Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Not officially. Actually, Ami’s birthday isn’t for a few more weeks, and there’s going to be an official party then. But Ami’s a believer in celebrating not just birthdays, but birth months. In her mind, the anniversary of your appearance on this planet is something that should be celebrated on an epically large scale. Which means at least five, if not more times this month, we’re going to be celebrating the blonde ambition that is Ami.
Some of the celebrations are probably going to be small, like her saying our after-work hang-out tonight is in her honor when we do this fairly regularly. Others are going to be larger, with various friends and groups, and of course, the main event itself is going to deliver on the celebration.
“Oof, we were thinking karaoke, but you don’t look like you’re up for cocktails n’ crooning,” Ami says, walking over with a tall glass that looks suspiciously like a mojito, her favorite, and looking at me closely. She’s definitely pregaming. “Everything go okay today? He didn’t jerk you around on all of this, did he?” Her voice hardens in that protective way that makes me love her, and I have to smile.
“Oh, my God, he didn’t fire you on your first day, did he?” Maggie asks, getting up and joining in on the worry parade. I must really, really, look a mess, and at that realization, my smile widens to a full-blown grin.
“I’m okay,” I assure them, toeing my heels off and hanging my bag by the door. Running my hand through my hair to try and smooth away the freshly-fucked look to my tresses, I add, making sure my tone is light, “I promise. Just tired, that’s all.”
Both of them stare at me, Maggie in leather leggings and a crop top sweater I doubt I could pull off and Ami in flared jeans and a sexy hot pink blouse. I look down at myself and realize this is not going to cut it tonight. The heels can stay. The rest needs to be changed.
“Good tired or bad tired?” Maggie asks and then heads to the kitchen, pouring me a glass of wine. My savior. “Come on, sit down and share while you gird your loins with some good stuff.”
“I don’t think I… okay,” I reply as Ami pushes me toward the couch, not taking no for an answer. I guess since I’m putting a damper on her birth month celebration tonight, I’ve got to do what she says. My mind races with exactly what I should tell them. My instinct is to divulge every single freaking detail because they’re my best friends. But I’m not entirely sure that’s wise. I’ve had enough judgy looks in the last week to last me a lifetime, and I don’t want to add their frowning faces to the lineup.
Maggie comes over with one of the big glasses, filled with far too much wine for the shape, and sits down next to me. The sofa shifts, and I worry for that wine, but somehow, it doesn’t spill. “Take a drink and spill.”
I take a deep sip of the wine, once again appreciating Maggie’s background. She grew up with a lot more refinement and education where it comes to taste, and that carries over to her pick of il vino. It’s a good wine, probably a lot more expensive than the cheap corner store stuff I normally pick out, and as I take another pull of the wine, I’m thankful for it and mostly for her and our friendship.
“Work today was smooth,” I start off, trying to organize my thoughts and twirling my glass between my fingers. The wine sloshes, not spilling out but making waves that help me focus. “They had me do a bunch of HR related stuff at first.”
Maggie rolls her hand at the wrist. “Get to the good stuff. Did you see him?”
I’m about to say something, though I’m not sure what, when Ami screeches, “Wait. Hold that thought. If we’re not going out, I’m still going to celebrate me and my awesomeness. And I know a place that makes this mac n’ cheese that you will swear is better than sex. Best of all, they deliver.”
“Are you sure?” I ask her quickly, the apology clear in my tone, leaning closer. “I can rally,” I tell them, and they both shake their heads.
“Gossip is better, and I’m a bit tired too,” Maggie confesses quietly. Ami’s focused on her phone, desperate for mac n’ cheese, and doesn’t hear our shared groan of relief at not having to summon energy for the club tonight.
“Aaaand… done,” Ami cheers, doing a little dance. “Dinner will be here in forty.” Looking back at Maggie and me, she says, “Where were we? Oh, yeah, did you see him?”
I smile into my wine, which is answer enough, apparently, because in unison, they both say, “Ooh!”