Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
He stops flipping through the rack to give me a teenage glance of disdain. “You need a man to fix the leaky pipes,” he deadpans with a meaningful glance upstairs. I’m on my third plumbing estimate. “And another one to patch the drywall.”
Oh.
“Still sexist,” I grumble. “You know the last electrical estimate was from a woman.”
“Whatever.” He pauses, no doubt for dramatic flair. “But since you brought it up, a date wouldn’t kill you.”
“I did not bring it up!” I don’t think. Damn teenagers. I wasn’t anywhere near this much of a know-it-all when I was that age.
“A little romance would be good for your creativity. And maybe he’d know how to use a hammer.”
“Miller!”
“What?” He glances up from the rack. “Don’t be gross, that wasn’t an innuendo. You clearly need the help around here. And a date.”
“I don’t—” I cut myself off. Forget it. I’m not arguing with my teenage non-employee about my nonexistent love life. It’s none of his business. Besides, teenagers are master arguers. I need to focus on Mrs Bianchi. Not that there’s anything for me to do but stare at the fitting room curtain and wait.
“I could make you an online dating profile.”
Okay, clearly my focus needs to be redirected to nipping this idea in the bud.
“Online dating? Have you tried online dating, Miller?” I level him with what I hope is a serious look. Eyebrows raised, hands on hips. Freaking kids these days. They have no idea what it’s like out there in the real world.
“Of course not. I’m still in high school,” he scoffs.
“Exactly. Well, let me enlighten you. Online dating is a nightmare. The only good match I’ve ever made online is with Gary, so thanks for your offer, but no.”
“Gary’s a cat.”
“Point made.”
“Fine, become a spinster. Whatever.”
“Thanks,” I reply drily.
“You can leave all this”—he waves a hand around my store—“to me when you die.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“You’re on the shelf without an heir.”
This kid. “An heir? Are historical romance novels required reading now at Albany High?”
Miller shrugs and pulls a vintage green wool coat from the rack, already bored with me or eyeing his future inheritance, I’m not sure. “What are you going to do with these?” he asks, running his hands over the lapel.
“I’m not sure yet.” I peer over his shoulder at the coat. I paid twenty dollars more than I wanted to for it, but I’m obsessed with the color. “The material is timeless, but the shoulder pads need to go, so it’ll need to be completely reworked. It’s great though, right?”
“Can I rip the seams?” he asks, seam ripper already in hand. I tell him to go for it, my focus back on the fitting room and my potential sale.
“Is there anything you don’t like about the dress?” I call out, “Because I can fix it. I can fix anything.”
There’s another moment of silence before the fitting room curtain swooshes open and Mrs Bianchi appears dressed in the clothes she arrived in, the dress draped over her arm. My heart sinks. She hated it. She must have. She didn’t even keep it on long enough to show it to me, or take a twirl in front of the large three-way mirror arranged in the corner.
“What did you think?” I ask the question, a kernel of hope still in my heart even though her face is giving away nothing. I know that dress is perfect, but maybe she doesn’t? Maybe she has no appreciation for my style of deconstructed vintage, or maybe it simply isn’t for her.
She eyes me speculatively, her gaze calculating as she surveys my store. It’s a little bit bare, a look I prefer to call ‘tastefully minimalist’ as opposed to ‘no-money-for-inventory chic.’
We haven’t discussed price, I realize. She’s going to lowball me. Ugh. Fine, whatever. As long as I can recoup my costs, maybe I’ll get a repeat customer out of this. I bought it cheap at an estate sale in Schenectady, what with the rip and the dirty hem.
“You’re very talented, Audrey,” she begins and I’m caught off guard. This is a terrible way to start a negotiation.
“Thank you?” I respond, but even I can hear the question hanging at the end of my response, so I repeat myself with a bit more confidence. I’m hoping my tone says ‘expensive’ and ‘worth it.’ “Thank you.” I stand a little taller for good measure.
“How is it that I’ve never heard of you?”
“Well, my location is less than… ideal. And I’m just starting out, building inventory and a client base.”
“In Albany?” She slides half a glance in my direction, her raised brows indicating her thoughts on the ridiculousness of it. “Why aren’t you in the city?”
She means New York City, of course.
“Cost of living,” I reply. It’s a generic response that everyone understands. New York is too expensive for most. Besides, it’s true. True enough, anyway. Partly true.