Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
His gentle teasing made me laugh despite the sadness I still felt. As he left the room, I dropped onto the end of the bed. I was worn out and achy. There was a marked difference between a good cry, the kind you cry to relieve emotional pressure, and this kind of cry. This kind just condensed the pressure, made it heavier and sharper in my chest and behind my forehead, and worst of all, made room for more.
Neil came back and dropped a cool washcloth into my hands.
I pressed it gratefully to my hot eyes. “Thank you.”
“I hesitate to suggest it, because I fear it might bring on a wave of fresh tears,” he began. “But I know that when you’re upset, you turn to Holli, and the comfort of those horrible low-brow comedies you two inexplicably enjoy.”
A laugh burbled up my throat.
He went on. “I know I make a poor substitute, but if you would allow me to interview for the position—”
“Yes, I will watch stupid movies with you,” I agreed, and for a moment, I felt some of my sadness lift. Not too far off the ground, though. “Hey. In the interest of honesty… I am still really bothered that you told Deja she wasn’t going to work in New York again. I know what that feels like. It doesn’t feel good.”
He winced. “Yes, I know. I won’t actively try to block future employment. I’ll give her a decent enough reference, something about her position not fitting into the restructure. Vague enough that I don’t have to lie, nor condemn her.”
“Good.” I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Good.”
A silent moment passed between us, him studying my face with an expression I couldn’t quite discern. Then he said, “I didn’t realize the loss of your job still affects you so much. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I guess until I saw it happen to someone else…” There was really nothing left to say.
He looked properly ashamed. “I thought that since you had your book deal—”
“It’s a memoir. If I had been a creative writing major, maybe I could be happy just writing memoir after memoir. But let’s face it, the only reason anyone is interested in my life is because I’m with you.” I’d accepted that from the moment the manuscript had gone to auction. “This wasn’t how I imagined my career. I wanted to work in fashion. I invested so much of my time… Baby, I took a dog to a yoga class for pets, all so someday, I would have a good job at a top magazine.
“I worked so hard, and it’s all gone. And I can’t help but see the parallels between my situation and Deja’s. The only difference is: Deja doesn’t have a billionaire to come home to. She has a model. And Holli is one of the hardest working models I know, but that’s not a lot of money. You know that, you’ve seen Porteras’s fashion budget.”
“I have.” He took a deep breath and braced his hands on his knees. “I had no idea how much this bothered you. I am…deeply sorry.”
“Well, it’s not entirely your fault. I did screw up. And I screwed things up with Gabriella Winters. That alone should guarantee that my job prospects in the industry will be few.” I managed a tremulous smile. “But I did right, turning her down. I don’t want anyone to own me. And I didn’t want to lose you.”
He had an epiphany. I could see it on his face. Slowly, he raised his hand, one index finger pointed at the middle distance. “Wait right here.”
“Where are you going?” I asked, but the only response I got was “Wait there.”
When he returned, he held a checkbook and a fountain pen. Sitting beside me on the end of the bed, he uncapped the pen and started writing. “When I launched Auto Watch in 1989, I did it with a loan of two-hundred and fifty-thousand pounds. My father was the sole investor. Now, I can’t be an investor. It would be a conflict of interest. But I can write you a check…”
My eyes widened, and I slowly dragged the cool cloth from my forehead.
“…From my personal…account.” He finished his signature with a flourish and tore the check free. “That’s not an investment. It’s not a loan. I’m giving you the capitol to start up, but I have no other connection to it.”
I took the crisp slip of paper from him. Half a million dollars.
“It’s a modest budget, but if I could do it with two hundred and fifty thousand, you can get by.”
“Do what?” I had no idea what was going on. For a split second, I wondered if he’d just written me a check to get out of an argument. “What are you talking about?”