Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
The question on everyone’s mind—and comment thread, and Facebook and Twitter feeds—is this:
#WWDJD?
What will “Dearest J” do?
Well, as a man who makes his living wooing wealthy clients and convincing them to part with oodles of hard-earned cash, I’m nothing if not a goddamn expert in customer satisfaction.
Before the closing bell, the People of the Internet will have their answer.
And so will Ellie.
I leave a quick message for Hannah and Lulu to reschedule my meetings for the rest of the day, grab my phone, and take off with a master plan to win back the love of my life. Well, not so much a master plan as a half-cocked scheme and a fool’s hope that my Capital-P Person meant what she said in that postscript, and that she’ll give me a chance to prove how madly in love I am, too.
With or without her porn ’stache.
Like all the most worthwhile endeavors, making my move is a risk. A big one. But if I’ve learned anything about Ellie, it’s that she’s a sucker for a wild scheme and a fool with a big enough tube sock to pull it off.
By the time I hit Vesey Street, I’m ready.
With a deep breath and another dose of blind hope, I pull out my phone, scroll to find the contact info I saved that day on the Great Lawn, and hit the call button.
Spencer answers on the first ring.
“Hey, it’s Jack Holt,” I say. “Can I ask you for a really crazy favor?”
CHAPTER 24
Ellie
Day 30 Thu 8/30
Within minutes of my Barrington piece going live this morning, Ryan texted me to tell me he’s proud of me and wants to meet for lunch tomorrow, but hours stretch on with no word from Jack.
I clean my apartment from top to bottom, reorganize my workspace, and compile a list of new article ideas to pitch to Denise, but still my phone remains ominously silent.
It isn’t until I’m about to hop in the shower to wash last night’s Mexican fiesta-stink out of my hair that my cell finally buzzes. I snatch it from my desk in a rush of excitement, but the text isn’t from Jack.
It’s Gregory, warning me that I’ve got one hell of an email coming, compiling evidence that Blair and William Pool—Lulu’s former asshole supervisor—have been using Blair’s connection at the Department of Justice to get insider information on pending mergers, which they’ve been using to very illegally make themselves and a few of Will’s clients very rich.
So that’s the deal he and Blair were chatting about.
Even though I know once the Feds get involved the news will bring increased scrutiny to S&H and everyone working there, I can’t help victoriously fist-pumping my way around the apartment.
I’m not usually the kind to take pleasure in another’s pain, but Blair is more of a narcissistic, criminal, mean-spirited troll under the bridge of Ryan and Jack’s company than a person, and Will is a greedy jerk who made Lulu cry.
I celebrate their imminent downfall by pouring myself a glass of white wine and sipping it as I page through the treasures Gregory has uncovered.
An hour later, I’ve finished reading the file and am composing an email to break the news to Ryan and Jack, when my cell buzzes again.
This time, the name is the one I’ve been waiting for, the one that makes my heart leap into my throat and stay there, pulsing with a frantic mixture of hope and anxiety.
Unfortunately, the content of Jack’s message doesn’t give me much to go on as far as how he’s feeling about me—Need to talk, Ellie. Can we meet for a drink at Masala?
Swallowing hard, I text back, Yes. Thirty minutes?
After only a moment, he responds, Perfect. I’ll be there.
Deciding the email to Ryan and Jack can wait—better to warn Jack in person about what’s coming, hopefully after he’s told me he’s willing to give us another chance—I rush to the bathroom to shower. If my hopes are dashed and Jack decides to tell me goodbye forever, I don’t want to smell like a burrito while it’s happening.
I complete the world’s fastest primping routine—washing, drying, and curling the ends of my hair before putting on enough makeup to hide how poorly I’ve been sleeping since all the shit hit the fan—and hurry down the hall.
I’m waiting for the elevator when Spencer’s door opens and Sonia sticks her head out, a huge smile on her face.
“Heading out for a hot date?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye that makes me worry she’s changed my ring tone.
“Just going to see a friend.” My toes squirm in my shoes as I wonder if a white sundress, brown shawl, and cowgirl boots looks like I’m trying too hard.
I’m debating rushing back to change into jeans, when Sonia giggles. “Whatever you say.” Her dimples pop. “But take pictures for me, okay?”