Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“I stopped Simon before anything happened,” I continue, still indignant at my uptight neighbor and insulted on Simon’s behalf. “There was no need to insult his technique. Some dogs just have urges. My mom’s Chihuahua humps a stuffed monkey every Friday night. She even calls it Friday Night Monkey—so what’s the big deal?”
Trevyn chokes on a laugh. “I—okay, wait. Friday Night Monkey?”
Mabel sets down a cherry-red pan, tilting her head, her big brown eyes curious. “That’s a lot to unpack. I’m not even sure where to start,” she says, tucking her chestnut waves behind her ears.
“It’s not like they’re going to make some freaky little Chihuahua-Dachshund-Corgi-German Shepherd mix,” I argue. “Simon’s neutered.”
I pluck a faux leather tote from the shelf next to a set of whisks. This store off Fillmore Street is nailing the gadgets-and-accessories theme. I desperately need a new bag for my meeting today—something stylish, professional, and eco-conscious. I also desperately need this job. Being a one-woman shop is hard, and it means hustling for every job. The corporate design firms keep getting bigger and gobbling up more work, so a job for a whole house is a big deal.
I waggle the bag for my friends. “Is this the one?”
Trevyn and Mabel stare at me.
“Then why are you so mad?” Mabel asks, ignoring the bag question.
I huff, lowering the bag. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
“The principle of not wanting your dog to be banged by a rando on the street corner?” Trevyn doesn’t play devil’s advocate. He is the devil’s advocate. “Look, if someone’s Yorkie tried to get it on with Barbara-dor, I would cut them with my sharp wit.”
“And his wit has a razor’s edge,” Mabel remarks, patting Trevyn’s strong arm.
“Thanks, doll,” he says, flashing her a bright smile.
Ugh, I hate that they’re right. “Fine, maybe Simon was…” I roll a hand, then concede, “Uncouth.”
“You think?” Trevyn says with a snort-laugh.
“Just a little,” I mutter, then sigh again. “It’s just that Mister Porch Yoga was so…put together.”
“And that bothers you?” Mabel asks.
“Of course it bothers me. His dog walked in perfect heel, his clothes were neat—they were gym clothes, and yet it looked like he’d ironed them. Ironed them.”
“Give me his number,” Trevyn says with an appreciative purr.
“So you object as someone who detests ironing?” Mabel presses.
That’s not what’s really irritating me, of course. Mabel stares at me, tapping her Converse-clad toe, and I can tell my friends see right through me.
“Fine,” I say, tossing up my hands in surrender. “He’s irritatingly hot. He’s infuriatingly sexy. The furrow in his brow. The ruler-straight line of his lips. And the way his blue eyes are so…icy hot. But he’s a dick, so now I can’t enjoy staring at him every morning. He’s ruined my routine.”
“Your routine of checking out the hot neighbor you just discovered today?” Mabel asks, deadpan.
“Yes! And I only moved in six weeks ago, so I think I’m well within my hot-neighbor discovery window.”
Trevyn cracks up, then drapes an arm around me. “You and Simon are a perfect match.”
“Like this bag and you,” Mabel says, holding out a faux leather tote with a little more structure to it. “This bag says I don’t have a frisky frankfurter, and I definitely didn’t walk around the block in a robe while meeting my hot neighbor who hates me because of my dog.”
I snatch it from her grasp. “Then I’d better get it.”
Trevyn sighs dramatically in relief. “Thank god.”
“Please, you love thrifting,” I say. “I’ve seen you get lost in thrift shops.”
“Not the way you do,” Mabel points out.
“Well, it is my job,” I reply. Well, specifically, my job is scouring consignment shops. As an eco-friendly interior designer, my mission is to help clients find sustainable furniture and decor. That makes me a huntress of sorts.
And this bag? It’s clearly made to last a hundred years, so it represents my brand well. I don’t skimp on quality when I hunt for deals.
“And since it’s your job,” Mabel says, “we decided you also need this blazer.” She pulls a pastel sky-blue one from a nearby rack—the exact shade I love. “It’s a vintage power blazer. Pair it with a T-shirt—”
“Plus nice slacks and this bag,” I continue, my excitement building. “It says I have range. It says I can achieve a lasting style that won’t hurt the planet. It says I can track things down.”
Yep. A few new accessories, and I’ll be ready to nail this meeting and win a new client. I slide my arms into the blazer, and it fits perfectly. I spin around, modeling it.
“Like a glove, baby,” Trevyn coos.
I beam, stroking the soft fabric. “It was made for me.”
Mabel nods. “I approve.”
I let out a long exhale. “I feel better. Thanks, friends. I needed this.”
“Good. You don’t smell angry anymore,” Mabel teases.
“Did I smell angry?”