Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I’m definitely going to take a long, hot shower this evening after my little sister goes to bed. Spend some quality time with a waterproof friend to forget about the day, and the swirl of upcoming decisions that have been chasing me.
Or, better idea. Maybe my favorite sex toy shop can deliver me a new one since you can never have enough chocolate or vibrators. I hop over to the website for Risqué Business and skim the new offerings, gliding my polished cherry-red nail against the screen until I reach…The Command Performance. I read all about its stimulating properties.
And I’m sold. I’m one of the store’s platinum customers, so I hit order, then re-enter my address. A few seconds later, the “coming in one hour delivery”confirmation pops up.
With that dirty deed done, I act casual, smoothing a hand over my polka-dot skirt, fiddling with my rhinestone cocktail ring that I wear nearly every day, then adjusting the red paisley bandana that keeps my blonde hair in this retro style as I wait for the owner’s return. I mean, my takeout.
Did I put on lipstick before I came?
Couldn’t hurt to apply some more. I grab the tube from my handbag, slick some on, then purse my lips. There. I’m ready.
I replace my earbuds and tune back into the podcast, hoping Mister Droolworthy returns to finish the job—the job of asking me for my number.
One minute passes. More customers arrive. Another bartender comes behind the bar, a pale, petite woman with a silvery pixie cut.
Two minutes. Servers rush out from the kitchen, lifting trays of burgers and sandwiches and scurrying to tables.
Three minutes. I check my phone, then groan privately over the new email. It’s from The Chocolate Connoisseur, and the CEO’s asking if I have reviewed his buyout offer. Yes, I have, and it’s seriously stressing me out so much I need fifty orders of fries. The low-ball offer from the corporate giant’s been weighing on me, but I can’t drag my feet on it much longer, so I reply that I’ll respond soon.
Four minutes, five, and then Margo emerges from the swinging door instead of the man who’d said he was checking on my order. Her crinkled eyes swing to me, and she nods, heading my way. She’s carrying a brown paper bag with my name on it.
“Here you go, Elodie. The rosemary fries, a hummus sandwich, and a salad,” she says in her grandmotherly voice, weathered but playful. Her gaze strays subtly, or not so subtly, toward the back of the house.
“Thanks. I think I’m addicted to the fries,” I blurt out. I don’t want her to think I was waiting around for the hot bartender to make a move. I’m here for the food. Just the food.
She leans closer, her gray eyes full of a wisdom I wonder if I’ll ever possess as she says, “I get that. They’re addictive, so you can just keep coming back. Need anything else, hun?”
To tell the owner that I’m sorry I misread him so badly.
He’s a friendly bartender, that’s all. I’m just a woman amped up from her chocolate class. A woman who should go home and focus on her sister, and her bills, and her bank notices.
I smile brightly, hoping it doesn’t read as false. “I’m all good,” I say, then grab my sweater, take the bag, and go.
It’s fine. It’s just fine. I’ll go home, spend time with Amanda, then once she goes to bed, I’ll have some me time. And I don’t have to wonder what The Command Performance’s intentions are whatsoever.
2
PRETTY IN PURPLE
Gage
I’m almost too busy at the bar to be annoyed that Rosie the Riveter, with the swingy skirts that show off her legs and the snug tops that make my brain scramble, took off before I could chat with her some more.
We’re packed tonight at Sticks and Stones, so I barely have a second to stew on that missed opportunity—again—since I’m serving brews, mixing cocktails, and putting out fires.
It’s the third time the blonde with the clever mouth has come here in the last month, but it’s the first time I’ve flirted with her. And I never flirt with customers. That’s just asking for trouble, and I’ve had enough of that in my life, thank you very much.
But there’s just something about her that makes me want to break my rules. Hell, I was ready to head back out there and ask for her number. Right as I was about to return to the front of the house and throw caution to the wind, my eleven-year-old texted. She asked for my Webflix password so she could watch a new dragon flick at her friend’s home, and I had to tease her that parents are supposed to forget the passwords, not kids, and then she said I forgot to bring her glove to her softball game last week, and I had to point out, too, that bringing her mitt is her job, not mine.