Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“But that’s, ahem, fiction. And I don’t have the luxury of time,” I point out.
Hazel grins, patting the notebook and pens. “That’s why you’re going to find a temporary job this summer. We’re going to make a list of your skills. As long as you don’t start looking for a new publishing job right this second, while people can put two and two together and figure out that you’re the perpetrator, you have a shot at coming back. You need to lie low for a month or two and then start working on your triumphant return. I’ll talk to my editor in the meantime. I’ll ask friends too. I will do whatever recon I can.”
It’s not a bad argument. Scandals lose their luster. Maybe I can hunt for a job editing children’s books at the end of the summer.
And, as I glance at my sleeping pup, I hit reverse on my wallowing course. I’ve got a dog to feed, a cat to take care of, bills to pay, and, hello, undies and toys to buy.
Also, I hate wallowing. I’m remarkably bad at it because there’s too much I like doing. I like gardening, and animals, and friends. I like exploring New York, and talking to people, and consuming stories.
And I really like making lists too.
As we eat and drink, I inventory my skills from teaching art to kids, to whipping up an excellent mojito. Not to mention my talent for growing kale like the badass balcony gardener that I am. And then there’s my niche talent for writing about dating and virginity.
When we’re done with the list, I start to see possibilities. Freelance editing, tutoring, art teacher, social media maven. “If anyone needs a sex toy tester, I’d be in high demand,” I say, because talk about a dream job . . .
“Oh! What about your column?” Ellie asks hopefully.
I smile sadly, shaking my head. “I mostly do it for fun. It pays peanuts, as most columns do. I can’t live on it.”
Even though my job died because of it.
I’ve spent the day checking social media, and so far, no one has connected the dots between Mister Sexy Pants in my letter and Mister Sexy Pants in The Virgin Club column.
Maybe Blanche’s email warning did the trick.
And maybe the readership of The Dating Pool and the ranks of my former colleagues don’t overlap. Whatever the reason, I’ll take it, thank you very much.
“Then let’s find some jobs you can live on. You need more side hustles,” Ellie says. “That’s why I do voiceover work. It pays the bills in between the rare TV and movie gigs.”
“Ellie, you’re a regular on a hit TV show,” I point out.
“And it could get canceled at any minute, so side hustles matter,” she says, her gaze wandering to the deck outside the patio door, then landing on the rosemary and the sage. With a glimmer in her brown eyes, she returns her focus to me. “You know, I have a friend who runs a cute shop that might need your balcony gardening skills. Let me make some calls tomorrow.”
“That would be great,” I say.
When they leave at the end of the night, I steal one final peek at the column, scanning some comments.
Stocked up on batteries!
Long live dirty dreams.
I recommend mac and cheese after sex.
That does sound yummy. But first, I need a job. A girl’s got to have priorities. First, rent, then shtupping.
I get ready for bed and am sliding under the covers to read on my phone when an email lands from Bellamy. Most popular piece of the day! Keep ’em coming.
At least there’s one company in New York that wants a piece of me.
That’s a start, and I need all the new beginnings I can get.
7
Big Dictionaries
Milo
* * *
The store is closed and quiet on Thursday night. But here in the back, I’m blasting the Science is Sexy podcast under the bright fluorescents as I put the finishing touches on a complicated bike repair I’ve been working on all week.
And . . . done.
I take off the glasses I wear for up-close work and tuck them into my pocket. Stretching my neck from side to side, I spin the pedals on the bike. “Check this out, girl,” I say to Trudy, who’s snoozing at my feet.
She lifts her snout.
“I know. You’re impressed with my skills,” I say. Me too, since this bike is for a pro cyclist, and he’ll be stoked to have his wheels back in time for a big race.
With that finished at last, I grab the skull earring from the workbench and quickly fix the hook. I drop the earrings into a small envelope. I’ll leave it on Glitter Gal’s stoop on the way home, except I don’t know her name.
Trudy pops up, then stretches into a downward dog. Thank you, girl. I know her dog’s name. On the front of the envelope, I write: For StudMuffin.