Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
"You're seriously a grandma," I say.
"I wish. I could sit with my cats and listen to orchestra all night. Teach my grandkids violin all day. It would be so relaxing," she says.
Lock smiles, charmed or pretending. He motions to the shop. "Take a moment to look around. I'm sure—"
A woman interrupts him. "Lock, is that you?" She steps into the main room. Turns to me. "I'm Cynthia. You must be Eve."
Everyone knows me. I'm kind of used to it. It comes with the unicorn hair color. It was the same at school last year. When I had time to go to parties, everyone knew me as the girl with teal hair. People I'd never met knew who I was.
I offer her my hand. "Yes."
She shakes with a steady grip. Cynthia looks like a former model. Tall, thin, with dramatic features and fashionable attire. Black pumps. Grey slacks. Ivory blouse. Measuring tape draped over her shoulders.
Dyed hair, yes, but a soft shade of blond.
She's dressed more like Addie (jean skirt, lilac blouse, white sandals). Not me.
Though this place—
I don't know what to make of it.
At a glance, it's a normal place in the Village. A small rack of designer jeans and blouses. Ordinary basics on the table in front.
Then racks of dresses in every color, fabric, shape imaginable.
All sorts of shoes. Heels like the ones Cynthia is wearing. And taller, shinier, sexier pairs that scream wear only these in bed.
Or maybe that's me again.
Maybe I'm a sex-obsessed lunatic.
"Is Mr. Hunt sticking with his edict?" Cynthia takes a long, slow look at me, assessing me like I'm a doll she's about to dress.
"The combat boots?" Lock asks.
She nods, utterly matter-of-fact.
"Yes. I believe he is. But you know Mr. Hunt…"
"I do." She laughs softly. An inside joke for them to share. "A man of eclectic tastes."
In women.
He's sent other women here.
It bothers me more than it should.
Her attention turns to me. Then Addie. "Are you a friend of Eve's?"
"Her sister. Addie." She offers her hand.
"So nice to meet you." Cynthia motions to a small red armchair. "Feel free to take a seat. Or look around. There's a fabulous blouse in cream if you need something for work." She looks to Lock. "Will Addie need attire too?"
Lock shakes his head.
She nods and dismisses him. "If you prefer, there's a lovely coffee shop around the corner. We might be a little while."
Addie shoots me a look. Asking if I want her to stay.
I nod yes. For now. This is bizarre. I need the familiarity.
"Maybe in a bit," she says. "I'm going to look around first."
Cynthia nods of course and moves closer to me. She grabs the measuring tape. Holds it up to my shoulder. "Do you mind, sweetheart?"
"No." It should speed the process.
She nods and pulls the tape over my shoulders. She checks the number. Calls the measurement out to Lock, who marks it on a notepad, repeats the process.
Bust, underbust, waist, upper hip, lower hip, inseam, height.
When she's finished, she takes the notepad from Lock, takes my hand, leads me to the dressing room in the corner.
"You're welcome to look around yourself, Eve. But will you allow me to pull a few things for you first?" Her voice takes on a significance. As if she's discussing the technique for an art project. "I have an idea."
"Sure." I nod.
She motions one moment, turns on her heel, buzzes around the store. Straight to one rack. Then another. Another.
She knows exactly what she wants and exactly where to get it.
What's that feel like? That mastery?
I'm an expert when it comes to dying my hair. Everything else? Not so much.
Yeah, I'm pretty good at mixing drinks. Finding cheap food. Picking out music for a party.
Styling my limited clothing selection.
Writing.
I'm not sure good fits. Not yet.
I love the feeling of a pen in my hands, my thoughts pouring on the paper. That relief. That ease. That state of deep concentration.
But love isn't skill.
Even if I am good…
It's been a long time since I've looked further than next week.
I don't know what I want to study in college. Or do after.
I love writing, yes, but it's not practical. And I'm not working as a bartender for the next twenty years.
Only, after this month, I don't have to work as a bartender. I can't fund my entire life. But I have a pretty solid launching pad.
I can do anything. Take two years to travel. Start my own business. Pursue an impractical passion.
I have no idea what I want to do next month.
But right now, I know exactly what I want.
Him. Here. Watching me.
Touching me.
Holding me.
Fucking me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eve
Somehow, I push my dirty thoughts aside. Focus on the dresses Cynthia picks for me.
The first is a rich, heavy velvet. Beautiful, soft, way too hot.
I look like I'm dressing as a witch for Halloween. Not ready to attend a fancy dinner.