Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“I know a good diner in the city.”
“Let’s go there.”
At Neon Diner we don’t talk about boys or men, or the past. We don’t talk about the job she wants me to take on someday at her company.
Another time. Another time, too, I’ll tell her I have a meeting with Mia later this week to talk about next steps.
Instead, we chat about the best and the worst restaurants in the city, about Ethan’s band and Harlow’s art gallery and Jules’s work casting new TV shows, and Camden’s burgeoning business.
Mom eats up every detail.
When we’re done, we say goodbye on the street. We part ways without her mentioning Nick, or men, or Beautique.
Perhaps it’s a new start for us.
And I hope it’s one for her.
46
IT’S NOT MINE
Layla
Mia hardly seems like a person with a typical office in a skyscraper, so when she sent me her work address, a quick Google search confirmed my image of her in a cute little brownstone nestled in the Village, surrounded by flowers.
Now, on Wednesday morning, I’m here at the top of the stoop on this quaint-by-Manhattan-standards block, pressing the buzzer.
“Just a sec,” she calls out from above. I look up. On the second floor, she’s busily watering plants on a balcony. Okay, that tracks too. A giant floppy hat covers her hair. “Women of a certain age,” she says, pointing to the hat.
That seems to be her mantra.
“A floppy hat is like Paris. It’s always a good idea,” I say cheerily.
“Let’s market floppy hats too!”
If Mia did, indeed, launch a floppy hat line next I wouldn’t be surprised.
A few seconds later, she buzzes me in, and I trot up the steps to her home. The door is peach—on brand too.
She swings it open. “Come in, love,” she says, then ushers me down a hallway to a staid door and into her office.
An oak desk commands the center of the room with two navy-blue chairs opposite it. The walls are a cool white. It’s a sleek and powerful contrast to her dancing-through-life style.
She pats the back of a chair for me, then takes the other. “I have a proposal for you, and I didn’t want to talk in public,” she says, firmly in business Mia mode. It’s a little jarring since I’m used to the breezy side of her. But then, Mia’s always had her public self and her private self. I suppose my mom’s like this, too, and so am I.
People see what you let them see. But they also craft their own versions of you, whether you want them to or not. The key to survival is knowing when and with whom to share your different sides. That’s all you can control.
“I want to buy The Makeover and make it part of Mia Jane,” Mia says, and wow, that’s cutting to the chase. I was not expecting an offer this quickly, if she made one at all.
She hands me a sheet of paper. A little stunned, I take it then school my expression as I read the amount. It’s a helluva return on our investment.
This can ease Geeta’s burden. A lot.
But I’m still wary. Sometimes offers are too good to be true, so before I get ahead of myself, I nudge her with, “But I suspect that’s not all?”
Mia smiles like I nailed the answer on a quiz show. “There is a condition. I want to integrate the app into my makeup brand, with the proviso”—yup, here comes the strings—“that you come on board as my second-in-command and run the company with me.”
Mia’s offer is amazing. I’m still reeling. But I’m not the only one who gets to decide. There are two of us. I hustle to Hoboken as fast as I can because this is an in-person conversation. When I reach Geeta at her favorite tea shop, she’s buzzing, and I don’t think it’s from the chai half-finished in front of her.
“Can we get the money today?” she asks.
This is why we’re a good team. She’s full-speed ahead, and I’m more of a take-our-time gal. “Probably not. We should talk about it first,” I say. “Do our due diligence and all.”
She nods at supersonic speed. “Right. Of course. Especially since it has to work for you since they’re buying you too,” she says, her voice full of restrained hope that the deal will work for me.
That’s the crux of the issue. I’m part of the deal.
Mia doesn’t just want The Makeover. She wants me.
Am I even available? My mom wants me to join her at Beautique. She expects me to. She thinks my dad wanted me to join her.
I’ve been avoiding the decision. I’ve been dodging her comments about working together because I’ve enjoyed doing my own thing. I’ve put my head in the sand, refusing to make a real decision about the join-me-in-the-family-business expectation.