Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“I’m coming!” Cameron bellows back, answering Grace. But I think he must realize the possible double-entendre a split-second later because, sounding frustrated, he adds, “Don’t leave without me.”
I press my lips together, fighting off a grin because there’s no way in hell a man like Cameron announces ‘I’m coming’ when he actually orgasms. He’s probably the silent type, barely letting a grunt out. I giggle at that. He really is uptight.
Back in the kitchen, Grace is eating, but even chewing, her mouth is turned up in a self-satisfied smile. “Told you he’d come with us.”
I blink at her complete faith in her ability to get Cameron to do anything she wishes. “You are terrifying, Grace.”
It’s not exactly a compliment, but she takes it as one, smacking her lips before saying, “I know.”
Twenty-four minutes later, Cameron enters the kitchen, proclaiming, “I’m ready.”
I studiously don’t look at him, feigning intense interest in the wrapper of the granola bar I’m near-inhaling. But the tiniest side-eyed glance tells me everything I need to know.
He’s freshly showered, but unshaven, and the scruff looks good on him, roughing up his hard edges. He’s wearing nice jeans, an untucked button-down, and lace-up Oxfords. It’s the most casual I’ve seen him—other than in his workout gear—but he looks ready for a day at the country club, not a thrift store. He’s going to absolutely hate everything about this—the clothes, the digging, the sense of everything being used. Hopefully, by the end of it, he doesn’t hate me.
Because he’s already frowning deeply, his eyes locked on me like I’m a puzzle he’s going to solve. But good luck with that. If I haven’t figured me out, no one else is going to. And why waste a single passing moment on that when they could be spent doing something fun to make the most of them?
Like going shopping.
“Yeah! Let’s go!” Grace shouts. “Starbucks before or after?”
“After,” Cameron answers his daughter’s near-constant request to go for an iced Frappuccino.
“Before,” I say at the same time.
When he turns his piercing blue eyes my way, I explain, “So we can shop and sip slowly. Not suck it down because we’re tired after hours of work.”
He seems to have totally missed the logical reasoning behind my suggestion, focusing only on one piece of what I said. “Hours? I thought we were going to one store?”
I flash him a devilish smirk. “We are. It’s gonna be epic.”
A quick stop, a Frappuccino, and two coffees—Cameron’s black, and mine with cream and sugar—and we arrive at the thrift store right as it opens. Along with about twenty other early bird shoppers.
“Are they giving stuff away?” Cameron jokes dryly. But when an older woman in a nylon wind suit shoves past him with a hard shoulder bump, he frowns.
“Move it, GQ,” she mutters, hustling toward the purses. Every step is accompanied by the swish-swish-swish of the slick material of her pants.
Cameron looks left and right in confusion, and I don’t hide my laugh.
“Thrifting is a competitive business, and I bet they just got a fresh shipment,” I explain. “It might not be whatever it is you do…” I have no idea what Cameron actually does, but it’s obviously something fancy and smart. “But it can be cutthroat.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me, so I point over to the purses. He turns just in time to see Ms. Wind Suit arguing with another woman, each of them with a white-knuckled death grip on a handle from a single purse. They pull, fighting over what appears to be a Louis Vuitton but is probably fake, and Cameron moves closer to Grace, putting himself between her and the tussle like she might be in mortal danger from the women who are now both repeating ‘I had it first’ in a never-ending loop.
“Follow me,” I tell them cheerfully, leading the way to the clothing section, which is thankfully the opposite way of the purse situation. At the first rack, I remind Grace, “If you like it, grab it, but don’t fall in love until we do a detailed look-over to make sure it’s in good condition or salvageable.” She nods as though my bare-bones instructions are of the utmost importance.
“What about me?” Cameron asks, sneering at the racks of brightly colored clothes like they might jump out and attack him. Actually, he looks like he’s mortally offended, as though the smells of mothballs and sweat might permeate into his flesh if he stays here too long. Granted, it’s not Barney’s or Sax with their commercial-grade air purifiers and deodorizers, but Lysol Sanitizer in a wash load can go a long way toward cleaning thrifted items, and for some of us, places like this are the only way we can afford a wardrobe.
For me, for a long time, even shopping at a thrift store was a luxury beyond my means. Now, I could shop at department stores, but why? I’d rather find unique pieces and create a style all my own. And yes, I’m well aware of the fact that I spend my time choosing items with a past, that have been thrown away in a donation pile, and rehome them to where they’ll be loved, like the clothing version of the social workers I used to have assigned to me as a foster child. I’m well-adjusted, but not undamaged by my past.