Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
She nods crisply in understanding. “We’re on the same page.”
And since we are, I do something I rarely do in business—speak first in a negotiation. “Here you go. I don’t have any food allergies, but you should know I can’t stand mayonnaise. I love spicy food, ideally as hot as inhumanly possible. I drink coffee, a lot of it, probably too much. But my dirty little secret is I prefer hot chocolate, only I never order it when I’m out. I make my daughter do chores and clean up after herself, but admittedly I do spoil her at the holidays, and I justify it because she’s such a good kid and I’m so damn lucky she is. Also, she wants a secret door for Christmas, but I think that’s mostly because she’s been reading books with secret doors in them. Speaking of reading, I often stay up late reading, and I wake up early every day to exercise since cardio’s not only good for the body but for the brain too. I speak Mandarin and learned it in college. I think ice cream is proof of the existence of a higher being, I never sleep with socks on, I don’t walk around in my house with shoes on, and I’m an Aries.”
She smiles. The endless kind. “I can’t quite believe it.”
“That I told you all that?” I suppose I can’t quite believe it either. I don’t usually share so much info.
“That you dropped your zodiac sign into casual convo,” she says, then adds, “and of course you’re an Aries.”
“My mother’s into signs. She has strong Libra energy, she’s always said. I learned it from her.”
“And you have strong Aries energy,” she says, with an approving look and tone, and it feels a lot like a compliment I shouldn’t let myself like too much. “Also, mayonnaise solidarity. It’s disgusting. But I disagree about morning. Mornings should be annexed onto the night, and days should start in the afternoon. I often stay up late to work on new jewelry designs, reading with my earholes. I listen to audiobooks,” she adds, but I’d guessed that was what she meant. “I’m allergic to shellfish, but that’s okay because I don’t eat fish or anything with a face for that matter. Mac sounds like a very lucky girl, and I, too, would enjoy a secret door. I sleep with very fuzzy socks on because I love fuzzy socks, and all socks should be fuzzy. Also, I wear shoes everywhere in my apartment, because shoes are proof of the existence of a higher being.” She pauses, her lips curving before she says, “But ice cream, especially mint, is a close second on the proof scale. Also, I intend to destroy the office this year, too, in the fantasy football league, partly because my mid-season trades were absolutely elite,” she says, and yep, it’s white hot, her confidence about all things gridiron. “I don’t know any other languages, unfortunately, but I can say one very useful thing in French.” Then she rolls her lips together, pops them, and adds, “And I’m a Leo.”
“Yes, you definitely are,” I say. No sign has ever suited someone more. I file away those details in the Fable file without lingering on them like I want to. “What can you say in French?”
I expect the same French line everyone knows, courtesy of “Lady Marmalade.” But instead, she says, “Je voudrais pomme frites s’il vous plait.” A request for fries.
Chuckling, I shake my head at my assumption. “I stand corrected.”
“Were you expecting voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir?”
Do you want to sleep with me tonight?
Expecting it. Wanting it.
That’s a dangerous place to linger, so I admit that was, indeed, my assumption. “Though, for the sake of accuracy, I should point out that you know two French phrases, Fable.”
She concedes with a laugh. “You got me there. I guess it is a good thing you like mutual funds more than I do.”
“I don’t actually like them,” I correct. “I like hedge funds.”
She rolls her eyes playfully, happy to take me down a peg. “Yes, yes. Of course. But what I’m most interested in is this food convo. Why don’t you order hot chocolate when you’re out?”
My nose wrinkles. “It would look…”
“Weak? Silly? Childish?”
I hesitate, not sure I want to admit how important pretenses can be in my world. But she’s nailed it. “All of the above,” I say, answering honestly.
“I figured as much. But don’t worry—I’ll keep your hot cocoa secret,” she says, then lifts a finger. “If…”
One eyebrow raises in question. “If? This is a secret-keeping negotiation?”
“Obviously.” She tilts her chin like she’s staking her ground. “A secret for a secret.”
“You’ll tell me one of your secrets in exchange for me confessing my hot chocolate love?” I grin. “That’s an interesting bargaining strategy, Fable.”