Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Oh, you run Better With Pockets,” I say brightly.
“I do,” the woman says.
“And Beatrix has some good news for you,” Fable says with a big get your ass over here grin.
“We’re doing an impromptu sidewalk block party and sale tonight. Do you want to include some of your necklaces—”
I say yes before she can even finish.
I dart into my office and call Carter during a quick lunch break. He answers with a “hey,” then there’s a loud clang of heavy metal hitting the ground.
He must be in the weight room. Mmm. That’s a nice image. Carter pumping iron. It brings me more good vibes.
“Hey, I can’t meet tonight. I’m sorry. But it’s good. I swear,” I say, feeling a little guilty for being so excited about a sidewalk sale instead of mirror sex. And all the things that come with mirror sex. Like laughter, and friendship, and…oh! We really need to do that puzzle. I really should add that to my to-do list.
“Oh,” he says, with a tiny note of disappointment and a second or two of quiet.
What does that mean? Is he bummed? Edward was never bummed. Edward never seemed disappointed when something came up for me at the store. Even the time I had to cancel a dinner because the neighborhood business association in Venice called an impromptu meeting to discuss the prevalence of weed in the area. But of course, Edward had other things to keep him busy. He’d just gone to Palm Springs to play papa.
“No big deal,” Carter adds, all cheer now, like he shifted gears and is back to speed. “What’s the good news?”
It takes me a second to shift gears because I’m strangely liking his disappointment. That’s a sign he really wanted to see me tonight. Well, he wanted to bang you.
But you know what? Even if Carter’s bummed about no banging, I’ll take that as a victory because I know I’m the only one Carter’s banging.
And that is a very good thing.
With that settled in my mind, I quickly explain that Bling and Baubles was invited to be part of a sidewalk block party with other businesses on Fillmore Street.
“Fuck yes,” he says, and his enthusiasm is so genuine. It’s another thing I feel for sure. Another thing I like being certain about. “I knew it.”
“I’m so excited. I kind of can’t believe it,” I say.
“Things are happening for you. You deserve it.”
Do I deserve it? I don’t know that I believe people deserve good things. But I want to earn good things. Maybe my apology for my bad vibes set the stage for some good karma.
“I think it was the girlfriend lessons,” I confess in a whisper.
“Explain.”
“I think they’re helping my mood. The dates and, well, the ultra-sexing too,” I say, though I’m pretty sure spending time with someone I trust is the medicine. Someone I trust myself with.
“You’re a life doctor, Rachel,” he says.
“Evidently. Oh, and you can stop by if you want.”
Quickly, he clears his throat. “Hey, I need to jump. Wilder is coming in.”
“Oh, right. Go, go, go,” I say, then hang up. I stare at his name on the phone a little longer, feeling bad that I won’t see him tonight after all.
But I’m here in San Francisco to rebuild my life, my heart, my soul. And lately, my business. Tonight, I will be all-business Rachel.
Even if I’ll miss Carter.
A lot.
28
MY, WHAT A BIG EGGPLANT YOU HAVE
Carter
There’s no mistaking the precise echo of wingtips on the concrete floors in the training facility. People who work here wear sneakers—the guys on the team, the trainers, the coaches. If I’m hearing wingtips, it means either the owner or the general manager is on his way.
While I’m not scared of Wilder Blaine, per se, the boss is the boss is the boss. So when the man wearing the expensive shoes appears in the door to the weight room, looking like a billion bucks, I do what I would with anyone.
Parked on the weight bench, I curl the heavy weight one more time, then another, saying, “Nine hundred and ninety-nine, one thousand.” I set down the weight and blow out a satisfied breath, turning to my buddy. “Hard to keep up with me, isn’t it, Hamlin?”
From his spot at a nearby bench, my teammate scoffs. “Never, Hendrix. I already ran eight miles,” he says, before he turns to the man in charge. “Oh, hello, Mr. Blaine. Just getting a light workout in before I memorize all the new plays.”
Wilder gives a small, humoring smile. “Competition. I like that.”
He shifts his attention to me, his eyes a little…intense.
Oh, shit. I brace myself for some sort of comment about the Sunday game, a try harder, do better thing. Which is kind of ridiculous because Wilder doesn’t indulge in that level of micromanagement. But then again, he doesn't usually stop by the weight room unless there’s some kind of business to discuss.