admirable?”
“I know,” Andy nodded eagerly. “Isn’t it strange? Miranda is not… not like a person I would like, normally. You know, she actually criticized the way I dress.”
“What?” Nate almost threw himself over Andy in the couch and began to kiss her everywhere. “I can’t believe it; you work at a fashion magazine and you’re gorgeous. She’s obviously crazy.”
“Yeah.” Andy giggled. “Obviously…”
But as impressive and opinionated Miranda was, Andy refused to let herself be intimidated by her. She was stubborn, she worked hard, she knew what she was doing.
After a while she began to notice the more important things that hadn’t been obvious at first. Maybe Andy thought she knew what she was doing, but Miranda felt it, in her fingertips, as if instinctively. She was incredibly talented, and that was the reason for her reputation.
“Instinct?” Miranda sniffed when Andy mentioned her thoughts. “Maybe, but also years and years of hard work. No one can come waltzing in from the street and think they know everything about this business. Even I had to start from the beginning.”
Miranda paused and gave Andy a piercing look.
“You talk a lot, don’t you, Andrea? You smile a lot, too.”
“Uh… I guess so.” Andy shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry?”
Miranda rolled her eyes slightly and turned away to look out of the taxi’s window, but Andy had already noticed something more about her.
Her eyes were incredible. And the way she said ‘Andrea’ gave Andy a sort of funny feeling in her stomach. The way she said it made Andy want to keep talking just to be able to hear more of her voice, but she knew what was smarter, and kept quiet - most of the time - until she was spoken to.
When half a week had passed - though judging by the workload for all of them, it could have been two weeks - Andy noticed something else about Miranda Priestly. Her first impression had been false. Miranda did smile. It was just that she did it very discreetly, when she thought no one noticed, with her eyes.
Andy happened to catch her eyes once, and she saw. It made her realize that although Miranda did not say so, she was pleased with the work Andy did. The realization made her blush and her blush made Miranda look away.
But by that time, Andy had already realized that she was in love with the white-haired magnificent woman. She had been pulled in, little by little, from the very first moment without knowing it, and now she was helplessly stuck in something that was so much more than starstruck inexplicable admiration.
***
“Oh, I’m sorry - perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, Doctor, uh…?”
“My name is Serena,” the doctor said, “and yes, you made yourself perfectly clear. Yet I have to repeat what I have already told you, Madame: It is impossible for you to go back to work right now. Your boss has to understand that. Surely she wants you to do a good job, and the only way for you to do that is to let your body heal first, no?”
Emily stared at the doctor - what was a woman like that doing in a doctor’s robe anyway, instead of being on the cover of Runway? - and spoke with all the Miranda-like ice in her voice that she could find within her.
“If you believe that, then clearly you don’t know my boss. Nothing keeps you away from work, nothing.”
“But - “ the doctor began, but Emily cut her off.
“You don’t understand!” To her own anger, the ice turned to tears. “She has already replaced me with somebody else.”
“Oh, but in that case she’ll be alright, then.”
The doctor seemed to realize that she had said the wrong thing.
“I mean, I’m very sorry, but there is really nothing more I can do. You are very badly injured but you will be able to walk again soon. I have patched you up, and now your own body has to do the rest. That’s all.”
Emily’s tears got, surprisingly, the company of a laugh. Wow. This woman says ‘that’s all’ so gently, as if she’s really… really sweet…
“Yes.” The doctor who called herself Serena smiled. “You understand now, don’t you?”
“No.” I don’t want to understand this, if I stay away too long I’ll be gone forever as far as Miranda is concerned and I can kiss my career goodbye. “No, I want to work and I want to see Paris. This is my first time here and probably my last…”
“I’ll tell you what.” Serena moved closer to the bed and put her hand on Emily’s for a moment; her hand was warm and professional and also strangely unprofessional. “Under no circumstances whatsoever can you work as someone’s assistant right now, but that does not have to prevent you from experiencing Paris. I’ll admit that Paris isn’t the most wheelchair-friendly city in the world, but I know the city, and I’ll be happy to show it to you. If you want?”
The hospital room turned a little brighter, not that Emily was going to admit it.
“Okay.” She nodded curtly. “I accept.”
“Great.” Serena was not discouraged. “I think you’ll be ready to get out of here by tomorrow. Until then, just rest. Now you’ll have to excuse me but I have other patients to see. À bientôt!”
Other patients? Emily blinked. For just a moment, she had forgotten that Serena was her doctor.
…Wait a minute… Did she mean - is this a date, or what?
Emily shook her head - her neck hurt but just a little. No, that was impossible. A woman like Serena couldn’t possibly want… Or could she?