Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Point being, I’m coming to terms with not finding the ring. I think I started to hit the acceptance stage of grief a couple of stores ago, and now, the process is nearly complete. I just need a few minutes alone, curled up in a nest of blankets, screaming into the void . . . or a pillow, because despite Mrs. Rosenthal’s opinion, I am a considerate neighbor, and I’ll be okay.
Eventually.
I always am. Life pulls this shit with me all the time—handing me lemons, knocking me out, and then kicking me while I’m down. But what do I do? Handle that shit like the badass chaos queen that I am. I wake up from the dirt nap, act like that was totally on purpose by making a dirt angel, and then serve up a homemade lemonade with a smile. All without losing my crown since I’ve got lots of practice keeping it righted on my head amid the disarray of my existence.
And this speed bump in the road of Penelope Lee will be the same as every other obstacle I’ve faced, in my rearview mirror, and nothing more than a chapter in my memoir, which I’ve tentatively titled What Not To Do When the Universe Sends You a Glitter Bomb of a Day. I think it’s gonna be a New York Times bestseller for sure.
“You’re off the hook. I’m going home. I’m gonna file this under ‘Lessons Learned’ and hope to never get a repeat lesson.” I hold my hand out, offering a handshake. “Thank you for your help.”
Griffin glowers at my hand like the polite offer outright offends him. Or maybe it’s just me that irritates him, because he blurts out, “Just like that? You’re giving up that easily?”
“Ouch,” I snap. “No, not ‘just like that.’ It’s hard, and I’m pissed! It sucks, and it hurts, and I’m pissed—and yeah, I know I already said that, but I really, really am.” I throw my hands out. “What else am I gonna do?”
I once saw a T-shirt that said something like “don’t you dare tell me what to do, but also . . . could you tell me exactly, step-by-step, what to do?” That’s kinda how I feel like now. If Griffin has an answer, I’d love to hear it. I’ll be mad as hell that he does when I don’t, but I’m also mad that he doesn’t have an answer when I don’t. Can he win? No. Can I? Also no. But life isn’t always logical. Hell, in my experience, I’ve found it rarely is.
I might not have high hopes left, or an ounce of go-get-’em remaining, but apparently, I do have some fire in me. There’s also the slightest chance it’s arousal, but I’m going to ignore that entirely, and stick with what I know—anger, which I take out on Griffin.
“Well? If you’ve got a better idea, I’m waiting to hear it.” I blink, waiting expectantly. When he stays silent, his glare inching closer to a warning look, I assume a smug smirk. “Didn’t think so. So this—whatever this is”—I wave a hand between us—“is over. I won’t say a word to Dom, which means you’re free and clear. Go on, get, you stupid mutt, I don’t want you anymore.”
“Did you just Air Bud me?” He scoffs.
I make a shooing motion, hoping he’ll take what’s not even a hint but an explicitly spelled-out dismissal, and leave me alone.
I should feel guilty about it because the truth is, he doesn’t deserve it. The thief targeting the bag isn’t Griffin’s fault, not really, but he’s become one of my favorite punching bags. This is how we are, and right now, I really need to hit something, to rage and fight against the unfairness of the whole situation, and he’s standing right here in front of me, with those broad shoulders that can carry the weight of the world and thick skin that nothing gets through. And he already hates me, so witnessing my poor-me pity party won’t change a thing.
Griffin has crossed his arms over his chest, taking every sharp word I spit, every bit of my anger, and giving zero reaction to any of it. His stone-cold facade never shows a single crack. “You done yet?”
He doesn’t mean with the ring hunt but rather with my tantrum, because if I’m honest, that’s what it was. Can you blame me, though? I’ve got $10,000 on the line, a guy who hates my guts confusing me by acting all sweet, and my plans for taking my work to the next level poofing into the ether. In my estimation, I’m entitled to a moment of hysterical verbal shit-slinging, and I’m taking full advantage of it.
I sigh, my shoulders dropping. “I’m gonna go home, cry my way through a box of Thin Mints with Talia—one of the prized freezer packs we save up for special occasions—and then figure out how to recover financially from this before the credit card bill comes due. I might be unlucky as hell, but I’m a businesswoman at heart, and I will figure this out.”