Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I slide the final button in, a vein throbbing in my neck.
Or something is throbbing, and it’s not in my neck.
This moment is dangerously close to that wedding two years ago all over again. I remind myself I have an active imagination, and thoughts are not actions. Wild scenarios don’t need to come true.
I step back.
She looks down at her new ensemble, her smile spreading fast.
“It hits just right,” she says, choosing the words she’d said to me when I tried the vest on at her suggestion.
“A little loose, though,” I say, my voice gravelly. I move behind her, grabbing the hairpin from my pocket. Quickly, I gather the silky fabric at the back of the vest and fold it over, tightening it, then sliding the hairpin over it to hold it in place. “How’s that?”
“You’re a tailor,” she says, tucking the pieces of lacy fabric out of sight under the front of the vest while I adjust the back. I smooth a hand over it, making sure the pin will stay.
“Everything good back there?” she asks.
I roam my eyes up and down her. You have no idea how good.
“It’s great,” I say as evenly as I can. I move around her, and holy fuck…
That vest does unfair things to her tits. It boosts them up, but not too much, she’s not too risqué. Just right.
She offers a hopeful smile as she makes a few final adjustments to the ripped fabric. “Do I look good in your clothes?”
The question echoes through my head. Does she look good in my clothes? She looks fucking incredible, and I don’t know what to make of that. “You look like…”
Mine.
The word forms on my tongue. How could she look like anything else but mine when she’s wearing my vest? Instead, I amend my statement to, “You look like the best lucky charm. Now, go check your phone.”
“You know me too well.”
“Yeah, I do,” I say.
She flicks open the case. A few scrolls and her shoulders slump. She groans when she meets my eyes. “Angelina says they haven’t decided and they’re putting it off for another week or two.”
She swallows hard, gulping down her disappointment, I’m sure. I wish I could make things easier for her. She’s made inroads in her career for sure, nabbing opportunities here and there, chances to paint some murals on buildings, and to showcase some of her more unusual pieces of art—bedazzled lamps made from liquor bottles—at a night market. But it hasn’t been easy. It’s been years of desperately trying to make it. Years of yearning.
“Who’s the job with?” I ask, wondering if it’s one of the galleries or gigs she’s mentioned to me. If I know more, I can give her a pep talk. Keep her spirits up.
She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me,” I say.
She smiles faintly and pats my shoulder. “It’s your night. You’re the ultimate prize. Let’s get in there.”
We leave with two minutes to spare. When we pass the restroom on the way back, Maeve nods to it and says tightly that she’ll pop in there for a second. “I promise I’ll be out in thirty.”
I gesture to the ballroom at the end of the hall. “I’ll meet you inside,” I say.
“I’ll be there,” she adds quietly.
“I know,” I say, a little like Han Solo, but I can be cocky for a moment. It’s a good feeling to know she’ll be there.
It’s a feeling I don’t want to ever lose.
3
SNAKE GIRL
Maeve
How stupid am I? I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I nearly ruined his night, and for what?
For nothing.
I shut the door to a stall. I don’t have to pee, but I need to get myself together before I go back in there. I yank off some toilet paper and daub under my eyes as Angelina’s words replay in my mind.
They received an influx of portfolios at the last minute, so they won’t be making their decision yet.
But I submitted mine early, so that means it wasn’t good enough to make it to the final round. If it were, they wouldn’t care about the last-minute submissions.
Story of my adult life. I can’t catch a break. Maybe the universe is trying to give me a sign—give up painting. Toss the towel in on making art. No one makes a living as an artist anyway. You’re not special.
That’s certainly the message I get from my aunt Vivian, though hers is coated in honey and laced with a little vested interest. She says things like, “Oh, sweetie, it’s too hard to make it as an artist. Just work with me instead.”
I try to shut out both voices with a few deep breaths as the main door to the ladies’ room swings open. The clock is ticking. Wallow time is over. But shoes click, and a voice carries.