Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Maybe it is,” I say, and I feel unburdened from the past. I feel free of all the fears I put in front of me so long ago.
“If it makes you happy,” she says.
I hug her and I feel…happy enough.
A few days later I’m at Little Friends, snapping pics of pups for their adoption photos.
I’m in the tiny yard at the back of the rescue in the city, working with a little Jack Russell mix in a blue bow tie with rubber duck illustrations on it. “Say cheese,” I say to the guy.
The direction doesn’t do the trick, but the biscuit I’m dangling in the air above my phone camera sure does. The handsome boy tilts his head just so, and I snap a few shots.
When I’m done, I turn to Trina. She’s been volunteering at Little Friends, and she enlisted me to take dog beauty pics. I’m now a stylist for people and pets. I help bathe them, then make them look fabulous for their “dog glamor shots.”
“The dude is all set,” I say of the energetic guy.
“Perfect. I love the pic,” Trina says, then walks me to the sidewalk after I’ve packed up my things. It’s Monday, my day off, and when I reach the car, she gives me a curious look.
“How’s the man-batical going?”
That’s the million-dollar question. “It’s…not my favorite diet,” I joke. “But I guess I need it.”
She nods sagely, seeming to understand. “I hear you, but don’t be so hard on yourself either. Sometimes things happen at what we think is the wrong time, but it turns out time is just…time. And if you don’t grab it, it’ll pass you by.”
She should know. She met her husbands only two weeks after she discovered her ex had cheated on her. But she’d only been living with her ex. She hadn’t been poised to walk down the aisle to him.
Still, her words linger with me the rest of the day as I go home alone, then as I hop onto my laptop and search for photos of Dev from the start of the past few seasons, confirming visually what he told me on the plane.
I send him a text.
Aubrey: I know you always get your haircut before the first game. If you think I’m letting anyone else touch those locks, you’re sorely mistaken. My chair. Tomorrow. Five p.m. Be there.
Dev: Someone’s possessive.
Aubrey: Yes.
Next, I send a note to Ledger.
Aubrey: I have something for you. For good luck for the new season. Meet me at my salon on Wednesday at five p.m. so I can give it to you.
Ledger: That message seems clandestine.
Aubrey: But that won’t stop you.
Ledger: With you, nothing will.
52
JERSEY GIRL
Aubrey
I pace the salon after my last client has left. Dev is due any second. I’m all jittery, touching my recently polished nails with their bling sparkles then checking my reflection.
Bronze must notice my overactive attention since he stops on his way to the back of the shop and whispers, “You look gorgeous, hun.”
“Thanks, Bronze,” I say. He winks then mouths anytime. I smooth a hand down my sweater.
Dev isn’t late. He’s not due for three more minutes, but I’ve already swept my booth, wiped down the chair, and straightened up the station. I’ve got scissors and clippers out. I have hair products. I have nothing else to do but wait.
Do I look okay?
I steal a glance in the mirror again. My little skirt lands mid-thigh and I’m wearing thigh-high socks and lace-up boots. A cute argyle sweater hits at my waist. My hair is long and wavy.
And my heart is all fluttery. Too fluttery.
I close my eyes. Breathe in, out. Imagine I’m relaxing in one of Briar’s yoga classes. I focus on this moment. Not the next one, or the next, or the one after that.
When I open my eyes, I startle. Dev is striding across the shop and I watch him in the mirror as he gets closer, my pulse thundering. When I turn around, my skin is tingling too, and I want to throw myself at him.
“Hi,” I say, hoping that one syllable contains everything I’m feeling. Hoping he can hear it.
“Hey,” he says, flirty and full of emotion. It feels like we have a private language. His gaze travels up and down my body. “You look…incredible.”
I finger the hem of my skirt. “Thanks. I…” I pause, weighing which words to choose.
They told you they’re waiting for you.
With that in mind, it’s not hard to say the next thing. “I want to…look good for you.”
His smile is dazzling. “Mission accomplished.”
But I replay what I just said. Look good for you. It feels so weak. Like it’s not enough. “I want to look special.”
He steps closer, shaking his head in amusement. “You could be wearing a stained sweatshirt and ripped pants. You could have on clothes that are ten sizes too big. You could be wearing no makeup—you could not even have brushed your hair. You could have a cold. Or the flu. I’d still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”