Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I check the clock on the wall. I don’t have time to hash this out right now. I set down the cloth. “And on that note, I need to go take this meeting with Celeste.”
I say goodbye, leaving the bar in Zoe’s capable hands, then head to the most coveted block in the Marina to see Celeste. Her building is right next to the location I want for my upscale Sticks and Stones and I stare longingly at the brick facade, the bright green door, the windows that invite passersby to come on in, put up their feet, let the day go.
I snap my focus to the office building, then head inside. Celeste’s waiting for me. She wears a black pantsuit and a slicked-back bun and barely offers a hello. “I appreciate you coming down here, and I like the ideas you laid out for the location, but I’d still need to know how you’re going to market it. I need to know you have a name and a brand and some buzz. I need to see that and I don’t right now, Mr. Archer.”
Talk about a punch in the gut. But I don’t show an ounce of emotion. Just resolve as I say, “I understand.”
Three strikes and you’re out.
Deflated, I head to my home in Russian Hill, trying but failing to shake off my funk as I bound up the steps of the sky-blue building. My grandma helps out both with the bar and with Eliza, so she picked her up from school today.
Time to focus on them, and only them.
“Hey, my favorite ladies,” I say as I kick off my boots, then set my phone on the table in the foyer.
“It’s mac and cheese and cauliflower night, and I’m not mad about that,” Eliza calls out from the kitchen.
“Me neither. Grams makes the best mac and cheese.”
“Grams makes the best everything,” Eliza says, and when I reach the kitchen I give her a hug.
Right here, I have everything I need. I’d do well to remember that.
“Including chocolate chip cookies,” I point out, then wink at Grams.
“Are you trying to steal my recipe again?” Grams asks.
I scoff. “Steal? I developed that with you when I was…what? Ten? I suggested we add the—”
“Shh. Enough about my secret recipe.”
“Our,” I mutter.
She pats my head, then winks at me, whispering, “Maybe ours.”
I smile, but it disappears too soon. Today just didn’t go the way I wanted. At the dinner table, Grams shoots me a curious look. “All right, what did you mess up today?”
“Why do you assume I messed something up?”
With her fork midair, Eliza says, “Because you’re in a funk, Daddy.”
And maybe I didn’t shake off my mood. With a sigh, I set down the utensil and tell them about the meeting this morning and the one a little while ago. “But we’re not going to get the pop-up. Shame because it would have helped with the second bar.”
“But pretending you’re engaged sounds like fun,” Eliza says as her fork dives into the cheesy goodness. “Like a game of make-believe. What’s the big deal?”
“That’s an excellent question. What is the big deal?” Grams asks, meeting my gaze with a serious one of hers.
One that says I’m being a stick in the mud. And the fact is, they’re probably right, too, like my friends.
After dinner, as I take the trash to the street, I click open my text app to send a note to Elodie when I find one from her.
Elodie: So, I have this idea…
Gage: Yeah. Me too.
Elodie: You go first.
Gage: It’s been brought to my attention it’s NBD to pretend we’re engaged.
Elodie: What do you know? Same here!
Gage: Yeah? Who told you?
Elodie: Amanda. She basically said it’s so patriarchal if we don’t pretend we’re engaged.
Gage: Explain.
Elodie: Apparently wanting two people to be involved is patriarchal, so faking an engagement is an act of defiance along the lines of fuck the patriarchy, which is something Amanda is big on, and I suspect Eliza will be too.
Gage: It’s a new world. We’re just living in it.
And the thing is, I want to do more than live in it. I want to thrive. I don’t want to be the nothing works out guy. I want things to work for me. As I close the lid on the trash, I kick the last remnants of my funk to the curb, sending her another text.
Gage: Want to be my fake fiancée for the next three months to get the shop?
Elodie: Is this your proposal? Because if so, let me put down the dishes and squeal.
Gage: You’re doing dishes? I was taking out trash. That is kismet.
Elodie: Then, I’m not even stopping doing these dishes as I say yes to your temporary fake fiancée-ship.
A smile tugs at my lips as I write back, glad we’re on the same page with the plan and the timeline.