Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
That sounds like a question, but I’m not sure I can go there right now. If it’s not human, what kind of penises—penisi?—are we talking? Thankfully, I don’t get the chance to find out because Clay’s phone rings and he looks back to his desk. “Good to have you back. Let me know if you change your mind about the outing.”
I get back to work, getting up to speed with what I’ve missed, but it feels different now too. It’s as hollow as I am.
I’m almost glad when my phone rings and I see that it’s Molly. She’s a welcome distraction, and her enthusiasm for life is undeniable. I’d like to wallow in self-loathing, but my internal therapist says talking to Molly will likely be good for me.
“Hello.”
“Hey, bitch, I got a bone to pick with you,” she says, but there’s no fire. Just friendship.
“Well, on that note, I think I have a website for you to check out,” I say, looking over at Clay who’s head-down working now.
Molly laughs. “That I have to hear. Tell me tonight because I’m taking you out.”
“Uh, Mols . . . I’m not in Paris anymore.” Shit, I left mad and hopped on a plane as soon as I could, and ever since, I’ve been so deep in my own pity party that I didn’t message any of the other designers, writing them off along with Beatrice even though she was the only one who betrayed me.
“Duh, I know that. I’m in New York too, which is why we’re going out. You’re going to tell me all about you and Simon, I’m going to tell you what happened after you left, and we’re going to bitch about House Corbin until we’re too drunk to understand each other.” She informs me of all of this with complete certainty and even a bit of a sparkle in her voice.
“Wait, what? You’re here?”
I don’t want to go out, not tonight and not for a long time. But I can’t tell her no, especially when I’m surprised that she’s stateside and confident that there’s no telling when she will be again. But I also don’t want to relive the scene I caused backstage and answer her impending, and unending, questions. Because I know she’s going to want every gory detail of it all.
She can hear my resistance but doesn’t allow it for a second. “Oh, yeah, I’m here. Like, right here.”
I look up to Molly standing at the door with a grin, her phone pressed to her ear. “You want to tell me how you’re sooo busy washing your hair, or don’t feel well, or some other excuse, or are we gonna go?” She’s talking into her phone, and I hear her in stereo, the double impact letting me know without a doubt that I’m not getting out of this.
“Uh, hey. What are you . . . I mean, hey, Molly!” I try to inject some excitement, but I’m shocked and was kinda looking forward to curling up on the couch alone for pity party round ten tonight. I’ve got Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince already cued up to watch and my book on the coffee table so I can follow along and point out all the differences.
Belatedly, I stand and hug her. To my surprise, it feels good to have Molly’s support, even if it’s out of the blue. She was there, she knows what it was like . . . at least a little bit.
“Are you fucking with me? ‘Hey, Molly!’ is all you’ve got for me? I flew across the Atlantic for you, to New York City, during the hell months of heat, you know?”
I crack a smile at that. We used to say our favorite season in New York is fall, because it’s cool and pretty, and that’s when fashion week is. Right now, it’s hot outside and a walk down the street can leave you wetter than a good fuck.
Not that I’m thinking about being wet, or fucking, anytime soon.
“Thanks. I appreciate your coming. I really do,” I say much more earnestly. “Let me tell Nora that I’m stepping out, and we can go.”
Molly looks me up and down, then makes a harrumph sound. “Not like that, you’re not. I have just the thing.” She holds out a bag, more travel than gift, and I take it slowly.
“What’s this?” I ask as I dig into it. Inside, I find my finale dress from the first show. I find myself suddenly choked up. “I can’t wear this.”
Not open to argument, she holds it up to my chest. “Yes, you can. And yes, you are. It’s a wrap dress, so it’ll fit your curves perfectly. The deep V neckline is going to make your tits look so amazing that I’m going to want to motorboat them. And I have heels to help with your height issue.”