Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I toss my hair off my shoulder. “It’s an art. I learned it from my dad.” My father worked in the news business his entire career. He had to learn to compartmentalize, to shrug things off, to keep moving forward. I picked up that skill from him, and am I ever glad I did.
“You could teach classes in it.”
“I’ve already devised a full syllabus,” I say, peering ahead to the runway to try to catch a glimpse of any backstage action. It’s still quiet behind the wings.
“But let’s not ‘art’ the topic of Jones,” she says in a low voice, sketching air quotes.
I scrunch my brow. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
The designer jumps onto the stage, and all eyes turn to the elegant man with copper skin. Angel Sanjay says a few words about his vision for this collection, saving me from the friendly inquisition from Katie. As he exits the stage, pop music plays overhead, and a high-cheekboned brunette sashays down the runway, modeling a classy black pencil skirt and a blouse with a geometric print. The neckline is sexy but still appropriate for work.
As the model turns the other way and the next one slinks down the runway in a pretty pink sheath dress I’m sure I need to possess, Katie leans close and says, “You want to know what I really think?”
“Obviously. I asked you.”
As the music pulses, she whispers, “I want you to know that I absolutely applaud your spirit and your commitment to resisting jumping Jones Beckett. In fact, I’m thinking of giving you a trophy.”
“Thanks. It’ll look great on my mantel, even though it’s completely unnecessary.” I wave my hand as I hunt for analogies. “Jones and I are like. . . hot pepper and ice cream . . . a bikini for a ski weekend.”
She arches a brow. “Some people like pepper on their ice cream.”
I crinkle my nose. “The point is, we’re not going to happen. I’m not his type, and that’s fine. I like my type. I don’t need to be his type to be happy.”
Katie gives a quiet slow clap, and I take a tiny bow in my chair. Then she leans closer. “But you do know some women wear bikinis when skiing?”
I point to my chest. “Not me. I wear ski gear when I race down the hills of Tahoe and leave everyone in the snowdrifts,” I say with a smirk, since skiing is my jam. “Also, he can’t ski. It’s not allowed. So that just proves my point even more.”
Katie tsks quietly. “I don’t buy it. I think Jones Beckett wants to ski down your mountain.”
“I love you, friend. Truly, I do. But there is no reason for me to believe the attraction is mutual.”
“There is every reason. You’re a smart babe, with hair I covet, a body to die for, and a face that would launch a thousand ships. You don’t realize that because you’re so focused on work you don’t think of yourself that way. But I saw the way he looked at you at the fundraiser a few weeks ago, when you and I were playing Whac-A-Mole . . .” She stops, adopts a saucy tone, and says, “Like he’d been playing whack a mole to thoughts of you.”
I give her my best I-can’t-even-believe-you-said-that face. Ever. “I won’t even pretend that’s, one, dirty, or two, accurate.”
“Think about it.”
No way. There’s no way I’m going to think about it.
Katie’s a friend. She’s supposed to think I rock.
I won’t ever confuse that for Jones wanting to jump my bones.
Even though I kind of can’t wait to go to Stinson Beach with him tomorrow.
11
JONES
I peer through the oven window, trying to get a better view. “C’mon, little pie. Bake your ass off.”
Harlan rolls his eyes. “You do know it doesn’t bake any faster if you watch it?”
“But if I talk to it? Encourage it? That’ll help, right?”
Harlan scratches his chin. “By all means. Chatter away.”
I stare at the crust rising in Harlan’s stove. “You can do it. Bake harder. Bubble over.”
“What do you say we play a round of poker while we wait? You know the saying—pies like privacy,” Harlan says, slapping the candy cane potholder on the counter of his kitchen, smack dab in the middle of the rest of his collection of Christmas-themed potholders. His sister’s a baker, his mom’s a baker, his grandma’s a baker, and so he learned how to make the finest pies in the South while growing up surrounded by all those baking women.
Now, the women in his family give him potholders every year for his, you guessed it, Christmas birthday.
“Fine, but you know I’ll kick your ass since you can’t bluff for shit,” I tell him.
He jerks his head back, narrowing his eyes. “Those are fighting words. I can bluff just like I can handle a play action fake better than your sorry ass.”