Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
A hot sleaze, but a sleaze nonetheless.
I hope he’s not an ass on the phone like he was today. The whole thing was too…contradictory. Honestly, I thought we’d really hit it off and have more in common. I thought our banter when we texted was great. Fun.
I enjoyed it.
Keep it business, Miranda, and you won’t get hurt…
“You’d really consider not selling him the cards because he was a twatwaffle?”
“Yeah, I really would. These were my grandfather’s cards—I want them in good hands.”
“I know, but you need that money.”
True, but… “I have to have some standards, okay? It would be like selling my soul to the devil and I don’t think it would be worth it.”
“Don’t be hasty girl. Give it some thought.”
“I will. Promise.”
“Okay then, switching gears—what about this weekend?” Claire tries again, determined to get me out of my apartment—the one I could barely afford until today, until that $25,000 bank deposit. That will help with the rent, and the security deposits for the office space I have my eye on, some furniture…
I shiver, excited. A celebratory night out would be magic and I could use some right about now.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll come out this weekend.”
“Yay! It’s been forever. And Gretchen’s boyfriend has this new place he wants to try out—you need a password to get in.”
“That doesn’t sound the least bit out of our league.” Or above our paygrade.
“When you’re pretty, you don’t pay,” she says, grinning confidently, her black hair swept back from her beautiful, flawless face.
My eyes roll to the back of my head. “That’s easy for you to say—you’re gorgeous.”
Her eyes roll, too. “Give me a break—you’re gorgeous too. You just feel dumpy because you’ve been living in sweatpants like you’re quarantined. Slap some makeup on and you’ll feel like a queen Mama. I pinky promise.”
Claire is right—I have been living in leisurewear. In my defense, I’ve been working my ass off to get things off the ground with my business which I still cannot believe I’m doing.
With the help of no one.
I have a few mentors, but not a single soul from my family has ever worked for themselves. I’m the first college graduate and the first to start my own company.
“Alright, I’ll let you drag me out on Saturday.” In my hand is the Jenkins card. I tap it on the coffee table. “Now let me get back to figuring this shit out—Mama’s got bills to pay.”
3
Noah
“Here.” Buzz Wallace waltzes into my office as if he owns the place setting a clear, plexiglass box on the desk. It’s about four inches long by three inches wide, housing an item I’ve always wanted.
The Hank Archer baseball card.
“How did you get in here?” is the first thing I ask him, without preamble. Reaching for the case, I grasp it gingerly between my middle finger and thumb, turning it this way and that, inspecting the card inside.
“Garage door was open.”
It was? Shit.
Even though I live in a gated community, I usually make sure all the doors are locked and the garage door is always closed if I’m not in the front yard or jogging through the neighborhood. Too many people coming and going—contractors, lawn care providers, pet sitters, nannies.
“Well make yourself at home,” I sarcastically add when he does just that, propping his feet on the corner of my desk. The bastard is lucky he took his shoes off—otherwise I’d kick his ass out.
“Thanks, I will—as usual.”
“So how did it go?”
He gestures toward the card in my hands. “Obviously it went well.”
But that’s not what I mean; I want details on Miranda. What she looked like, how she behaved. Was she as cute as I imagine her to be?
“And?”
He picks at a hangnail, biting on his thumb. “And what?”
“God, are you really this obtuse?” I roll back in my desk chair, setting the card on the built-in bookshelf behind me. I’ll take it out and inspect it later; for now, I want to discuss the woman who sold it to me. Without being obvious, of course.
“Obtuse? What the hell does that even mean?” He continues chewing on his nail, picking at the cuticle and ignoring me.
Jesus, is he serious? Dude needs a dictionary to translate half the shit I say. I cannot believe he graduated from a Division 1 university with a degree in finance.
“What else? Did you talk to her? Was she normal?” Give me something—anything! I can’t tell him I want information; he’s like a goddamn animal that smells fear and as soon as he knows you want something from him, he takes it away.
As far as friends go, Wallace is bottom of the totem pole. My best friends still live in my hometown, only coming to see me on an occasional weekend here and there throughout the year. Most of them can’t afford to fly to Chicago unless I’m the one paying. Humble, hardworking, family dudes—like me, plus the family part.