Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Penny believed in signs the way I believed in the enduring aesthetic of t-strap heels. She picked up pennies, got her palm read in the park, and trusted the advice of fortune cookies like the word of an old friend. She kept a jar of the paper slips on the corner of her desk.
“And your lucky numbers?” I asked, teasing.
She looked at me like I was nuts. “Come on, Sophie. That would be just silly.” She tapped something on the screen of her iPad. “Your four o’clock with Davis from Apostrophé had to be rescheduled for Friday, but he swears he’ll have his piece basically finished by the time he comes in.”
Davis was a stylist at a boutique salon, and he was our seasonal style tips guru. He was also super hard to pin down for a meeting, which I normally found obnoxious as hell. Today, though, it was perfect. “Call for my car, then. It’s a perfect day to go home early.”
“You’re going home early? Hi, Penny,” Deja said as she came to the door. “You’re going home early again?”
“Sorry?” I was taking off, leaving Deja again. Juggle, juggle. “I know I’ve been doing that a lot lately—”
“I’m not your boss, Sophie,” Deja reminded me. “You’re getting stuff done on your end.” She nodded to Penny then to the door. When our assistant left us, Deja closed my door and leaned against it. “Okay, spill.”
“I can’t really spill. It’s not my thing to share. I promise, I’m staying in the city for the rest of the week, until we’ve got this issue pulled together.” I tried to imagine how I would feel if Deja were constantly taking off and leaving office operations to me. “Hey, why don’t you consider taking some time off? I mean, when the wedding is closer, I’m going to be ditching school left and right. It’s only fair if you get to play hooky, too.”
“If we keep playing hooky, we’ll be fucked. And I don’t want to be fucked.” Deja’s gaze dropped to the floor. “If this magazine falls through, I don’t have a plan B.”
Like you do, was the unspoken reminder hanging there. Once again, I was slapped in the face by my own selfishness. Here I’d been running off like this wasn’t a real job, just my little hobby magazine. People’s livelihoods depended on my ability to show up to work and take things seriously. Sure, I was getting my work done, but I wasn’t pulling the one-hundred-and-then-some percent I’d seen Gabriella and Neil devote to their jobs.
I was fucking up.
I glanced at my phone. I could call Neil and tell him I was on my way home. Or I could kill some of the to-do list I’d planned for tomorrow.
“Can you excuse me a second?” I asked Deja, and when she left, I pulled up Neil’s contact number.
“Hello, beautiful,” he answered. He sounded so upbeat, my heart hurt. Was I really going to break the book news to him today?
“Hi, baby.” I contained my sigh of regret. “It looks like I won’t be coming home tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Oh no! I was going to make baby fennel and corona beans for dinner.” It was legitimately cute the way he got excited over food.
“Is there any chance you could make it in the city?” I suggested, biting my lower lip in a wheedling expression he wouldn’t see, anyway. “I have something I really need to talk to you about, but it would be better if we were alone. AKA, not interruptable by my mom.”
“This sounds rather dire.” I sensed the uncertainty in his pause. “All right. It’ll give me an excuse to drive the McLaren with the new tires on.”
“And it’ll give you an excuse to spend the night with your super busy girlfriend,” I reminded him to straighten his priorities out. “I’ll get to the apartment at around eight. Keep dinner warm for me.”
“Yes, darling.” His sarcasm was noted.
I had to return fire. “I’ll expect my slippers and martini at eight fifteen on the dot.”
“Shall I wear pearls and heels to vacuum, as well?”
“Hmm…” I pretended to consider. “Nah, I don’t think you can pull off pearls. Wouldn’t mind seeing you in heels, though, so long as you’re not ruining mine.”
He chuckled and said, “All right. I’ll see you at eight. Or, if we’re going on Sophie time, I’ll see you at eight-thirty.”
“You know, this ‘Sophie is late all the time’ schtick is getting old,” I warned him.
“Five thousand dollars says you’re not home before nine.” He laughed.
“You’re on.” I hung up on our immature bet—our money was all lumped together, anyway—and resolved that I would get home at seven-thirty.
* * * *
I got to the apartment at nine-thirteen.
Neil was in the living room, reading in front of a deliciously warm fire. He didn’t bother to look up. “Right on time.”