Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“So, I guess this means you and Chuck are over?” I ask, hoping it sticks this time.
Chuck is the worst. Keeping my mouth shut while her finance bro boyfriend talked down to Makena in subtle ways on and off for nearly a year hasn’t been easy. Makena is a successful business owner, not some chaotic pixie dream girl who needs Chuck to show her the light and get her life in order. Her sandwich shop in my former office building was in the black in just two months, and she makes the best gourmet grilled cheese in the city.
It’s not her fault that she didn’t have the money to launch a business and put a down payment on an apartment, and still sleeps in a secret nook in her restaurant’s storage room. Life is expensive these days, and not everyone has a trust fund from their family in Boston to fall back on, Charles Pettigrew the Third.
“Who?” Makena says, blinking in confusion. “Chuck? Who is this Chuck you speak of? I know no Chuck.”
“Good, keep it that way,” I say, grinning as we head through the swanky lobby, into a courtyard decorated like a magical fairyland.
Hundreds of white lights hang between ancient oak trees above cocktail tables covered in crisp white linen, topped with purple flower arrangements that remind me of Mimi’s Princess Nutria and her “royal color.” The princess would approve of this setup. More flower arrangements spring from nooks and crannies in the courtyard, and hidden speakers create an immersive sound experience that’s simultaneously invigorating and relaxing.
“Wow,” I breathe, soaking it in. “Does not disappoint.”
“Right? Charlotte slayed with this one,” Makena agrees. “I’m glad she didn’t go manly and bland, just because it’s a boy party.”
“Girls will be here, too. And who says men can’t enjoy a little whimsy?” Charlotte materializes from behind a nearby tree with an armful of dry cleaning bags. In a white linen pantsuit and a silver tiara that matches the sparkly lights, she looks effortlessly classy, as usual. “Hey there, Elly, so glad you could make it,” she says, leaning in for a cheek kiss. “I wish it were under better circumstances, but…here we are.”
I wave what I hope is a breezy hand. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll find another job soon.”
“I’m sure you will, too,” she says. “I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about these…unfortunate uniforms. Fair warning, they’re horrific and sexist and ugly, in my humble opinion. But what did we expect from the owners of a sports franchise, I ask you?” She shudders as she hands me the uniform on top and flips through the stack to find a smaller one for Makena. “God, I hate sports. How is playing a game for a living even a thing?”
I unzip the bag and immediately understand where she’s coming from. Inside is an outfit that can only be described as Playboy Bunny chic—skin-tight, high-waisted black shorts, a fitted white blouse with a plunging neckline and puffy sleeves, a green-and-purple glitter bow tie, and fishnet stockings.
Ugh. Fishnets.
They’re so itchy and always make my feet feel so weird inside my shoes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Makena says, her upper lip curling slightly as she takes it in.
“I wish,” Charlotte says with a sigh. “But at least you should be tipped well. Tips are always better when you’re half naked. And giggling. Be sure to do lots of giggling. And simpering. Sports men like simpering.”
Makena snorts. “So just pretend we’ve been lobotomized?”
“Probably not a bad idea,” Charlotte says, moving past us. “See you two in the kitchen for the team meeting in fifteen. You’ll have to change in the public restroom. There isn’t a private restroom for staff in this part of the hotel.”
“Got it. Will do.” Makena shakes her head as we start toward the ladies’. “You’re so lucky. No way do I have enough boob to fill up this top. I’m going to have gaping, Elly. And when you have gaping, you have the potential for a nip slip, and I’m not ready to show my nipples in public. Or private. The breakup with dumb Chuck is too fresh.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, putting an arm around her shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “I have boob tape in my purse. We’ll get your nips all taped up and safely out of sight.”
Makena brightens. “You do? You’re always so prepared. I want to be like you when I grow up.”
I laugh at the familiar joke—at almost thirty-three, Makena’s almost a decade my senior—and push into the restroom, which is also swanky.
And stocked with several extra rolls of toilet paper tucked away on the bottom shelf of the diaper changing table in one corner.
I slip one into my purse on the way out, silently promising the Maison Monteleone that I’ll pay them back when I’m flush again.