Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Sure thing, Logan,” she says easily. We sit and then she orders, “Spill it. Give me all the filthy tea.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, I tell her the rough and dirty about Paris, focusing mostly on Simon.
“And then,” I tell her as I wipe away a tear with a cheap paper napkin, “she kissed him. Like, not that whole European kissy-kissy, air-kiss type either, but . . . you know.”
“Fuck. Men suck, ya know?”
I eat my last bite of cookie. “After the show, I went a bit psycho bitch. I yelled at her, got in his face, and learned that this other model was his ex. She conspired with one of the other designers whom I thought was a friend to sabotage me. That was bad enough, but then his aunt, the designer I went there to work with, came in to gloat and I basically read her the riot act. And . . . well, I was on the first flight I could book back to New York.”
“Good!” Claire says with a victorious point my way. “Look, I can see your thoughts written all over your face, and you’re completely wrong. You’re a strong, badass bitch who protected herself and did the right damn thing. Now, as for this dickface you were catching feelings for? Karma’s a bitch, baby. He’ll get his.”
I laugh, but it’s flat and hurts my stomach. Still, talking with Claire helps me get to the office, even if I am a little late. But everything feels dreary, especially with Nora being a happy, bouncy ball of pregnancy hormones.
“Oh, thank you!” she says gleefully when I hand her the decaf coffee. “I know it’s just a mental thing, but I miss these so much when they’re not part of my morning! And don’t tell Clay, but wherever he was going, or whatever he was ordering, was nothing compared to this.” Clasping her cup in both hands, Nora looks at it affectionately.
“Glad I could do something right.”
“You do lots of things right. That’s why I’m so glad to have you back. Wish it were under better circumstances, but you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
We talked over the weekend so she’d know to expect me back at the office, and I spilled my guts to her more fully than I did with Claire. Nora knows everything.
“You did. I’m sorry I didn’t listen,” I admit.
“I’m not. It sucks, I know it does, but what’s that saying . . . it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?”
“Right now, I disagree vehemently with that and would gladly tear Tennyson a new one for making that a thing.”
“Agree to disagr—”
Despite Nora’s love affair with her coffee, she dives for her small wastebasket and heaves. I pull a tissue from the box on her desk and wait for her to be finished to hand it to her. “Sorry,” she says as she dabs at her mouth. “Still happens.”
“It’s okay. Do you need anything?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m used to it now. Small price to pay for the end result.” Rubbing her still-flat belly, she smiles gently.
I’m happy for her, and Nora is over the moon thrilled about her pregnancy. Her mood is like Teflon. Nothing can piss her off at this point. Honestly, I probably could come in with nothing but a cup of hot water and a pack of instant latte from the corner store, and she’d be happy. I could set her coat on fire, and Nora might sit back with a dreamy little smile and tell me I’ve got an interesting vision for next fall’s outerwear line.
But it's hard to reconcile that with my bitter mood.
I’m plowing my way through some emails to suppliers when Clay comes in. He’s still the same great guy he was before I left, but I’m not the same.
“Hey, Autumn,” Clay says, propping himself against the edge of my desk. “You still in need of a couple doses of happy juice?” That’s his way of letting me know that he’s aware of my heartbreak. Nothing dramatic, nothing sorrowful, just . . . let’s get drunk and talk shit until you feel better.
I shake my head, leaning back. “More like a couple of nights of ugly crying, a Netflix binge or two, and some internal reflection time. Happy juice would just fuck with that. What’s up with you?”
“SSDD,” Clay proclaims, his acronym for ‘same shit, different day’ before grimacing. “Except I had to make my Grindr profile private again.”
“Damn, again?” When Clay nods miserably, I ask, “Why?”
“Blind date. Bad Dragon. Don’t Google it, just trust me.” He holds his hands up, waving them back and forth with wide eyes as he shakes his head slowly. “Not kink shaming, but not my thing. I prefer dildos that are . . . humanoid?”