Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
And now they’re both so happy it might be sickening if I didn’t love them both to death.
I only wish the chemistry wasn’t flatter than a day-old soda with my latest shoe design.
I sit down at the desk in front of my tablet with an iced matcha and try to focus, moving elements around, trying to find the magic combination.
Colors that vibe with the vision in my head.
Patterns and laces and straps that make sense, that will make people gasp with delight.
But nothing here feels cohesive, and after over an hour, it starts running together.
Everything I touch is crap today.
Flat, tired designs that wouldn’t wow anyone back in the eighties.
Nothing fresh. Nothing exciting. Nothing new.
It feels like slapping paint on a canvas and hoping you wind up with a pretty portrait by the end. But art doesn’t work that way and neither does product design.
When I close my eyes, I can see it so clearly.
Something elegant and understated.
Shoes that scream classy and chic without being ridiculously flashy or some minimalist heel horror that bites your feet until they turn purple.
Just a nice, everyday shoe that still makes a statement. Bold without being brash.
Sigh.
I flick through pictures of Pinterest boards and AI mockups, trying to find something that kickstarts my creativity.
A line, a color, an idea that grabs me by the hair.
But there’s nothing here that hasn’t been done to death.
I sooo need a new direction.
The thing is, it can’t be mundane.
It can’t be ordinary.
Fashion is a moving stream and it’s never the same twice. It has to tell a story other folks want to hear and be part of.
My stomach growls and I glance at the clock, tossing my stylus on the desk.
It’s late—hopefully so late they’ve eaten downstairs.
The sun set over an hour ago and the sky has that pale blue-grey shadow as night falls on the lake.
A rush of nostalgia punches me, and I breathe through it, gripping my tablet.
For a burning second, I remember what it was like coming here as a kid, before life got so complicated.
I remember the excitement, the way we’d feast on Gramps’ beef stew or seafood pasta before fighting over the best places in front of the fire for story time.
He’d read us the classics, Greek mythology or modern myths he just made up. The man never had a TV on in this house until we were half-grown.
I remember how carefree the woods would feel at night with chirping crickets and bellowing owls.
I remember how good my heart felt in this house, before he died and our little world shrank like a fading puddle.
I stare at my tablet and my stupid designs, wrinkling my nose.
Yeah.
The only thing as frustrating as a dream you can’t remember has to be a memory you’ll never relive. They both feel like if you just push a little harder, you’ll get there.
And yes, I know this isn’t healthy.
I need to get out of this room and my own head before I drive myself crazy.
It’s a cool evening, so I grab my light jacket from the closet and sling it over my shoulders as I head downstairs into the kitchen. My stomach growls like a wildcat.
The old house is dark and silent around me, the only noise the floorboards creaking underfoot.
Perfect.
I’m planning to grab a drink from the fridge and head into town to see what’s still open, but as I flick the light on, my attention snags on a sandwich off to the side, neatly packaged up in foil.
For the only smartass mouse I want to keep fed, the note beside it reads. Come clean with me when you’re ready, duchess.
Holy crap.
Oh, he’s good.
I want to hate him for mastering the art of contradiction and showing off.
Everything would be easier if he was a hundred percent asshole.
But this note is a whole lot of nice and I—
I don’t know how to deal with that.
So I stare at it, my heart lodged in my throat, ticking oddly.
I knew he never bought the mouse thing for a second, but I guess he isn’t too mad. He just wants my confession.
The sandwich feels like a peace offering of sorts.
One I’m tempted to accept in my sappy, hangry mood.
It’s been ages since anyone really looked out for me.
I glance out the window to the other side of the house out back, where there’s a patio and firepit, right next to the old hot tub.
The flickering light says they’ve got the fire going. The night darkens with every minute, more stars poking through the indigo-blue sky.
It’s the kind of evening Hattie and I used to love outside, buried under blankets as we talked about school and books and crushes.
Another pang of nostalgia.
I have the weirdest urge to tear up.
But that’s way too much emotion for a sandwich, and I need to eat.
So instead of blubbering, I pick it up and wrap my coat more firmly around me as I head outside.