Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“So bothered that we have sex right there, at the table.”
She laughs and it sounds as if she’s really saying this is totally absurd. “So that’s why you stopped going to the place on Main Street.”
“And the bar next door,” I say drily.
The truth is: I don’t take guys anywhere in Huntington Hills. It’s the smallest city in Orange County. Basically, a blip between Irvine, Newport Beach, and Laguna Hills.
Okay, blip is underselling it. We’ve got a population in the tens of thousands and a lot of property with values in the tens of millions (being on a hill overlooking the ocean does that), plus three grocery stores, two dozen restaurants, and way too many shops, med spas, and salons to count.
What we don’t have is anywhere even a little bit cool. Even by Orange County standards, Huntington Hills is hopelessly un-hip.
There is one bar and it’s constantly filled with moms and dads who want to talk about PTA meetings and HOA dues. And there’s that one night a month where older women go to meet younger guys. I accidentally went once, and some guys, who were way too young to legally be in a bar, hit on me, even though I was “actually younger than they liked.”
So, when I date, I go as far away as possible. Well, as far as I can go in under two hours. Which means I schedule all my dates on Sundays in Los Angeles. Despite popular belief, Sundays are mostly traffic-free across all of Southern California.
But my love life, or lack thereof, doesn’t matter right now.
It’s Lexi who is the model of the MeetCute algo’s perfection.
“You should try actually dating one of those guys,” she says. “You might like them.”
“I might.”
“But…?” She pulls out the tube of wine-colored lipstick and presses it into my palms.
I focus on my reflection. There are so many buts.
I’m too busy hustling for money. I’m too tired of pretending to like investors. Do I really have to pretend I already like a guy I’m meeting for the first time, too? I’m tired of wearing high heels to meetings and dates, even if I mostly wear high-heeled boots. Combat boots are so much more comfortable. And nice, thick eyeliner. Not this tiny line I wear to look professional.
The elevator door opens before I can answer her “but.”
Lexi waits for me to finish my lipstick, takes my hand, and leads me into the big, modern lobby.
This is one of the few venture capital firms in our area, and it feels distinctly Orange County. There’s a certain bland perfection to the space.
A busy office with a bevy of workers of all races and ages, all in casual yet expensive clothes, all smiling as they work hard. No cubicles. All open offices with windows letting in the California sunlight and bamboo sit-to-stand desks.
Lexi moves through the space with ease. She knows where everything is. She’s the one who fits into the big, beautiful world here. Because she’s Lexi and she fits in everywhere.
She stops in front of the conference room and whispers in my ear, “We’re going to ace this.”
“You really think so?”
She nods. “You look like ten million bucks.”
“Like a woman who can command a hundred million dollars?”
“Exactly.” She takes a deep breath and lets out a steady exhale, then squeezes my hand and leads me into the room.
Willa Wilder is standing at the other end of the long conference table on her own. No assistant. No partners. No man sitting next to her to prove she’s a real investor (a time-honored technique many women entrepreneurs use to make sure men take them seriously). But Willa is past that because Willa is the one with the money. Willa is the one who makes things happen.
Okay, maybe Willa is a role model of sorts.
She runs a firm that has forty billion dollars’ worth of investments. And she always looks great doing it. Not the way Lexi looks great—in a pink dress, with her long blonde hair and her blue eyes screaming California Girl.
Willa does it in a Boss Babe, I control this place and I could control the universe, if I wanted sort of way.
Willa Wilder is exactly who I want to be in twenty years. She radiates power simply by standing tall in her black suit. She dresses without an especially feminine flair—short hair, flat shoes—but still pulls off a skirt-suit with silver earrings.
She’s the picture of a successful woman. And she doesn’t hide her sex appeal, either. She’s all business, yeah, in a maybe I will have a martini with a twist after this sort of way.
How does that feel, to have people flock to the power you radiate? Someday I will know that feeling.
Willa smiles as she nods hello to us. She’s a friend of our father’s. We’ve seen her at his parties, a few times, but we’ve never met as colleagues. She studies Lexi with an expression of quiet competence, noting the pink dress, the nude pumps, the silver necklace that says stylish businesswoman. “You always wear pink.”