Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Clara watches us with an eyebrow raised, her arms folded as I ask faintly, “What am I shopping for?”
“A dress,” he replies irritably, like it should be obvious. I want to thwack him. “Dressy, but comfortable. It’s not a black-tie location. Perhaps one step below cocktail dress.”
“Oh. That’s . . . helpful.”
Despite my phone being muted, I swear I can hear Lena cackling.
“Good,” August proclaims. Oh, he thought I was serious? “I’ll be by to pick you up at seven sharp.”
With that, he turns and storms away, leaving Clara and me looking after him in frozen stillness.
Before Clara sighs, her shoulders droop. She looks down at me with a rueful smile. “Well then,” she says. “I suppose I’ll put on some tea.”
She turns and walks inside the cottage, but she leaves the door open for me.
I don’t get up just yet.
I’m still sitting here, hunched on the grass and pressed against the wall next to the door, my knees drawn up like some demented goblin.
I finally remember to unmute my phone as my brain starts working again.
“—e mute us? I bet that little bitch muted us.”
“Lena, I know you have a foul mouth, but could you refrain from calling my granddaughter a ‘little bitch’?”
“You just said it!” Lena announces triumphantly. “Hey, I only say it affectionately. As in, that lucky little bitch.”
“That little bitch can hear you,” I groan. “Yes, I muted you. I don’t even want to know what you guys were saying.”
“Oh! There you are.” Lena perks up, completely shameless. “There you are. So, what’re you gonna wear?”
I stare down at my phone.
And then I instantly hang up, thunking my head back against the wall.
My God.
August Marshall has blown my life to bits in far more ways than I could ever imagine.
I’ve never had a day more awkward than this in my life.
Yes, that’s counting the day in third-grade theater, when little Jimmy Schmitz pantsed me onstage in front of every parent, well-meaning aunt, and older sibling in my school district.
I made the best of that too.
I’m just glad I had on really cute floral panties that matched my bright sunflower costume, so, hey, technically I really wasn’t that out of costume. It got a good laugh from the audience and Jimmy a week of detention, where every day as I passed by the classroom window during recess, I looked in, smiled at him, and waved as cheerfully as I could.
Look, I try to stay positive. But every now and then I can be positively petty.
Right now, though?
I’m positively tired.
I spent the whole day with Clara. If I thought I was going to work any miracles with her, I was wrong.
She didn’t want to talk art. I didn’t feel comfortable offering to show her my portfolio.
Instead, she had me sorting all the Inky originals, models, and merchandise so she could pack them up to hand them over to Marissa whenever a legal order shows up to do so.
She promised she’d keep the boxes until August made peace with the idea, but it didn’t change the fact that her mind was made up. I wasn’t about to get kicked out for starting an argument over this.
Depressing as hell.
Any joy I might’ve felt over getting to handle priceless one-of-a-kind artist originals was completely dampened.
Then there was the silent, strange ride in the car with Rick. He kept looking at me like he wanted to say something, these mournful little glances that made everything uncomfortable when he stayed silent except to mumble, Yes, Miss Lark, and No, Miss Lark.
The deference was weird. I know I’m supposed to expect a lot of butt-kissing as August’s fiancée, but I’m still just me.
Not Miss Lark.
Except Angelique and the other girls at the boutique kept calling me that too. I didn’t know anywhere else to go. I had August’s Platinum Card in hand, about an hour to find a dress and get home to get dressed, and no time to wander from shop to shop.
At least they were nice about it.
Even if they exchanged pitying glances as they realized August wasn’t with me this time.
Look at her. Poor girl. He’s already tired of her.
Why do I care?
That question circles through my head, wearing frustrated ruts as I stare morosely at my reflection in my bedroom mirror. If anything, it’s perfect.
Later, when the gossip rags spend one column on a third page on our breakup, these girls will pop up on Instagram saying, You know, I helped them at the couture shop I work at. The first time I saw them he was already ignoring her on his phone, and every other time she came in alone. He’d just throw his card at her like it didn’t matter.
Believable, right?
So believable.
I rub my throat, right over the spot where a lump is forming, and smile at my own tired, pale face. Paler than normal, I should say.