Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Do I pick the one right next to his?
Of course I do.
I’m not giving up on this fantasy. Not just yet, at least.
And even if it doesn’t come true, at least I won’t be sleeping alone. Because there’s still a ghost or three lurking about, of that much I’m sure.
Chapter Twelve
I love Mondays. I know that’s a weird thing to say, but I love them. There’s possibility in a Monday. Like, yes, you might have made some bad choices over the weekend. You might have moved in with the governor you have an awkward crush on. You might have broken a table that is most certainly a hundred years older than you.
But Monday! Monday can fix everything.
And the shop’s been pretty busy today. Mrs Bianchi has been a Godsend, and thanks to her network of friends, I’m getting a lot of business. Apparently the granddaughter of one decided that a one-of-a-kind vintage redo homecoming dress was the only way to go, and now I’ve got five appointments booked for this afternoon.
Appointments.
I actually have appointments.
Who would’ve thought?
Luckily I have a lull during the lunch hour because a girl’s got to eat. Even better, my lunch break is perfectly timed. My laptop is open and I’m glued to the hottest display of raw sexual energy known to man as I fork leftover pasta into my mouth.
A press conference featuring the one and only Governor Russo.
“What exactly about this do you find sexy?”
I glare at Miller. It’s clear to me now that Miller is straight because anyone who appreciated men would know that Warren Russo is the most obvious display of big dick energy to ever exist.
Just look at him, standing there at his podium, batting reporters’ questions away as easily as if he were… well, if he were a very talented athlete in some kind of sport that requires batting things away. Badminton? No, that’s not very sexy. Tennis? Maybe. Or baseball.
The point is, it’s his confidence. His take-no-shit attitude. The way he levels them with a single look of ‘yes, I know exactly what I’m talking about and, yes, I have the power to follow up and follow through.’
Any woman knows that it’s the follow-through that’s sexy.
None of this, though, is appropriate to say out loud to my seventeen-year-old non-employee.
“Effective leadership is sexy,” I say with a shrug.
“Sure.” Miller rolls his eyes. “Or boring as hell. What is he even talking about?”
“Umm…” I stall because I’ve only been paying vague attention to the content. “Something about increasing the minimum wage in New York State.”
Miller grins. “Fantastic! So I’m getting a raise.”
“I suppose you would be, if you actually worked here.”
Miller shrugs. “Semantics.”
“I’m not sure that’s what semantics means.” I pause and think about it. Hmm, maybe it is. “Anyway, a living wage is very sexy, don’t you think?”
“Uh, sure. You’re not right in the head, you know that, right?”
Whatever. I can’t help it. I sigh as Warren says the words, “I’ve told you it can be done, and I intend to make it happen.”
I look over at Miller who’s giving me the world’s biggest eye-roll.
“What can I say? Effective leadership is hot.”
Miller just shakes his head. “Uh-huh.”
“Whatever. You love who you love.” I shrug, then quickly think better of that statement before Miller runs with it. “I mean, you crush on who you crush. It’s just a saying. Obviously I don’t love my temporary for-hire boyfriend. Or whatever he is.”
Now Miller’s full-on grinning. “Mmm-hmmm.”
Miller is looking far too smug for my liking. I’m about to disabuse him of whatever fantasy he’s cooking up, but we’re interrupted by the jingle of the shop door.
Lunch time is officially over, and it’s time to sell some custom revamped vintage homecoming dresses.
“Make sure you make them feel welcome,” I say to Miller as I toss my leftover container into the trash. “And—”
“Chill, boss,” he says. “I’ve got this.”
And, despite being a little punk and a pain in my ass, it’s true. He’s ridiculously professional, knowing just what to say to the moms to soothe their worries about the dress’s hemline or a slightly-low bust. He’s also the right amount of flattering with the girls, helping to ease their insecurities about color choices and straps and making the bold decision—for a teenager—to buck the trend of buying something brand-new at a high-end store.
“Miller, you’re a dream,” says one of the girls as she twirls in a repurposed James Galanos the color of a creamsicle. “I wasn’t sure about the orange, but you’re right. My skin looks ahhh-mazing in this color.”
As she winks at him and disappears to show her mom, I give Miller a pointed look. “Wait. You’re one of the popular kids.” I’m frowning when I say it because, shocking though it is, I wasn’t. One of the popular kids. In high school. Or junior high even. I did have a nice run in elementary when it was still required to invite all of your classmates to your birthday party.