Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Holli squinted up her face. “What do you wear when you’re going to look at a house in the Hamptons?”
I shrugged. That particular question had been plaguing me for a while now. “I’m stumped. Anything conservative I have is going to look like I’m going to the office. And it’s not like I can just show up in jeans and a t-shirt. What if I end up really wanting the house?”
“That seems like a great reason to wear jeans and a t-shirt,” Holli snorted. “Like not shaving your legs before a first date. I mean, it’s not like you’d actually want to move all the way out to Sagaponack.”
When I didn’t respond, her expression fell. “Sophie…you’re not seriously considering this?”
“Maybe not, you know. Right now.” I might as well have held up a flashing neon “YES!” sign, as convincing as my answer was.
I thought Holli would go atomic right there in the cab, demanding to know what I could get in the Hamptons that I couldn’t get in Manhattan, and I’d better not expect her to travel that far for movie night, but instead she just rolled her eyes and gave me an obvious and dramatic sigh. That was almost worse.
“What?” I demanded with a laugh that was entirely forced. “You seem to forget that I’m from a town where people give directions by saying, ‘ya, you go right down der past da Sodie camp, den take a leff by dem big gray gerbage cans…’ Manhattan was never going to be my forever home.”
“What, did I get you from a shelter or something?” She could never stay mad at me long enough to pass up a quip.
We pulled up outside the Hermés boutique on Madison Avenue, and I slid out, feeling self-conscious in my jeans, white burnt-out tee, and pink tweed jacket. Then I remembered I wasn’t there to represent Gabriella Winters, fashion maven, and that I could buy the entire contents of the damn boutique if I wanted to.
Which is what made the chilly reception I got so fucking galling. Holli, being a newly minted minor It Girl of the modeling world, was welcomed with open arms by the sales staff, while I stood by completely ignored. Some of the associates working the floor had been there when I would come in trailing Gabriella, and I could tell from the way those individuals avoided my eyes that a line had been drawn a year ago, and I had crossed it by stepping on her turf.
I followed Holli and her salesman, winding around the sleek mahogany display cases and listening to her describe the scarf she was looking for while he tried to up-sell her on something else, when someone tapped my shoulder.
I turned to see a face that was familiar, but which I couldn’t immediately place. I estimated her to be in her late sixties, but it was clear she’d had some cosmetic upkeep. Her hair was a graceful shade of gray pulled into a severe French twist with side-swept black bangs. She looked like a friendlier version of Cruella De Vil.
Still, I had no idea who she was, so it was a relief when the woman said, “Excuse me, but I think we live in the same building. You’re Neil Elwood’s wife, aren’t you?”
At once, I felt the piercing, interested gazes of the three salespeople standing within earshot. I ignored them.
“Fiancé,” I corrected the woman with a smile. “But yes, I think I saw you in the elevator. You had the…”
“Yorkie,” she supplied, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, my sweet Anastasia. I live for her every day.”
“Wow, that’s…” Uncomfortable. “Really great that you love your dog so much.”
Out of force of habit—I’d dealt with too many socialites when working for Gabriella—I looked down at her purse to make sure Anastasia the Yorkie wasn’t panting happily inside.
Holy. Fuck. The woman was carrying a Birkin bag.
It wasn’t that I had never seen a Birkin in the wild before. Gabriella had seven, with color-coordinating leather gloves for winter. Occasionally, they breezed into the office on the arm of a designer or celebrity. But this person lived in my apartment building, and a lovely coral-toned leather Birkin rested its handles casually over her arm.
This close, I could see the stitching. I swear, I almost had an orgasm right there.
“You like the bag.” It wasn’t a question, and her eyes twinkled like we were sharing a secret. “It was supposed to have been my daughter’s. She killed herself six years ago and I got her place on the waiting list.”
Jesus. Christ. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? The lady almost sounded happy that her daughter had died, so she could get the damn bag.
I had definitely stepped into a different world.
“Of course, that was back when there was a waiting list,” she opined with a little sigh that seemed to ask what was the world coming to? She lifted one hand, encased in a glove that was probably made out of orca leather or some other borderline-legal luxury animal product and wiggled her fingers at a salesperson. “Debra! Debra, yoo hoo!”