Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“No way!” Emory says, elbowing me out of the way to use the mirror in my bathroom to apply her fifth coat of mascara. “It’s a party. You won’t be third wheel-like at all. If anything, you might actually get to pick up a wheel of your own.”
“Which perfectly summarizes the other part of this plan I hate. Thank you.”
“Come on.” She rolls her eyes. “You hardly go out. You eat, sleep, and breathe that fucking hotel. Lately, even your weekdays and weekends are suddenly filled with fixture and furniture shopping with your boss. Don’t you want to let loose a little? Have fun?”
She’s right. Recently, I’ve been doing a lot of hotel-focused shopping with Trent.
And the funny thing is, it doesn’t feel like work at all. If anything, it’s become the highlight of my week.
Last weekend, we hit up a flea market just outside of New Orleans so I could scavenge out some interesting vintage items to be used for décor. It rained the entire fucking time, but God, it was a blast.
I mean, I might’ve been fantasizing about kissing him nearly the entire drive there…and while we were there, and when we drove home, and then when we said goodnight outside our apartments, but that’s my cross to bear.
Honestly, when it comes to spending time with Trent, not thinking about kissing him is the only true hardship.
Everything else is simply fun. Enjoyable. Time-of-my-life kind of moments.
But I’d never in a million years tell Emory that.
Because…it’s Emory. The big ole sappy romantic who still cries whenever she watches Dirty Dancing.
“No,” I eventually respond, snarkily. “I hate fun and happiness of any kind. I like to suffer and dwell, and when I’m really energetic, I leave myself little insults on my mirror in the morning.”
“This is why you don’t have a man, you know?”
“Really? I thought all-consuming negativity was attractive.”
She elbows me right in the boob, and I wheeze.
Son of a bitch.
“Not the faux negativity, sasshole,” she growls in my face. “The bitterness that lives in your every word.” One manicured finger touches the tip of my nose to punctuate each syllable. It’s really annoying.
I grab her finger and pull it away, slapping it with my other hand before I release it.
“Isn’t the whole point to find someone who loves you for you?” I question with a raise of my brow. “I can’t go around hiding my sarcasm. That’s what makes me interesting.”
“It’s what makes you intimidating,” she corrects.
“You know what, E? Maybe the world needs a few more intimidating women. Why the hell do I have to be meek to be attractive?”
She considers me for a second before squeezing my cheek like a patronizing grandma. “I guess you’re right.” Then she laughs. “It just means there are a lot fewer fish in the barrel to choose from.”
“Good,” I say. “I’d much rather my barrel have one goddamn superfish than a bunch of stupid ones.”
Emory’s smile is a little wonky, almost like she’s proud of me in some profound way.
I’ve never felt the love of a mother’s touch, but as Emory smooths a gentle hand across my cheek, I imagine that’s what it must be like.
“All right, you superfish hussy. Finish getting ready. I promised Quincy we wouldn’t be late.”
She smacks my ass as she leaves the bathroom, and I wink. It’s so cute that she thinks I give a shit about being on time for Quincy. The only people I answer to in a timely manner are my boss and the IRS.
I swipe on some eyeshadow and mascara and run a clear lip gloss over my lips with the tip of my finger.
After one last glance in the mirror, I flick off the light and walk back out through the bedroom, down the hall, and into the living room where Emory is waiting on the sofa, tapping her high-heeled foot pointedly.
“Jesus Christ, it’s about time!” she says, jumping up from the couch and grabbing her purse.
I purse my lips and roll my eyes. “All I did was put on eyeshadow and mascara, you freak.”
“Greer, you were in there for thirty minutes!” she shrieks.
Really?
I glance at the clock over my refrigerator, and it confirms she is, indeed, correct.
Jesus. What is wrong with me? How do I waste so much time?
I’m still considering the complexities of my time management when she grabs me by the hand and drags me to the door like a rag doll with only my keys and cell phone in tow.
“Wait!” I snap. “I don’t even have my purse.”
“Leave it,” she says. “If it means getting out of this apartment right this minute, I’ll buy all your drinks for the night!”
Wow. I should play it this way more often.
“What if they ID me?” I argue as she’s closing my door and locking it with what I guess is her parents’ key.