Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
In my best stay-calm voice I say, “Tell me where you are. Are you stuck in the linen department at Bloomingdales again? Are you rocking in a corner yet, or are you still upright and semi-functional?”
She chokes out several miserable-sounding sobs. “Yes. Bloomingdales. Upright. But just barely. Shopping is so awful. How do you people manage this?”
“By ‘people’ do you mean men?”
“Everyone. Men, women, children. This is the worst. I can’t do it, Graham. Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”
“When you put it like that . . .” I glance at the clock. Fortunately, Bloomingdale’s is close. “Tell me what department you’re in. Try to describe it. I’ll be there in ten minutes to perform a search-and-rescue.”
“There are things for the home. Like cake dishes, and ice cream scoops, and blenders. Does that mean I’m in hell? Because they aren’t selling ice cream and cake, so it sounds like hell.”
“Stay there. I’ll find you in housewares.”
I hang up, and head to the elevator. Luna’s being dramatic, of course. She knows how to navigate her way out of Bloomingdale’s. But she detests shopping with the force of a thousand suns, and since I happen to be a master at picking the right item for the right person, I see it as my personal duty to lend a helping hand.
I find her holding a stainless steel elephant napkin holder in one hand and a miniature purple hammer in the other, staring back and forth at each, those cat-eye glasses low on her nose. A huge purse is slung on her shoulder.
When I reach her, I pat her on the back. “Breathe.”
She takes a deep breath, and I remove each item from her hands, setting them down at their displays. “Luna, no one wants an elephant napkin ring for a gift, and I assure you, as cute and kitschy as this hammer is, no one actually needs it.”
She blinks up at me. “Yes, you’re right.”
“Tell me who you’re shopping for. And why you didn’t call me first. We’ve been over this. You’re not supposed to go into the big department stores by yourself,” I tease, talking to her like a child.
She squares her shoulders. “I wanted to get something nice for Valerie because she’s had a rough week at work, and the other night she mentioned something about how nice the table looked when it was set all fancy at a restaurant. So, naturally, I thought she wanted napkin rings.”
I shake my head in sympathy and pet her hair. “Sweetheart, I assure you, no one ever wants napkin rings. If Valerie had a hard week at work, there’s only one thing you can give her.”
“Graham, I did that last night.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Twice.”
“Shut your filthy mind off and go get your wife a gift certificate for a spa day.”
Her eyes sparkle, and she snaps her fingers. “You are the king of gift giving.”
I blow on my fingers, the sign for too-hot-to-handle.
“That’s exactly what I need to do.” Her smile is infectious.
“And look, there’s a great spa around the corner. Stellar Spa. Some of the ladies at the office rave about it. You go there and get a day of pampering for your woman.”
She grabs my cheeks and plants a kiss on my forehead. “I love you.” She’s about to turn around when she says, “Hey, how are things going with your lesson plans?”
I don’t bother to hide the smile that tugs at my lips. “They’re going great.”
“And she’s a good student?”
I let that word roll around in my brain for a moment. Student. CJ hardly feels like a student. She feels like so much more. That’s why the run-in weighed on me. But “more” is precisely what I need to be on guard against. More can distract me from my mission—to laser in on growing Adored.
“The classes are mutually enjoyable.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I’d badger you for more details if I wasn’t in a rush. Oh, by the way.” She dips her hand into her cavernous bag and hands me a small, white bakery box. “A whoopie pie for you.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Luna, did you know you were going to call me from Bloomingdale’s before you walked through the revolving door?”
She shrugs sheepishly. “I might have preplanned a baked bribe.”
“I’ll always accept your baked goods, bribe or not.” I make a shooing gesture. “Now get your ass to Stellar Spa.”
With an afternoon snack in hand, I leave the store. Once outside, my phone buzzes with a note from CJ that stops me in my tracks.
For a full five seconds.
Then I charge into the nearest coffee shop, one next door to a florist, set the whoopie pie down, and get to work on this new crisis.
16
CJ
My heart wages war with my brain, but no way am I letting that tra la la organ win this battle.