Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
That seems fitting and exactly like something she would do, the little brat.
I cross my arms, waiting, though I actually have a meeting to get to that I will most definitely be late for now that I’m pissing around in the studio parking lot.
I hear her loud sigh over her engine.
“Do you know how much shit I’ll get if I don’t go to that awards show with you?”
She taps on the steering wheel with long, deft fingers.
“Well, do you? I’ve known Mr. Wallace for twenty years. If I don’t go to that ridiculous awards show as your date, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
My pulse quickens, heart racing with something unidentified. What’s that smell? Victory, perhaps?
I can smell it in the air.
“You don’t seem like the type of person who cares what other people think, let alone your parents’ next-door neighbor,” I point out.
She turns her head to stare at me. “Listen, that man gave me my first job. Granted, it was walking his dog and picking up dog shit out of his backyard—but still, a job is a job. I feel…like I owe him.” She tapped on her steering wheel again. “In a weird way, he’s kind of… my grandpa. Don’t you dare tell him I said that.”
Oh, I’m one-hundred-percent telling him she said that.
“Do you have any people in your life you consider mentors?” she asks.
I nod, stuffing my hands inside the pockets of my dress pants. “I definitely do.” Although it would take me all day to list them off, I owe a slew of people thanks for the opportunities they’ve given me.
“Well, he’s one of mine.” Her eyes move up and down my pants to my dress shirt. Down to my shoes and up to my eyes. “I’ll text you.”
Molly slams the car door before I can get another word in, backing out of her parking space and peeling out of the parking lot.
“But you don’t have my number!” I shout after the gray car, dismayed, tempted to race after her if only to prove I can outrun her stupid, fancy car.
Her taillights disappear around the corner building before I walk to my own stupid, fancy car, hitting the unlock button and listening to the bleep bleep echo against the block walls of the surrounding studios.
212-555-4494: It’s Molly. What are the specifics for this ESPN thing we’ve been railroaded into attending together?
She doesn’t mince words or beat around the bush.
I like that about her.
No foreplay—she cuts right to the chase.
Grinning, I reply.
Me: Hey! Glad you found my number. I wasn’t sure how you’d manage.
Molly: It wasn’t difficult—your sister was just at my house. I got your number from Posey, who got it from Kate. *shrugs*
Me: Did you just shrug at me via text?
Molly: Yes. I rolled my eyes, too, in case you were wondering.
Me: You roll your eyes a lot for a grown woman.
Molly: No one has accused me of acting like a grown woman, so—I’m very young at heart.
Before I can reply, my phone pings again with another message.
Molly: Are you stalling with the ESPN information?
One-hundred percent.
Me: First of all, it’s not the ESPN Awards—it’s a broadcasting banquet—and cocktails are served from 6:00 to 7:00, and then the ceremonies start at 8. There’s a reception and Step N Repeat, blah blah blah the whole media song and dance.
Molly: A song and dance we can SKIP, yeah? I don’t need my face plastered on social media when this isn’t an actual date. We are not friends, and this is not romantic. I don’t need reporters hounding me for no reason or Tinder dates getting the wrong idea. ROTFL
Her Tinder dates? Is she online dating?
If she’s dating random dudes on the internet, then what the hell is so wrong with going on a date with me, fake or not?
Feeling sulky, I reply: Oddly, I feel butt hurt that you don’t want to be photographed with me.
Molly: It’s not you, it’s me.
Me: Hey, that’s my line. You can’t use it against me.
Molly: Using it ON you isn’t the same as using it AGAINST you…
Molly: Alright, so let’s shoot for cocktail hour. We don’t have to arrive together, do we?
Me: If you don’t want to arrive together, how were you planning on getting in exactly?
Molly: Um—won’t there be a list at the door or something?
Me: That’s not how this whole thing works.
Molly: Bullshit. There’s a list at the door. Tripp said he’d put us on it. THAT WAS A TEST, AND YOU FAILED.
Me: Why are you like this?
Molly: *Sigh* Why is everyone always asking me that…
Me: Because you’re a tiny terror?
Molly: Story of my life. I’ve been like this since I was in grade school. This is also why everyone thought I would be a defense attorney. Or a federal agent LOL.
Me: I…could see that. But instead, you’re in Information Technology.