Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Hayes: Or…the next time I get dirty while gardening and strip off my clothes on the roof before I head to the shower, I’ll just stay out there longer. A lot longer.
And I have my answer. If yesterday’s show had shifted from fun to sexy, I’d have watched more.
Ivy: I think I need a shower now.
Hayes: I just got out.
This is another chance. To find out if I do like sexting. I was bold last night when I quit my job. Might as well be bold now.
Ivy: Prove it.
The man doesn’t make me wait. Another photo lands seconds later. It’s a sliver of his abs. I can imagine water sluicing down those carved muscles and into the top of the white towel cinched around his waist. He’s strong, but not perfect. There’s a small, horizontal scar on the right side of his stomach. It’s an inch long, white, practically translucent, like he’s had it for a while. I want to trace that scar then run my finger along those star tattoos on his hip.
Ivy: That’s my favorite kind of evidence.
Hayes: Good. I’d keep this up, but I have to go to work. But don’t check out any other rooftop gardeners today. Got it, Ivy?
Holy shit. Did he just give me an order to stay away from other guys? He sure did, and I like it.
Ivy: Yes, sir.
After a long, hot shower, I get dressed, then force myself to fire off an uncomfortable email to Simone. I ask about the dress code, hit send, then shake off the ick to find a text from my brother. He tells me he called the marketing department and they desperately need me for the gig.
I thank him profusely, then turn my attention to the job hunt, reaching out to the publications I used to freelance for. Then, I plan some outfit-of-the-day ideas for Beatrix’s shop and send those along to her. After that, I write my first post for social, picking the handle YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend and writing what I call the “Look The Part” fashion rule. In short, since you never know who you’re going to run into, be it a colleague, hookup, or client, don’t leave home looking like you just changed the cat litter. I finish it with this line: You never know when you might run into that certain someone you’ve got a thing for.
As I’m leaving for my meeting, my phone pings with a comment on my post. I’m unreasonably excited as I click it.
The handle is Number18. I’m following this advice today.
The comment has a masculine tone to it. I’m not sure why, but it just does. I reply with a cheery: Glad I could be helpful!
Seconds later, there’s a response.
Number18: There’s a certain someone I might run into today. I’m thinking a nice Henley.
YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend: You can’t go wrong with a Henley!
Number18: Yeah? You approve?
YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend: It’s one of my favorite looks.
Number18: Noted.
YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend: Let me know how it goes.
Number18: I definitely will. I’ll report back if I see her. Call me a hopeful guy.
So I was right in my assumptions. Something about him seems confident, too, and a little cocky. It’s a good combo.
YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend: Good luck, hopeful guy.
5
NEW GUY, TAKE FOUR
Hayes
My car probably wants to know why we’re cruising through the streets of San Francisco and not downtown Los Angeles. Four months since the end of my season there, I’m heading to the Avengers facility a week ahead of the new season here. I’ve got a Stone Zenith rock anthem turned up and doing its damnedest to drown out an annoying hint of nerves and a definite case of here we go again.
I grit my teeth, refusing to give in. Eventually, I’ll meet a team that wants to keep me. No idea if it’ll be this team, so all I can do is keep my head down, play well, and avoid trouble.
I hang a right onto Van Ness on instinct, grateful I don’t have to learn a new city this time. I grew up in San Francisco, and even though I’ve bounced between Toronto, Seattle, and Los Angeles, I’m back home now.
That means I’ll need to arrange for tickets for Dad and his girlfriend so they can come to my first game. Not my mom. Never my mom. And…that’s brought to you by all the things I don’t want to think about. I turn the music up until I can’t hear a damn thing in my head.
The chorus thrums in my bones as I pull into the players’ lot and cut the engine. I glance around, scanning for arriving teammates but seeing none. I can’t coast on the fact that I know the team captain. Don’t want to look like the popular guy’s friend. I’ve got to do this myself. I looked up everyone online, memorized the roster, and matched names to faces to try to make this transition easier.