Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“I mean, maybe he did it,” I say to the dog. “Cats are like butlers.”
This glitter could be left over from the Little Artists class I taught yesterday at the creativity co-op over on Christopher Street. Grabbing a washcloth from the shelf behind me in the bathroom, I daub at the emerald sparkles on my throat, trying valiantly to Sherlock Holmes my way through the Case of the Glittery Neck.
Hmm.
That new silk scarf my sister lent me—well, I lifted it from her wardrobe last weekend, but those are sister’s rights—did have a little sheen to it. I scrub my skin clean, then return to the kitchen table, ready to conquer this letter, one that will surely impress my editorial director, who’ll then promote me, lauding me as one of the most talented editors ever at McGee Whitney Books for Young Readers.
StudMuffin whines at my feet as soon as I start typing. I invite him into my lap, patting my bare legs. Pants can suck it on remote-work days.
He doesn’t jump but instead races to the door in a flurry of tan fur and desperation. “Hold on, handsome. I’ll be right there.”
I dart to my bedroom and grab the red polka-dot skirt I left on the bureau after art class and pull it on. One pocket sags, and I stuff my hand in, groping around. Ah, there’s a tube of glitter from class yesterday, a lipstick, and I think my pair of skull earrings with the missing hook. But I have to jet, so I leave the treasure trove intact. Then I snag the scarf, because I am not going to offend Manhattan by showing them my nest of unwashed hair.
No way.
I fly to the door, leash up my pooch, and stuff my feet in flats. We rocket down the three flights in my walkup building, sprint out to Grove Street, and arrive at his favorite tree just in time for the little guy to make his mark in Manhattan.
I catch my breath as he whizzes.
Man. Nothing like the fear of dog pee to make a gal run. As StudMuffin does his business, I scan the busy block for . . . well, for anything out of place. New York seems to be under construction these days, so my street has become a postcard for scaffolding. A cement truck swings onto my block, and then I hear a whisking noise.
Dammit. I know that sound. I have to know that sound.
I spot the cyclist as he hops from the street onto the sidewalk to avoid the truck. This is bad. The guy on the bike is now twenty feet away, and my dog hates bikes as much as I hate bad grammar. “StudMuffin!” I warn as he lowers his leg at last.
My brown-eyed boy glances innocently at me while I tug on his leash. I’m about to scoop him up and out of the line of fire when he catches a glimpse of the wheeled velociraptor.
He loses his canine mind. We’re talking ear-splitting howls of bike rage as he prepares to ambush the two-wheeler, now five feet away.
I lunge for StudMuffin before he can attack the front wheel. Immediately, the cyclist yanks the handlebars and steers the bike into the tree, stumbling off it, but landing on his feet. “Whoa,” he mutters as I hug the dog to my chest, my pulse spiking.
I whip around to face the cyclist.
It’s . . . holy hell . . . no way.
My dog bike-tripped Mister Sexy Pants. The hot, clever guy I talked to once upon a time in a cake shop a few months ago. The guy whose name I never got.
His back is to me as he untangles his . . . pants leg.
Gah. Not helpful. His butt is so cute in those tight pants.
Think fast, Veronica.
I huff out a breath. Check. Cinnamon-y.
I lift a hand to my wild hair. Thank goddess I hid it in a scarf.
A breeze blows by. It’s summer, so the air feels good on my legs.
The guy straightens and peers at me, studying my face, then my body.
“Oh. Hi. Miss Polka Dot,” he says, using the nickname he gave me that day at the shop. He remembers, which is awesome, but a little terrifying, considering my state of attire. “Um. You . . . well, you have . . .” he says in a voice straight out of my daydreams. And my night dreams. And my dirty dreams.
I flash a self-deprecating smile as I lift a hand absently to my neck. “My neck is covered in glitter. I thought I got it all off, but I must have missed some,” I say.
But he doesn’t laugh. He winces like he’s borderline embarrassed.
“Actually,” he begins, swallowing, then stopping. He was smooth the day I chatted with him in the cake shop, but he’s awkward now and it’s so cute. I love awkward men. They’re such a breath of fresh air. “It’s not your neck. It’s your . . .”