Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
I storm into my bedroom, rip off my blazer, unbutton my blouse, then shed off every last article of clothing that resembles work attire. I dig through my dresser, grabbing a pair of oversized, baggy gray sweatpants, and pull them on, rolling the waistband down until they sit low on my hips. Next comes a top, which means taking off my bra; the damn contraption is the bane of my existence but also a necessity. At least the spaghetti-strap tank top has a double-layer and functions like a bra without underwire or structure, just pure comfort.
Now that I’m able to breathe a little easier, I’m a woman on a mission, this time for sustenance since I missed breakfast and dipped out of work earlier than I ever have before.
“Shit, I need to text Vik,” I mutter aloud in the empty kitchen. I haul out a couple of cutting boards, blocks of cheese, prosciutto, cured salami, grapes, crackers, and fig jam. I’m a single woman, or I was, hell, maybe I will be after today, so these ingredients are an absolute staple in my life. I start slicing, dicing, and arranging the goodies on a charcuterie board to channel my nervous energy. Considering I still have a good amount of annoyance running through my veins, I abandon my task for a moment, walk to the living room, pick up the remote to the television, turn it on, and open up my playlist.
I find the app, and instead of going for music that will make me angrier, I pick one that mellows me out. A playlist I have downloaded: New York State of Mind Vintage Jazz. A melody fills the air, the sweet sound of a saxophone, trumpet, and piano. I turn the volume down a few notches, then move back to my task at hand.
The wine.
I reach for a couple of different bottles—a Pinot Noir, a Riesling, and sparkling flavored water in case the others don’t or can’t drink alcohol. What I do bypass is the champagne, that bitch is dead to me. It’s now considered the devil’s juice, responsible for bad decisions, neon chapel lights, and massive rings.
Speaking of rings…
I look down at my left hand as I set the wine glasses out. The damn things have completely derailed me, and yet I’m still wearing them. Right when I’m contemplating taking them off, I’m interrupted.
The sound of a door opening, shuffling feet, and hushed murmurs are coming from the foyer. My girls. I take a deep breath, wipe my palms down my sides, and walk toward them. They trail in like a glamorous, frenzied whirlwind. Romy’s first. Her sharp eyes scan my face, and before she says hello, her gaze drops directly to my left hand resting at my side.
“I knew I saw Dante making eyes at you the last time we were all together,” she says, stopping dead in her tracks with absolute shock as she stares at my hand. “What I didn’t know is that you reciprocated!”
“Holy mother of god,” Cory gasps, shoving past Romy, albeit carefully because she’s not an asshole. She lifts my hand and gives a long, low whistle. “At least he’s got great taste. That thing costs as much as a home, and not a small one, either.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Mischa interrupts, toeing off her heels and striding straight into the living room toward the wine. She pours herself a glass, turns around, and points a finger at me. “Start from the top, Alex. Right now.”
“Um, no, we have to get Jett on the line first,” Seraphina says, already dialing Jett and waiting for her to answer the video call.
“TEA!” Jett answers on the second ring.
“Yes, spill, right this instance.” Gennie walks in last, shutting the door behind her, her wide eyes taking in the spread, the wine, and my lack of professional composure. We pile into the living room after pouring drinks and grabbing snacks. I’m not hungry, but the crisp Riesling with a few grapes dropped into the glass is calling my name. I settle cross-legged in my beloved velvet armchair, clutching my glass, while the girls crowd onto the sofa and floor around the coffee table.
“Okay,” I begin, taking a massive gulp of wine. “As you know, I went to Vegas in place of Vik for a conference and a side of negotiations.”
“Right, thanks by the way,” Romy says, nodding slowly. “You secured the real estate contract. Vik has been singing your praises all morning.”
“Yeah, well, before that was secured, I secured a husband, too,” I blurt out. Gennie nearly chokes on a grape and Cory drops her cracker.
“You what?!” Mischa shrieks.
“It started at the hotel lounge,” I explain, my face burning as I plunge into the story. “I was drinking champagne—swearing to never let that touch my lips again, by the way. And then Dante was just, I don’t know, there. Brooding, broad, and looking sinful as hell in a suit. He pulled some kind of move, cleared the bartender out of the way, who was flirting with me, and suddenly, we were drinking together.”