Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“I like eggplant, too,” she says, tossing me a bawdy wink. “And peaches. But this shirt doesn’t say anything.”
“It’s a shirt. What do you want it to say?”
That earns me a sharp stare. “Seriously, Jude?”
“Yes, seriously. That’s why I’m asking.” I flap a hand at the pile. “At this rate, I’ll have nothing left to wear.”
“Poor Jude will have to go shirtless. Cry me a fucking river.”
“The abuse, dear woman. The abuse I endure.”
“You’ll miss your free stylist when you’re paying some Hollywood person a pretty penny for picking your wardrobe.”
“I’m not going to have a stylist,” I say. That’s too wild a thought. I still can’t truly believe I nabbed the part in If Found, Please Return, let alone that critics lauded it. I can barely breathe out loud that I’ve been nominated. It’s all too surreal, especially after those two years when I hardly worked at all.
Those dark days never feel like they’re in the past. Just like that, I could be there again, so I need to stay several steps ahead.
“You are,” Olivia insists. “In, oh, say, three fucking weeks, when you go to Los Angeles and accept your Academy Award.”
I cover my ears. “Tra la la la la.”
Stopping her shirt perusal, she grabs my hands. “Please. Don’t be so modest. You’re going to win, and I’m going to be right, and it’s going to be fucking fabulous.”
“What part are you looking forward to the most? Being right?”
She wiggles her brows as she returns to the wardrobe assessment. “Obviously. Being right is one of my favorite things. After dark chocolate cake and multiple orgasms, both of which are on my agenda tonight. Amelia got a new toy to try, so after the show, it’ll be time for cake and banging.”
“In that order?”
She lifts a finger, pausing to think. “Fair point. She’s been sending me nudes all day, so maybe I want the banging first, then the chocolate cake.”
I laugh. “So you’re going to squeeze in a quickie before Adventures of The Last Single Guy in New York?”
“Well, Amelia doesn’t take long to get in makeup.” Olivia stares at the ceiling and taps her lip, likely adding up the minutes to blast off for her and her new main squeeze—the former London Wicked star who’s playing one of the leads in the show we’re seeing tonight. “Now that you bring it up, if I leave right now, I could probably just nip off to her dressing room and sit on her face before she puts on her mascara.”
I roll my eyes. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
“And I can’t take you to opening night if we don’t pick out some clothes. Stop taking so long.”
“Right, right. It’s me taking forever.”
“It so is,” she says, then wheels around to the closet. She gasps and makes a slow-mo point to a robin’s-egg blue shirt. “This shirt says something. It says ‘hot rising star.’ You’re wearing this, and you’re going to look fucking amazing, and TJ is going to melt to pieces when he sees you.”
That’s reason enough. I snatch it from the hanger and put it on.
“You want him to melt, don’t you?” Olivia goads like she’s caught me K-I-S-S-I-N-G in a tree.
No point pretending with her. She can always sniff out the truth. “Yes.”
She swats my shoulder. “I knew it!”
I shoot her a dry look. “You say that like me wanting TJ to melt is a surprise.”
“Because you’ve acted cold! These last months, you’ve acted like you were over him.” She wags a finger. “You’ve been all nose to the grindstone. Work, work, work. No mention of TJ.”
“I wanted to be over him. And honestly, I’m not sure there’s much point in talking about him now, since it’s all a ruse,” I say a little heavily as I reach the last button.
She gives me a doubtful look. “Is it, though? That kiss in the limo sounded pretty stinking hot.”
“Right, but it’s not like we’re getting back together. I mean, Liv, they even have our fake boyfriend breakup scripted out for us.”
“If it’s all just a ruse, why do you sound bummed about it ending eventually?”
Because of the jittery, unpredictable way I feel around my ex—like a popcorn popper, about to explode. “You’re right,” I say as I roll up the cuffs. “We’re faking our romance, so who cares?”
She arches a brow as she slinks forward and straightens my shirt. “You care.”
“Hardly.” I tuck the shirt in, trying to hold my ground. Like, I’m not counting down the minutes till I see my ex. Like, I’m not replaying our kiss over and over. Like, I don’t care one bit.
She steps back, her eyes touring my wardrobe: black trousers, the robin’s egg shirt, short black trendy boots. “Damn, I did well. TJ is going to be a hot mess tonight.”
I can’t hold back my grin. “That’s very, very good.”