Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
“So this trunk show.” I bite into a Twizzler. “What are your goals, other than selling all those boots we got in the back?”
Wheeler looks vacantly at the Twizzler she has in her hand. “Network. Meet their buyers, their customers. Get feedback on what people are looking for. Then again, who knows if this trunk show is even gonna happen?” She glances out the window at the swirling snow. “I mean, I know Dallas is totally ridiculous when the weather gets bad. Half an inch of snow, and the whole city shuts down. I imagine Aspen is much better prepared to handle it. Still, if this storm dumps a couple feet of snow on us…”
“They’ll clear it, no problem. And if we gotta stay an extra day or two to make up for lost time, then we stay an extra day or two.”
I feel her looking at me. “You’d be okay with that?”
“Wheeler, I am so damn happy to be somewhere other than Hartsville I can’t even tell you. Of course I’m okay with that. Ask me to stay a week. Two weeks. I’d love the excuse to be away.”
She lets out a soft chuckle. “You really don’t get out enough, do you?”
“Out of Hartsville? No, I don’t.”
The phone in her lap lights up, the ringtone chiming. I glance at it and see Dad—Work on the top of the screen.
I lean away, silently giving her space to take the call. Instead, she hits the button on the side of her phone and sends the call to voicemail.
I wait for her to say something. Explain why she didn’t pick up her dad’s call. Maybe she’s too nervous about the weather to chat right now.
Or maybe there’s another reason why she doesn’t want to talk to her dad. She keeps dropping these hints that her family life isn’t the happiest.
Whatever the case, Wheeler pretends like the call never happened. Instead, she drops the phone into her cupholder and puts the Twizzler in her mouth. She bites down, hard, giving the red candy rope a vicious tug.
“Guess we’ll cross the bridge when we get there,” she says. “If Aspen Leather Company is closed tomorrow or Saturday, then we figure out plan B. Thanks for being flexible.”
“Told you I’m gonna be the best damn assistant you ever had.”
“The mouthiest for sure.”
“But you like it.”
The green and red lights of the dashboard catch on her eyes when she looks at me. “Keeps things interesting, I’ll say that much.”
Conditions steadily worsen. The radio station we’re listening to slowly fades out, so Wheeler has to search for something else. She finds a pop station, and we listen to Lady Gaga and the Jonas Brothers—I think—in tense silence.
Wheeler doesn’t even to pretend to be relaxed, while I try my damnedest to keep the mood light by cracking jokes and bopping my head to the beat of each song.
The relief I feel when we finally cruise into Aspen city limits hits me like, well, a U-Haul truck.
“We should grab some supplies for the house real quick.” I drive slowly, looking out the windows. “If you see a grocery store, let me know.”
The only thing we find open is a gas station. Not ideal, but if we don’t get our asses up to this house, pronto, we’re either gonna get stuck on the side of the road or fall clear off a cliff.
Stepping out of the truck, the cold slaps me across the face. The wind is bitter, biting at any sliver of exposed skin.
Wheeler joins me outside and moans, flipping up the fur-lined hood on her jacket. “Ohmygod I hate this.”
“My tender little Texas flower.” Chuckling, I reach over and tug up her zipper so that her mouth and nose are covered. “We’ll make it quick. Booze, snacks, coffee. The rest we’ll figure out later.”
“I like this plan.”
We scurry inside, both of us exhaling audibly as we stand underneath a blast of heat. I do a quick scan of the aisles. We’re not working with much, but it’s enough to get us through the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Maybe this house we’re staying at will have some better food in the freezer?
“Talk to me. I know you drink coffee.” I grab a pound of Dunkin’ off the shelf and drop it in the basket I picked up by the cash register. “Do you always eat breakfast? That burrito seemed to hit the spot.”
Wheeler may or may not have made some porn-adjacent sounds as she polished off her breakfast this morning. I may or may not have had to crack the window to let in some cold air. Told Wheeler I needed a pick-me-up because I was tired. But really, I’d started to sweat. My dick liked those sounds just a little too much.
“I mean.” She reaches up for a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. “We should probably have something on hand just in case.”