Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“I’ll take it,” I say before I can stop myself.
“I knew you would,” she answers with a supportive smile.
While I shakily pull out my credit card and tap it to the device on the desk, she puts the ring into a box, carefully wraps the box in tissue paper, and places the bundle into a cute little brown bag with the store name stamped on it. She even loops ribbon through the bag handles, tying a bow, but truthfully, it’s ridiculously plain packaging for something so valuable. Somehow, the contrast seems fitting, though, because I’m going to take the simple design and turn it into something spectacular.
“Promise you’ll show me a picture of it when you’re done?” she asks, giving me a warning look, as if I’d consider saying no.
“Of course,” I agree easily.
“Hope you find someone who appreciates their Hoover enough to reward them like this.” She wiggles the bag pointedly.
“Me too. Your mouth to the universe’s . . . dick?” I laugh at the strange decree, and she taps her nose like it’s not weird at all, but rather a spot-on manifestation.
When she hands me the bag, I immediately grip it to my chest protectively, a huge smile on my face. There are champagne bubbles of giddiness rising inside my belly . . . well, either that or my breakfast is gonna make a reappearance, but I’m hoping it’s the former.
I tell Carolynn thank you and goodbye before stepping out into the spring day, where the bright sunshine balances the slight chill in the air. Walking down the sidewalk, I can’t help but think about how this is going to be a new benchmark in my business and in my design skills, and the ideas are already spinning in my mind.
Chapter 6
Penny
Should I redo the setting in platinum instead of gold? That’d instantly make it feel brighter and more modern. What about a halo surround? Though, at five karats, it’s already a door knocker of a stone and doesn’t need more to seem large and in charge. Maybe I turn it into a set, using the baguettes for the wedding band and the round diamond as the engagement ring? That’d increase my buying audience. Not to sound cynical, but love-drunk people are usually more willing to invest than sorry-I-fucked-up people, and if I can get someone both love drunk and rich, I’ll be skipping my happy self all the way to the bank.
I’m nearly skipping already, so lost in my own musings that I don’t notice the refrigerator-size shadow approaching until it’s nearly right on top of me, blocking my way and the sunlight.
“Are you talking to yourself? I guess what they say is true . . . simple minds can entertain themselves for hours with nothing more than the dust bunnies in their heads.”
I flinch, becoming aware of my surroundings in a whoosh and seeing Griffin standing directly in front of me, almost taking up the entire sidewalk. His arms are crossed over his chest in mocking sternness, and his eyes are filled with laughter.
He’s laughing at me.
Not on the outside—he rarely does anything as jovial as that. But deep inside that black heart of his, he’s laughing that he caught me mooning over seemingly nothing.
“Better than any conversation with you,” I snap back, then offer, “Wait, need me to dumb that down for you? You, no good talkie. Me, better without you.” I wave a hand dismissively like I’m shooing him away.
“That’s definitely true,” he mutters under his breath.
I’m so surprised at his agreement that I bark out a laugh. He usually doesn’t agree with anything I say, to the point where I think he’s just decided to be on the other side of any fence—as far away from me as possible, verbally speaking—no matter the topic. I could say the sky is blue, and he’d argue that sometimes it’s gray, or I’d say that cake is delicious, and he’d make a face of disgust, though I know he eats cake because I saw him put away a slab of the three-tiered chocolate-sprinkle one Mom made for Dom’s birthday.
So his easy agreement, especially with the hint of an almost sad smile at the corners of his lips, puts me on edge. There’s a shoe drop coming in three, two, one . . . but nothing happens.
I even glance around to see if I can find the hidden camera, because there’s got to be something weird going on. He doesn’t chitty-chat with me. He’s genetically averse to small talk. And he certainly doesn’t smile, or almost smile. Because he hates me.
He wraps a hand around his neck, pulling on it like he’s uncomfortable or nervous, two things I don’t think he’s actually capable of experiencing. “What’re you doing down here?” he finally asks.
And it is a question, not a demand for information. He almost sounds like a normal guy making conversation. Except we don’t do that, so I’m automatically on high alert, still searching for the trick.