Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Lauren had a strong distaste for all things antique or even secondhand. She could be a bit, well, let’s say… particular about cleanliness. Even when she bought brand new items for her house, she had to run a disinfectant wipe over them.
Lauren was the kind of girl who had an immaculately clean house no matter what time of day or day of the week you dropped by. I’d once caught her sneaking out to the kitchen when she was sleeping over at my last apartment, and she claimed she couldn’t sleep because she knew there were dishes in my sink.
So, yeah, this store was her own personal version of hell.
It was a testament to how much this store had been taking over my life that she was venturing in just to spend a little time with me.
Lauren was the light to my dark features, all honey-blonde hair that was all hers. I’d doubted that when we’d dormed together in our first year of college, until I saw a family picture and found that all of her family had blonde hair. Her eyes were a dark blue in a rounded, pretty face.
Our bodies were different too.
Where I was short and pretty average-sized, she was tall and leggy with thick thighs, hips, and big boobs she swore gave her a wicked neck ache daily. She would frequently claim she was going to chop them off someday—much to the outrage of any men in earshot.
She was dressed in jeans that I swear looked painted on, and a winter white sweater that cropped a bit toward the center, showing off just a hint of a belly roll.
“God, I forgot what clean looks and feels like,” I admitted as I looked at her. “I feel like this place has embedded itself in my skin.”
“Not to rub more metaphorical dirt in your wound, but you look like it has embedded itself into your skin,” she said, taking a long sip of her coffee.
It didn’t escape me that she was standing far enough away from the counter and the row to her side that she didn’t accidentally brush either of them.
“I love Pop-Pop, but I don’t think he even knows what a duster is. Let alone a vacuum or mop,” I admitted.
“Well, he did lose your grandma so young,” Lauren said.
That was true. Childhood sweethearts, they’d been each other’s everything. Until my gram died unexpectedly when my mom was just seven.
I remember her telling stories about literally growing up in the antique store and surviving off of bologna sandwiches. Which was still what my grandfather insisted on eating every single day.
I was trying to be frugal, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to be that frugal.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I should have put in an effort on this place sooner.”
“Hey, you were allowed to live your life too,” Lauren said. And, coming from her, that meant a lot. Because I knew how hard it had been for her to walk away from her family’s farm when they’d been counting on her to pitch in once she finished high school. But Lauren had big city dreams. And she’d needed to be strong enough to follow them.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But think of how many days I sat around the dorm, doing nothing. I could have been here. Fixing this…” I added, waving around.
Objectively, any outsider would tell me I was crazy to commit so much work to this. The logical thing was to keep it afloat until my grandfather passed, then just sell it. The antique store had an almost obscene amount of square footage for a shop in the city. And my grandfather owned it. As well as the three floors of apartments over it.
It would sell for millions.
I would be set.
If not for life—this was the city, after all, and millions disappeared faster here than most places—then at least it would make it so I would never struggle while I found a job that I loved.
Though after years and years of college, and still no closer to finding what my true passion was, I was all but ready to give up on the idea of a job that I loved.
“Hey, you’re here now. That’s what counts. Where’s that brother of yours?” she added, annoyed with Henry on principle. Everything about his mooching lifestyle rubbed her, a representation of the whole ‘boss babe’ lifestyle, regardless of how out of vogue it was to use that phrase anymore, the wrong way.
“Skiing and snowboarding,” I said, sighing as I leaned against the desk.
My gaze slid to her hand wrapped around her coffee cup, her perfectly manicured nails making me look toward my own hand, finding my nails short, jagged, and dirty underneath.
“How much did that manicure cost?” I asked, wondering if I could squeeze one in, maybe if I cut back on eating out for a week.