Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“What?” I ask.
“Back when we—or, um, Essie, I mean—started this convention—like, the very first one, back when it was small and there was no kind of cachet or anything at all—she looked around for a venue to hold the event that was affordable and that would take us seriously and all that—”
“And you held it at the Siegel Suites?”
“No. We looked at the Siegel Suites and decided that it was too shitty even for us. The place we wound up doing it had cockroaches in the ice cream and even then we all said to each other, ‘Well, at least it’s not the Siegel Suites.”
“Oh.”
“You can’t stay there.”
“It’s fine. I’ll be—”
“It’s not and you won’t. You should be staying here with everyone else.”
“But—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“… What?”
“I’ll take care of it. I’ll get you something.”
“I… They’re sold out.”
“No, they’re not.”
“They said they were.”
“Not for… SS. For SS, there’s room. I got it.”
I stare at him. And, like a lightning strike, an image appears in my mind.
Me, stranded somewhere in the middle of nowhere, dressed in some kind of bar wench’s attire, bodice-clad bosoms pushed up to the point that they almost touch my neck, searching around in the middle of the… marshy Scottish loch or wherever the hell I am… calling out for help.
And then I look to the side and see… this guy. Steve. (Probably Viscount Steve or Marquis Steve or Duke Steve, actually.) Riding across the marsh on a white steed, jacket open, shirt unbuttoned and billowing in the breeze, exposing his strong, appropriately-hairy-but-not-too-much-so-that-it-gets-nappy chest glistening with sweat. “Lady Cordelia! Fret not! Steve is here!”
Ignoring the fact that in my unbidden fantasy he refers to himself in the third person (which is always kinda gross), it’s sorta… hot? Like, not feral, but definitely… sexy? At the very least, it’s romantic-y.
That’s weird.
“I can’t let you do that,” I say.
“You certainly can. And, more importantly, you should let me do that.”
“I dunno. I—”
“Last one,” Britney says, walking up from behind me and plopping down the final cardboard box of books. Somehow it’s elegant when she does it. She’s just wearing jeans and a t-shirt and looks like every other assistant currently scurrying around, helping to set things up, but Brit still manages to come across with an air of grace and fluidity that is completely without pretense.
“Hi,” she says, extending her hand to Steve. “I’m Britney. Cynthia’s assistant.”
For the first time, I notice how tall Steve is. Because Britney has to look up at him a little bit, and, normally, Britney doesn’t have to look up to anyone. ‘Statuesque’ is the most obvious but also the most accurate descriptor for how she carries herself. But Steve is equally statuesque in his own way. Some might call it ‘powerful.’
And as I notice these things and process them in an eye blink, I feel myself flush again. And this time it’s because of something that I don’t expect (of course I don’t; as established, it wouldn’t be unexpected if I did) and I’m not sure I remember the last time I felt, and that I don’t think I’ve ever felt with Britney.
Jealousy.
It’s there for just a fraction of a fraction of a nanosecond before it flies away, but it is definitely identifiable. To me. I only hope no one else can see.
That was also very weird. Lots of weird things seem to be happening right now.
“Hey. Steve. How’s it going?” he responds, shaking her hand politely and nodding but then turning his attention back to me. Huh. That’s cool. “So, I’ll take care of it. That’s it. End of discussion, seriously.”
“Take care of what?” Britney asks.
“He—”
“She can’t stay at that place,” Steve says. “That Siegel Suites bullshit. I’m getting her a room here.”
“Oh, a-MAY-zing. You can do that?”
“Yeah.”
“This is SS’s brother,” I say.
“Oh. Yes! Yes, you are! I recognize your voice!” she exclaims, realizing who’s standing here. “Of course you are. Hi! You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”
“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Well, I’m not. I’m just as tall as I am.”
Britney smiles. “Sorry if I… Sorry. I’m just a big reader and a huge fan of your sister’s and I know that it’s, like, this whole family business now. And I’m just stoked to be meeting the, um, what’s the word? Mischpoke?”
“Mischpoke?”
“I think so?”
“What language is it?”
“Yiddish? I think?”
“What does it mean?”
“Cord, what does it mean?”
“It is Yiddish. It means ‘family.’ Or, like, a group of people.”
“You speak Yiddish?” Steve asks me.
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I heard it once? And it just stuck in here.” I tap at my head. “I like words.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says with a smile that some might call ‘liquescent.’ And by ‘some’ I mean ‘me.’ I’m the one who would call it that. I don’t know anyone else who would. Most might just opt for ‘melty.’ But ‘liquescent’ is, in my opinion, more mellifluous. Which is a word most people wouldn’t use either.