Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 137443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
My local clients knew something big was happening because we had to decline event requests after August, and we stopped taking future orders more than thirty days out. I felt this was fair because we’d be loyal to our orders through the peak of tourist season in Charleston. And, hopefully, I’d be organized enough to get moving in time for peak season in Aspen. Expectations were loose, but I was up for the challenge.
All of it was more than I could dream of, except for one thing—Pierce. Since our conversation that night, he hasn’t been back to the shed. That was nine nights ago. I knew better than to allow myself to hope there was something blooming. The next morning, he proved me right when he met me at the bakery and said he was picking his children up from school that afternoon and they were staying with him indefinitely.
He explained this was the beginning of their loosely arranged summer custody agreement. They would float back and forth between Connie, Pierce, and the grandparents all summer, with a few camps thrown into the mix.
That hope I allowed to bloom died on the spot. This was exactly why I was serious when I told him we were doomed because nothing could ever work out in our favor. I tried to hide my disappointment, but he picked up on it. There was no repeat of sex on the prep table that morning, but there was a lot of kissing and more whispers of his commitment to make things right. Every night, he calls, and our conversations range from our days to filling in pieces of the last twelve years. It hasn’t always been easy, reliving major experiences of our lives, but neither of us has shied away from the other’s questions. The two subjects we have avoided are Connie and his children. Other than the casual mention of his life as a father, they are off-limits.
I know it makes me a total bitch, but I make a point to keep it that way. There are instances he starts a sentence and stops abruptly to change the subject. These are the times I know our lives can never head down a path for epic reconciliation. It’s impossible. I’ve accepted that and am sure that he has, too. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. It helps soothe the ache that he never mentioned coming to Aspen with me again after I told him they scheduled the announcement for Monday. They’ve set up two solid days of meetings, and with the long travel days, I’m leaving early Sunday morning. He had no reaction whatsoever, which led me to assume he’d decided it wasn’t a good idea to travel along.
One of the receptionists brings me a glass of champagne, which I accept gratefully. In preparation for my trip, Mom set up this day of pampering, starting with hair and makeup and ending the day at our favorite nail spa.
Most women like to sit in the center of the action, chatting with friends, greeting people they know when they walk in the door, and general socialization. In the past, I preferred this area because of the slight bit of privacy. Today, I’m looking for a few last hours of quiet. Not to mention, it gets exhausting trying to evade questions about my plans for DG Creations when I run into people.
The spa is busy for this time on a Friday afternoon, and as expected, most guests request the stations in the front and center. The bell attached to the door rings consistently with people coming and going, and I notice a cute blonde in her mid-twenties come in and speak to the receptionist, who points to an empty manicure station. She sits, smiling at her technician, and something strikes me as familiar about her I can’t pinpoint. Her voice travels in the air, and I think I’ve heard it before.
My own technician comes back, carrying a tray of scrubs, lotions, and gels, and I forget all about the woman at the manicure station. I sip my champagne and grab my phone to check my email and see the string of texts from Stephanie.
She did a fabulous job! I’m not kidding. You look like a supermodel! This is going on your website.
No shit, those highlights are the new you! I can’t stop staring.
Okay, I enlarged the picture, and your makeup is phenomenal. Those gold and green shadows are perfection on your eyes.
I smile at the phone, feeling a surge of confidence at her approval.
Me: Glad you like the makeup because, for what I paid for it, it’s going to need to be a business expense. Make note for the accountant.
Stephanie: Seriously, you look too good to go home and play with your dog. You need to play with your man… Have you sent him this picture?