Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Greg looks at a sheet of paper in his hand. “What’s the one thing you hope viewers aren’t noticing about you tonight?”
“Well …” I laugh, looking into the camera. “I hope they didn’t notice my shaky hands when I pulled out Georgia’s chair. She’s stunning in person, and it took me a moment to grasp it.”
“You talked briefly about what search results might overlap. There was a bit of joking back and forth about that. Do you have any guess on what your common areas might be?”
I stifle a laugh as I think about her answer. “Cleaning hacks, meal prep tips … and porn.”
“It’s too soon to tell,” I say. “Although, I will say I’m walking away after our first date worried about her eating habits. We have to do better than string cheese and cookie butter.”
Greg smiles at that, and it reminds me of the smile of relief on Georgia’s face when I ordered for her. It had been so tempting to order something I knew she’d hate—fish or a duck—and watch her suffer through it. But for some unknown reason, I didn’t. And the look of utter relief strangely reminded me of many years ago when she looked relieved to see me approaching her.
It was the same smile—her most genuine one.
The one I never get.
Greg drops the paper to his side. “Last, are you looking forward to date number two?”
I never in a million years thought I’d look forward to spending time with Georgia Hayes. But tonight, with our torches and pitchforks put away, it was fun. Sure, it was only fun because we weren’t really us—just characterized versions of ourselves. But it was enjoyable, anyway.
“I am,” I say, honestly. “She’s the kind of woman who will keep you on your toes. I feel like things might get interesting, and I’m curious to see what happens between us.”
Greg turns the camera off. “We’re good to go. Thank you for showing up tonight with such professionalism. It’s appreciated.”
I shake his hand. “Thank you, Greg.”
“If you hand me your audio pack, you can be on your way.”
It’s a bit tricky to get everything unwound and handed over to Greg, but I manage. We exchange goodbyes, and I wave to Myla as I head to my car.
Date one is in the books. Now to figure out how to amp things up for date number two.
Chapter Thirteen
Georgia
“I don’t know what Eloise will do about this,” Mom says from inside the dressing room. “I don’t even think she has his name.”
I turn the page of my book and sigh.
Halcyon is one of the nicest boutiques in Nashville, and my mother has no business shopping here. But did that stop her from twisting my arm to accompany her on a try-on excursion of outfits she can’t afford? No. No, it didn’t. I could’ve put my foot down and stayed home, but that would’ve given me too much time to think.
And God knows I’ve thought it through a million times.
“I’m sure she’ll figure it out,” I say, forcing my mind away from my date with Ripley and back to the task at hand—saving my mother from spending money she doesn’t have on clothes she doesn’t need. “Don’t fall in love with the black dress. You don’t need it.”
“You’re so negative.”
“I’m realistic. I saw the price tag.”
“Let’s not rule anything out until we see it on me.”
I roll my eyes and curl up in the oversized orange chair in the corner. Then I go back to my book.
Halcyon’s private fitting areas are divine. Each pod, as they call them, has a sitting area, dressing room, and a stocked refreshment center with fancy seltzer waters and various snacks. And it’s quiet. If a personal shopping assistant didn’t check on you every ten minutes, I might try to hang out here. It gives bougie library vibes without a kids’ play center. It doesn’t get much better than this.
“I told Eloise that burning was never good, but she’s in her fifties. She should know that,” Mom says.
“Sounds like she fucked around and found out.”
“Georgia! Mind your mouth. We’re in public.”
I set my book on my lap and laugh. “You’re talking about one of your friends contracting a burning sensation from a college-aged kid in Florida, and I can’t say the word fuck?”
“Not in public.” She groans. “This zipper is too tight.”
“I told you to size up.”
She gasps. “I’m not a size ten, Georgia Faith.”
“It’s just a number. Besides, every fabric and every designer are different. An eight isn’t always an eight.”
“If I were your size, maybe I would say that, too. But I’m not. Have a little empathy.”
I sigh and go back to my book. Just as I get to the part I’ve been waiting for—when the hero realizes she’s always been the one for him—the dressing room door flings open.