Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
“It’s not a date,” I scoff in reply. Unless Warren wants to make out, in which case it can be a date.
Kidding.
Sort of.
“It’s more of a deal,” I clarify. Mostly for myself.
“Sure. Then that crush you have on him won’t be at all awkward.”
“I do not have a crush,” I lie while frantically trying to remember when I mentioned such a thing to Miller. I really, really need to make age-appropriate friends.
“Uh, yeah. You do.”
“Do not.”
Miller raises his head to stare at me with a look of ridicule I’ve previously only seen on the face of my cat. “You should probably delete all those Facebook posts about him then.”
I gasp. “How do you even know about those? You’re a teenager. Everyone knows the kids nowadays are not on the FB!”
That earns me an eyeroll into next week. “I see them when I log on to manage the Facebook page for your store.”
Oh, right. Right, right.
“Fine, whatever.” I shrug with all the maturity I can manage.
“Love is love, Audrey. Whatever floats your boat, I’m not here to judge you. Even boring politicians need love.”
Thanks. I think.
“His press conferences are super sexy,” I mumble. Warren Russo is not boring. He’s fascinating. “Accountability is hot,” I add. Unnecessarily.
“God, you’re weird.”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” I agree.
My cat Gary chooses this moment to leap onto the workstation I have set up towards the back of the store, flopping the entirety of his orange fur-clad body onto the coat Miller is ripping the seams on. He doesn’t have a mouse with him so I allow it. Also, he basically does whatever he wants to whenever he wants to, but I feel better about myself if I pretend I’m in charge.
“You know, a real designer wouldn’t let a cat anywhere near their merchandise,” Miller says, already moving the pincushion out of Gary’s reach.
“A real designer wouldn’t let a high school student anywhere near a vintage Burberry either.”
“Right, right.” Miller nods and then quickly changes the subject, seam ripper flying. “Okay, let’s focus. What are you going to wear? Is the event black tie? Do we need to steam something? Hem something? Rip apart an old dress and start all over? We don’t have much time.”
“Not black tie. Just regular fancy and I have a dress upstairs.”
“Show me.” Miller snaps his fingers over his head. “Quick like a bunny. I’m already fired,” he adds when I stop halfway to the stairs just long enough to shoot him a pointed look.
Freaking kids these days.
I jog up the stairs to my bedroom. I’m only putting a little pep in my step because I’m excited about the dress, not because I’m hustling for Miller. As I pass the toilet sitting in the hallway I question again why I didn’t go into plumbing. Based on the estimates I’m getting to install this thing, the real money is in plumbing, not fashion.
My bathroom is vintage, like the rest of this brownstone. I don’t mind the vintage tile. It’s mint-green and yeah, yeah, it’s old and outdated, but I find it charming. Plus I like old stuff. Styled properly it’s chic. There’s also a vintage green cast-iron sink. Adorable. The original floor tile is white hexagon and it’s in perfect condition. I’ve already re-grouted and re-sealed and the floor looks brand-new.
The problem is the toilet. Also vintage. Vintage terrible. Vintage mint green, which is great for the sink and the tub, but a step too far for the toilet. Besides which, it’s leaking. Which would be fine, because I’m happy to replace it with a white one and a new toilet is less than two hundred bucks.
It’s the leak in the water supply line that’s the issue. And there’s an issue with the drainpipe, which is causing a leak in the ceiling below. And all of that is real expensive.
Luckily the leak is over my kitchen not my store so it’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
I grab the dress I want to wear from my closet and dash back down the stairs with it. I’ve had this dress in my closet for close to a year and I’ve never had anywhere to wear it. I picked it up after my breakup with the intent to rework it and sell it but… I love it. So I tore it apart and put it back together and added a few touches of my own. And keeping it in my closet gave me hope that I might need it someday. That I might have somewhere to wear and someone to wear it for.
Weird arranged setup or not, it’ll still be fun to dress up.
The dress is an old Monique Lhuillier, from the early 2000’s, so not quite old enough to be considered vintage. Just old. I picked it up at a resale shop in New York City for a steal due to the age and a huge irreparable rip. Irreparable if I was going to wear it as is, but totally fixable if you have vision, skill and a sewing machine. I like to imagine the damage was caused by a careless party girl having the night of her life, but the truth is, I don’t know.