Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 129427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“And they aren’t. New designers and cosmetics companies will step in to fill their places. This could be a revolution. A welcome one, I think.”
I tried a different tactic. “What does Rudy think?”
His non-answer told me everything I needed to know. The pan clattered onto the cold back burner. “Rudy is a genius when it comes to fashion, no one would argue otherwise. But he doesn’t know the first thing about publishing.”
“So, he thinks it’s insane, too?” I shook my head. “Do you listen to anyone? Or do you just pay them huge amounts of money and then ignore their opinions?”
Neil picked up a stalk of green onion and slapped it on the cutting board in exasperation. “This isn’t a conversation I’m willing to have with you, Sophie.”
“Why? Because I’m just a lowly beauty editor?” I snapped.
“Assistant beauty editor,” he reminded me tersely as he chopped the onion.
Oh no, he did not.
“Fine.” I turned to stalk away. The hell I was going to take that from him. Behind me, he swore under his breath. I heard the knife clatter to the countertop. He caught up with me and put himself between me and the door. I hate when people do that. If I weren’t so fucking rational, I would have just knocked him down. Damn my logical calm.
He put one hand on my shoulder to stop me, and he was cautiously gentle as he did it. “Are you really going to storm out of here just because we got into a silly little argument?”
“Yes!” I shrugged off his arm. “And it’s not silly. This is my job! This is my career. I have to be able to support myself, and I can’t do that if the magazine goes down in flames because you wouldn’t listen to anyone.”
“I listen to people,” he argued, and when he gestured with his hands, droplets of red splashed across the front of his t-shirt. “I listen to—”
“You’re bleeding!” I was immediately grateful for the lack of omelet in my stomach. I could not handle blood. Not mine, not someone else’s. The very sight of it freaked me out.
“What?” he frowned at me, exasperated further at my interruption. Then he spotted the blood running down him arm. “I barely nicked myself.”
“Are you arguing with yourself for bleeding? Really?” I raced for the counter and grabbed the towel. “You can be so fucking obnoxious.”
“Will you stop sniping and help me?”
“Okay, hang on.” I swallowed my squeamish fear and reached for his hand. “I swear to god, if you get even a drop of blood on me, I’m going to puke.”
“Here.” He snatched the towel and wrapped it around his hand. “I could have sworn I just barely nicked myself.”
I suddenly felt lightheaded. The room blacked out around the edges, and everything in the center got fuzzy. My stomach gurgled, and I tasted bile at the back of my throat. “Whoa. I really don’t feel good.”
The plan was to stagger to the island and throw up in the bar sink, but I ended up just sitting on the floor and leaning my back against the cooler door with my eyes shut. Neil hurried over, as if he would try and catch me, but I waived him off. “Seriously, if you get blood on me—” I felt a dicey burp well up in my throat, and I turned my head.
“You really are going to be sick, aren’t you? Over a little bit of blood?” Now he laughed softly, and I wasn’t impressed.
“I’m sorry, I think blood should stay inside of a person,” I snapped. “Besides, now that you’re not dying, I’m mad at you again.”
“I very well could be dying,” he argued. “This thing is gushing, I hope I don’t need stitches.”
I made an only-slightly exaggerated retching noise.
“Sorry.” He laid his non-bloody hand on my knee. “I hate that the decisions I’m making at work are troubling you. I hope you know that if anything ever did happen, I would find a way to make it up to you.”
I thought of the “& Stern” part of his company’s name, and the gossip Jake had passed along in the car. I didn’t like the idea of a similar arrangement. “But that’s not what I want. You’re not obligated to make sure I succeed in life just because we had sex.”
“I didn’t think I was,” he said, a little defensively. “But I wouldn’t let someone I care about suffer from my mistakes. There’s such a thing as being too independent, you know. I didn’t get where I am entirely on my own steam. Every successful person I know had help somewhere along the way.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t think of anything to say. And it was remarkably difficult to not admire him a little for admitting that, which wasn’t terribly helpful when I wanted to stay angry.