Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 140767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
Holy hot tamales. I shouldn’t be sweating like this fresh out of the shower, but that’s what forty-five minutes of blow-drying will do to a girl.
Confident my hair is as good as it’s going to get, I add a little extra deodorant and spin on my bare feet to look directly down at my girl. Her cheeks pull up in what I’m convinced is a barely there smile, and my heart clutches. I don’t know that I’ll ever get over being the center of someone’s universe.
I don’t have time to get sentimental and teary-eyed right now, though, so instead, I get sassy.
“Girlfriend, we have to get our asses moving if we’re going to make it to the showing in time,” I tell her with a hand to my bare hip. “I have to get dressed. I have to get you dressed. And then, I’m sure, you’re going to want to eat.”
She sucks on her bottom lip.
“Oh, I know, honey. Food is always your top priority,” I say and reach down to pick her up. “It’s mine too. But today, we have to do clothes first.”
Into the walk-in closet of my bedroom with Izzy on my shoulder, I grab a bra, underwear, my favorite black Chanel pencil skirt and matching jacket, and a black silk top to match.
Normally, I’d go with a white or soft pink blouse, but spit-up is a real and constant hazard in my life these days, and black hides mess better. I walk back out to my room, and the clock on my nightstand glares at me with hard facts.
I only have forty more minutes to get us dressed and get Izzy fed if I’m going to have a full fifteen minutes to get across town—which, honestly, is pushing it. Sure, to most people, even me a year ago, that sounds like plenty of time. But once you add a baby into the mix, time seems as if it evaporates.
Come on, Maria, pick up the pace.
I gently lay Izzy in the center of my bed while I get dressed and slip on some heels, and then I pull her back into my arms and head into her nursery.
“What are you going to wear today?” I muse as I scan her closet for options.
A pink onesie with kittens? No.
A yellow dress with bumble bees? Nope.
Balloon onesie with “I’m a floating baby” in big letters on the front? Hell no.
“All you have is frilly lace dresses and sleepers with cute animals on them,” I say out loud as I run my fingers along the clothes hanging in her closet. “This isn’t the vibe we need right now, Iz. All these things scream ‘I’m a baby,’ and Eleanor hates babies.”
I need a power suit. A pencil skirt. A sporty blazer, at the least.
It sounds crazy, I know, to want to dress Izzy up like a business professional, but since leaving her alone in the apartment isn’t exactly an option at this ripe age, I’m kind of in a bind.
The last time I showed Eleanor Waverly an apartment, when she spotted the fourth bedroom that was being used as a playroom, she said, “Ew. I hate kids.”
Nerves clutch my belly. Man, I hope she doesn’t get pissed that I’m bringing Izzy with me to this showing and, like, curse her out or something. People don’t cuss at babies, right?
I’d push this off onto one of my new agents, Daniel or Brenda, but they are not ready for someone like Eleanor. She’s tough-as-nails, rude-as-hell, and the revenue she’ll generate for the company is too much to risk.
When I glance down at Izzy’s denim-blue eyes, she doesn’t look nearly as concerned as she should be.
“Yes, I’m fully aware you are a baby, but I need you to not look like a baby,” I tell her. “You’re a very small adult, okay? Very small. Start getting into character now.”
Izzy sucks on her bottom lip, her mind more consumed with food than anything else.
“All right, all right. You’re a foodie. We can work with that,” I state crazily, carrying Izzy back to my bedroom and into my walk-in closet.
Scanning my clothes again, I spot my smallest business jacket and wonder if I could make it work. I tilt my head to the size. There’ll be a lot of origami folding and safety pinning involved, but if I tuck it at the seam and roll the three-quarter sleeves, I might be able to use it as a business-y swaddle.
I look at Izzy and then back at the jacket and then at Izzy again.
“Am I cracked? This is freaking nuts.”
I look at the black suit jacket again and imagine Eleanor smiling down at Izzy in her current giraffe onesie. The image pops immediately, blown up by impossibility. Eleanor’s going to have my soul for lunch. I look back at the jacket one more time, groaning.