Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him, needing this conversation to end.
“You’re off tomorrow,” he reminds me.
I roll my eyes. I totally forgot. Tomorrow is my day off.
“Right. I forgot, since tomorrow I’ll spend most of the day running dresses all over the city.”
He knows all about my side business. Two years ago, I was doing a home visit for one of my very wealthy clients who was attending a charity ball later that evening. She showed me all her designer gowns and dresses—she only ever wore them once. All I could think was that it was such a waste. No way should Michael Kors, Vera Wang, Tom Ford, or Phillip Lim be forgotten in someone’s closet. That’s when I came up with my business idea. I talked to her and a few of my other clients. Surprisingly, it didn’t take me much time to convince them to go along. Once I got them to agree, I got pictures of their dresses and accessories that they wouldn’t mind lending out. That’s how I started Designer Closet. I rent out items from other people’s closets. Clients will tell me what they’re looking for, and I’ll find it. They pay a set price; then they return the item or items to me when they’re done with them. I have the items cleaned before I return them to their owners. I haven’t made millions from the business, but I have made a decent amount of money. Enough that I’ll be able to put a sizable down payment on a condo in the city.
“Make sure you also spend some time resting.”
“I will. I’ll see you the day after.” I kiss Palo’s cheek once more before I leave him in the office. Walking through the salon, I smile at the other stylists, but I don’t stop to talk since they all have clients.
“See ya, Libby,” calls Max, our receptionist. He’s prettier than most women I know. I turn to find him leaning against the receptionist desk with a smile on his face. His full lips are glossy, and his eyes are lined with dark pencil, making them stand out against his pale complexion.
“See you, Max. Have a good night.” I smile back, then turn and open the door.
As I step outside into the cold, I shiver. I stop and pull my hat and gloves from my purse, putting on both before heading down the block. As much as I want to take a cab across town, I don’t. Right now, traffic is ridiculous; everyone is trying to get home. Going to the subway station on the corner, I take the stairs down to the packed platform. Two trains pass before I’m finally able to get on one. By the time I make it to my side of town, it’s five thirty—thirty minutes later than I told Antonio I would be at Tony’s. I don’t go home to change since I don’t have time; I just head right to the shop. I step inside Tony’s and pull in a lungful of warm air. It smells like pizza dough and comfort. Peggy is at the front counter taking orders, and an overwhelmed-looking Hector and Marco are making pizzas. I hurry through the crowd of people waiting in line to place their orders and go to the office. I don’t knock. I walk in, then stop in my tracks when I see Antonio’s shirtless, muscular back. My stomach twists and dips at the sight before he pulls a plain navy-blue T-shirt down over his head.
“Uh . . . hey.” I clear my throat and avoid his eyes as I tuck away my purse in the corner of the room, then take off my coat and put it over my bag.
“You can’t wear that shirt out there,” he says.
Since I’m the only person in the room, I know he’s talking to me. I turn to look at him.
“Here.” He holds out a T-shirt the same color as his, with TONY’S written in yellow on the front. “You’re not going to argue with me?” He raises a brow, seeming surprised.
“This shirt cost close to two hundred dollars,” I say as an answer, watching his jaw clench.
“Right. See you out front.” He leaves without looking at me again. Watching the door close, I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but I do know that he needs to get over it.
Changing into the T-shirt he gave me, I tie a knot in the waist at the side since it’s too long to leave loose or tuck in. Once I’m ready, I leave the office and head through the half door that cuts off the back of the shop from the front.
“Where do you want me?” I ask Antonio.
He’s kneading large balls of pizza dough on a flat stainless-steel surface that’s covered with flour.