Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
These thoughts nip at my heels as I walk a few blocks through the bustling streets of the Mission District, passing a trendy music club with pop anthems floating out, and then a vibrant mural of birds fluttering in a lush tree, painted by local artist Maeve Hartley. I turn onto my street, where I promptly weave away from a skinny guy on a building stoop, bent over and barfing. I wish the neighborhood weren’t such a mix.
But beggars can’t be choosers.
As he hacks up…well, everything, I unlock the front door to my building, then head up three flights to my tiny apartment above a taco shop. I push open the creaky door, and my gaze swings immediately to the blue-tiled antique mirror. It was my grandma’s, which she left for me, and the postcard tucked into the corner was one of many she sent to me over the years, even when we lived in the same town.
I tap the postcard once, and it makes me feel a little less sad. After I lock the door behind me, my phone buzzes and sparks something inside my chest.
I hate that I’m irritatingly hoping it’s a text from Corbin. What do I even want him to say? Want me to come over after my game so I can fuck the bad luck right out of you?
Um, yes. I would like that very much.
Grabbing the phone from my back pocket, I glimpse the preview pane as I set my bag down on the floor.
Great. It’s my mom.
Another message comes in too.
I push my pickleball paddle out of the way on the futon couch that doubles as my bed—and triples as my desk since my laptop’s on it—then flop onto the cushion. Against my better judgment, I open the group text with my parents.
Mommy Dearest: Sweetheart. Can we please talk about your hobby?
It’s not a hobby, Mom. It’s a job.
Daddy Dearest: We could also talk again about impulse control. Perhaps you should see someone about that.
Mommy Dearest: But first, let’s talk about you getting a real job.
Daddy Dearest: One where you don’t need to…talk so much.
It’s great having such supportive parents. I grit my teeth, but at least I don’t have to wonder if they heard about what went down today.
I don’t answer them. There’s no point.
They don’t think baking things named Sweet Cinnamon Crumble and Lemon Berry Temptation is part of a real job.
I’m twenty-seven. This is my job. This pays my bills, even if I don’t have quite as much cash to spare as I’d like. I have a business. It’s just—I always imagined flinging open the doors to a bakery in the morning—mid-morning, ideally—and then greeting customers all day. Chatting with them. Asking how their days are going as I serve toffee brownies and orange habanero chocolate chip cookies.
I can picture it all so perfectly, my bakery in rose pink with soft sage green accents, or a dreamy lilac shade with hints of Tiffany blue, like the color of the mirror grandma left for me. I touch my hair clip at the base of my braid, blow out a breath, and open the next message.
It’s from Remy, asking how it went with the banker. I tap out a reply.
Mabel: On a scale of one to worse than the cake at the romance fair, it was a one hundred.
She responds with seven million question marks and Want to talk?, but I don’t. As I’m replying to her, though, one more text lands.
I gasp when I see Corbin’s name. Then I squeak. And only then does my stomach flip. Could I be any more stupidly excited? With eager fingers, I click it open.
Corbin: We should talk. You free?
I groan as I flop my head back against a lumpy pillow. I was hoping for a sext, and instead I’ve been given an invitation to conduct an analysis of what it meant when my tongue was down his throat while he pressed me up against the door. Dude, I don’t want to marry you. You’re my brother’s friend. My life is a dumpster fire. I just wanted to, I dunno, forget my woes for a little while.
But what I don’t need is an explanation of what that kiss (fine, it was more than a kiss; it was a kiss and grind) was or wasn’t. And I definitely don’t want the reminder that it was a pity hookup for him. Trouble is, Corbin Let-Me-Help-You Knight seems like the kind of green-flag guy who would do that, so I’d better get to it first.
I type a reply and hit send.
Mabel: Can’t talk now, but we’re all good! Glad you enjoyed the cake! Thanks for helping!
I pull down the blinds, strip out of my clothes, then undo my French braid and walk into the shower where I wash off the remains of a very messy day that had, for a moment, mocked me into thinking the universe was my friend.