Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
I pressed the cartoon face and said, “Uh, thanks?”
“You’re welcome! Can I get anything for you to celebrate?”
Wait. What? “You… I thought you only worked when I was at the hotel…”
“Normally, yes, but before you left, you achieved DreamWeaver’s DreamDate WishMaker Bonus Level! I can now serve as your WishMaker assistant wherever you might need a wish granted throughout the world! (Offer not valid in North Korea and some parts of Russia.)”
What the…
“So, Cordelia Sarantopoulos! What may I get for you to celebrate your remarkable achievement?”
“Uh… nothing? I’ll… let you know, I guess?”
“Excellent! Gregory will be here! Your wish is my command!”
I found the whole thing immeasurably strange and unsettling. But, for whatever reason, I didn’t delete the app. I don’t know why, exactly. Just… I’ve never had a global wish-granting assistant before and I’m morbidly curious to see where this thing goes.
Anyway, that’s how it all went down. I still cannot find the words to express how mind-blowing it is. And, if you know me, that’s saying something. I can always find words. And then some.
So, because of all that… I’m starting to look around at houses.
Because if the projection for what kind of money I’m going to make in a couple of months holds up? Assuming everything keeps going the way it’s going now? I should buy something. Because… well, I’m gonna be fuckin’ rich. Really no other way to say it.
Good thing, too. Because home prices in Los Angeles are fuckin’ expensive.
Audrey Saint reached out to congratulate me, and to thank me for the chocolate and fruit basket, and as we were talking I told her that I was going to go house-shopping. She said that James could help me with anything accounting-related and that got us talking about housing prices. Turns out, for what a house like this that I’m looking at in Santa Monica—a house not that far from the one where I grew up, actually—costs now, I could buy a ranch like the one Audrey lives on in a place like Utah or Colorado. A ranch. With acreage.
Don’t get me wrong, being less than a mile from the ocean is nice and all, but the whole place is only slightly bigger than the pool house and you’re right up on your neighbors. Just seems like a real con-job, especially when you factor in LA traffic and all. But LA is home. And it’s always been my dream. And this place has a pool. And it would be nice to realize it all came to life like I had hoped it would. So… looky-loo-ing I am.
“Could I see the pool?” I ask.
“Of course!” says Evelyn.
We head out back and the pool is amazing. Like, really, really amazing. It’s got incredible, deep blue tile and looks like it might be long enough to swim laps in.
“It’s Olympic,” Evelyn whispers conspiratorially.
I look at Britney. “It’s Olympic,” I repeat. She raises her eyebrows like, Also cool.
“So,” Evelyn says, “how long have you two been looking?”
“Oh,” Britney says, “we’re not together.”
“Oh,” Evelyn chirps, semi-apologetically. Then she looks at me and back at Britney and says, “I should’ve known.” Annnnnnnd I don’t think I like Evelyn. “So, are we looking for a home for you, then?” She directs it at Britney.
“No. For my friend, here.”
“Really?”
Like, seriously, Evelyn, put a little effort into pretending not to be a judgy bi—
“And what do you do for a living?” Evelyn asks.
There was a time, not long ago at all, when not only would I have felt ashamed of the way she’s talking to me, I would have been kind of unsure of how to answer. But not anymore.
“I’m a writer,” I say. Period. End of sentence. Declarative. Full stop.
“TV?” she asks.
“No.”
“Oh. Film?”
“Novels. I’m a novelist.”
“A-MAY-zing!” she says, and both Brit and I look at each other like we might have to shank this chick for using Britney’s word. “What kind of novels do you write?”
Without pausing or even thinking, I say, “Romance. I write romance novels.” And then I kind of lift my chin in something like a dare.
“You’re kidding?” she caws. “I love romance novels!”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. I’m reading one right now!” We follow her as she skitters on her five-inch Louboutins back inside and over to the open house sign-in desk to grab up her e-reader. She taps it and shows me the screenful of text with the name of the book at the top…
… Yeah. It is.
“Oh. Cool,” I say very casually. “I wrote that.”
Evelyn’s eyes go as wide as eyes can go, exaggerating her already doll-like features and making her look like some kind of pornographic anime character. Which is, I guess, kind of all anime characters, but—
“You wrote Filling the Gap? You’re Cynthia Lear?”
I sniff. “Yep. That’s me.”
“Omigod. Omigod, omigod, omigod. I’m so… I had no idea. You just… I never know what my favorite authors look like.”