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)
She’s right. I’ll have to start a manhunt as well as a job hunt. Starting my own channel isn’t going to equal instant income. Finding a gig, freelance or otherwise, as a fashion writer won’t be easy. Neither will finding a fantastic date.
“I don’t know where I’ll find him,” I vow, “but with the Goddess of Fucked Over Girls as my witness, my plus-one will be perfect. And I will show up at that woodland wedding with my head held high, my mighty pen ready, and a Mister Perfect by my side.” I take a beat. “And after that, I’ll just have to, you know, find a new freaking job.”
“You’re about to start your own newsletter,” Aubrey points out.
I rub my thumb and fingers together. “Mama needs a side hustle till it makes me some money.” Until then I’ll be busy, too, trying to find any openings covering the fashion industry. “The only job opening I’m even remotely aware of is one Ryker mentioned a few days ago, but it’s not quite in fashion. It’s more fashion adjacent.”
“How adjacent?” Aubrey asks, arching an eyebrow. She knows my flair for the dramatic.
“Tangentially adjacent. I mean, it involves costumes, so there’s that.”
“Then, Ivy,” Jackson declares, “it’s glow-up time in every single department.”
We drop off Aubrey then head to our building, where Jackson lets me out in front so he can wrestle the beast that is San Francisco parking. Clutching my quit-my-job box, I head inside and across the lobby. At the elevator, I spot a stranger with a newly familiar profile. Dark brown hair, a little messy in the front, just enough stubble to look the right kind of dangerous, and muscles for days.
It’s my new neighbor—the naked gardener.
2
COMING IN HOT
Hayes
No matter how tempting the brunette beauty standing next to me in the lobby might be, I shouldn’t flirt with someone in the building.
Especially not the night before I start a new job. I’ve got a schedule to stick to for the rest of the evening. I already went for my run this afternoon, then I watered the rooftop garden, and I’m about to chow down on this takeout I picked up for me and my landlord.
Besides, this spicy coconut grilled chicken and eggplant dish from the food truck a couple of blocks over smells just as good as the dark-haired beauty mere feet from me.
Lies, sweet little lies.
I draw a furtive inhale of her. What kind of perfume wizardry is that berry and candy scent wafting off her? Is it shampoo? Bodywash? Lotion she rubbed over her soft, bare, wet skin moments after she emerged from a shower?
Not helpful either, dirty brain.
Best to stick to my sked for the night. Eat dinner, do some yoga, and get to bed early. Tomorrow, I hit the ice for my first practice with the Avengers.
Being the new guy isn’t easy. You’d think I’d be aces at it since this is my fourth team in a fourth city in four years. But I loathe first days. I shudder at the thought of getting to know teammates, coaches, and athletic trainers only to find out—surprise!—I’ve been traded again. This team’s a double challenge. I’m close with the captain since we played together in college, but I don’t want to ride his coattails.
As I wait for the molasses-slow elevator, candy-berry girl heaves a sigh. I steal another glance at her. Her brow is furrowed, and those dark blue eyes look lost in thought.
She’s holding an open box with a couple of framed photos sticking out. They’re snuggling up against a stack of artsy notebooks, a whole mess of pens, and a pink planner thingy with whimsical illustrations on it.
Oh, shit. Those are the telltale signs of someone who either quit or got canned. I can’t say nothing.
I clear my throat. “Rough night at the office?”
She whips her gaze toward me. I take her in. Full red lips. A pert nose. A round face, and so much long, wavy hair—perfect for tugging on. Three tiny silver earrings line her right ear—a rose, a skull, and a dangly thing. Pretty but fierce. Like her eyes, with fire in those sapphire irises. They’re flecked with gold that seems to flicker like flames.
“You could say that,” she bites out, her gaze locked on me instantly. “I quit my job about, oh, thirty minutes ago. Well, I rage quit, only my boss somehow missed all the context clues that I was rage quitting.”
And someone is coming in hot. “Why did you rage quit?”
“Because tonight I found out that my boss is marrying my ex-boyfriend. What’s the big deal there, you’re wondering?” I don’t have to wait for her answer. “That same guy dumped me three months ago because he wanted a”—she stops to sketch air quotes with the hand not precariously balancing the box of office accouterments—“girlfriend upgrade.”