Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 84000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Sophia shrugs. “Well, I don’t think gay men are quite as good with their tongues as your brother, but I might be wrong.”
Avril clamps her hands over her ears and Poppy’s jaw drops onto the table.
“I would say that’s game, set, and match to Sophia. Can you two get over yourselves?”
“I’d love a martini,” Sophia says, looking around for a waiter.
“Please god, if I take my hands from my ears, will you promise never to speak about my brother’s…” Avril screws up her face like she’s just smelled sour milk. “Anything, ever again?”
Sophia smiles a genuine smile. She doesn’t seem irritated or offended, just mildly amused. “I’ll promise the only thing I can promise: I’ll meet your energy.”
Jesus Christ, she has balls of steel. I don’t know why I was worried about her walking in here alone.
“Fair enough,” Avril says, uncovering her ears and calling over a waiter. “I need a drink.”
Sophia turns to me. “Two older brothers. This is life around our kitchen table. You learn to keep up.”
As if I wasn’t completely obsessed with this woman already.
“So how long have you two been dating?” Poppy asks.
“Not long,” Sophia answers. “But long enough to know we really like each other.”
My chest hollows out and fills with lightness at her words. I do really fucking like her. I more than like her. It’s so good to know she feels the same way.
“He’s a good guy,” Poppy says. “Interfering? Yes. Controlling, yes. Bossy? Absolutely. But he’s also kind and loyal and honest.”
“And a great brother,” Avril says.
Sophia laughs. “I have no doubt that’s true. Did she give you a copy of her plan as your Thanksgiving gift?”
“Oh, you have Avril down.”
Sophia is only a little older than Poppy, and they seem to hit it off immediately, talking about art and architecture and the bars of Manhattan.
“I’m obsessed with New York,” Avril says. “Completely obsessed. I kinda wish I’d done an art history degree so I could work at the Met. I want to work in a New York institution.”
“J.P. Morgan is a New York institution,” I say.
Avril rolls her eyes. “That’s why I really don’t want Worth tearing down the Ninth Street property.”
“What’s your plan?” Sophia asks her.
“I want to create an institution. An old-school New York hotel. I think it’s coming back in style—all the maximalism of the Gilded Age. It’s such a different vibe to the clean, modern lines of some of the newer hotels and the lack of soul in some of the big chains. I think he should restore the building, but add touches of modern luxury.”
“Sounds gorgeous,” Sophia says. “Are you into interior design?”
“I mean, I’d like to be,” Avril says, her gaze flitting to me and then back to Sophia. “I’m at college for economics. It’s just not me. I want to do something more creative.”
Sophia nods. “I get that. I work at Saks, but in the finance department. I thought it would be the perfect balance between the business side of things and the creative side of things. But there’s not much creativity in finance.”
“I love Saks,” Avril says. “That’s a New York institution for you.”
“I’m living the dream,” Sophia says unconvincingly. “Ultimately, it wouldn’t matter who I worked for. The work I do day to day doesn’t excite me.”
“I get it,” Avril says. “That’s why I want more than a job. I want a family business. Poppy would kick ass on the finance side.”
I snap my head to Poppy. “You’re in on this too?” I ask. “I thought you were enjoying the bank?” I thought that it was just Avril I had to worry about. I didn’t realize Poppy wasn’t happy.
“I do enjoy it,” she says. “But I’m a tiny cog in a huge wheel. I’m basically an admin manager. I don’t get much exposure to the meaty stuff.” She shrugs. “I work at one of the top banks. It’s the job I wanted when I graduated college, but two years in and the shine has rubbed off. A bit like what you’re saying about working at Saks.”
I groan and tip my head back. In the beat of silence that follows, a phone vibrates. I swipe mine from my pocket but no one’s called.
“Is that your phone?” I ask Sophia.
She pulls it out of her bag, which is hooked onto the back of her chair. “It’s just Oliver. Probably wants to wish me happy Thanksgiving.”
“Get it,” I urge her. “We’re not eating yet.”
She’s reluctant, and I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want to appear rude or if there’s something more behind it.
She shrugs. “I’ll call him back later.”
The phone stops and she goes to put it back in her bag, but a text notification pops up almost immediately. She swipes to read it.
Her face turns white. “Actually, I will just call him back.”