Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“I think an intern from Buzzfeed came up with that shittastic idea. But I couldn’t help but wonder—”
“What dog you would be?” I finish for him.
“I keep leaning toward huskie. Is that weird?”
“Nah, I see it.” I shove the rest of my cheese stick in my mouth.
“You’re totally the chihuahua.”
Both my eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “You’re kidding, right? No way in hell I’m the chihuahua. Pit bull, that’s me.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Hunter sits in one of my chairs and asks, “What are you going to do?”
I take my seat across from him. “No fucking clue. Those were the top agencies in New York City, and the best idea was a dog test.” I run both my hands over my face. “Christ, are we in trouble. I blame kids show—like Paw Patrol—they’re corrupting our society.”
“How do you even know what that show is?”
“Farrah is obsessed. It’s all she talks about when we FaceTime.” Naturally, I never miss FaceTime chats with my sister Bailey, or niece Farrah. She is far too adorable.
Hunter nods. Farrah also has Hunter wrapped around her five-year-old, pint-sized fingers.
Hunter nods. “How is Bailey doing? Still have the hottest legs in town?”
“Talk about my sister like that again, see where it gets you.”
He chuckles and presses both his hands behind his head, leaning back. “Well, looks like we might have to put the launch on hold, unless . . .” His voice trails off.
“Unless what?”
Why do I know where this is going?
Reaching into the pocket of his flannel shirt, he pulls out a business card and tosses it on my desk.
Without even looking, I know what it is. Through my teeth, I say, “Over my dead body am I calling her.”
“Because you’re a stubborn ass wipe? Great, our women’s line is going to tank because you’re too prideful to give her a call.”
“We can do better than her.”
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I hear George cry in his office every day over the loss of Peyton. She was a huge asset to the team. We need her on this.”
“She left us.”
“To pursue her dreams, just like you did so many years ago, so you can’t fault her on that, man.” He raps his knuckles on my desk when he leans forward. “If anything, call her so we don’t have to use the dog test people. That’s company suicide right there.”
Chapter Seventeen
PEYTON
Thirty-six.
That’s how many emails I’ve sent today to prospective clients, the list on my notepad glaring at me because I have thirty-two more contacts to message.
I wanted every one to be personal, tailored to each client’s needs, and I’ve been at this table all damn day long. Pounding the pavement, as one would say.
I’m my own boss.
I work for myself.
I have my own office . . .
That’s a lie—I’m at my favorite coffee shop, and thank God they haven’t kicked me out for loitering, because all I’ve bought from them was a medium ice tea, and that was at ten o’clock this morning.
I shoot the barista another awkward smile and wave, certain she’s been judging me for being cheap. But I’m self-employed. Every penny counts, and I’ve been counting mine all weekend.
Technically, I could afford to quit working for Roam, Inc.— but the numbers staring back at me from my bank account scare the absolute shit out of me, and I’m desperate for them to grow, not deplete.
If I don’t get a contract soon, I don’t know what I’ll do.
No way can I go back to Roam, Inc. if this venture fails. He would never in a million years hire me back—he made that clear enough when he kicked me out of his office, and essentially out of his life.
I have to make Fresh Minted Designs succeed if it kills me.
I raise my water glass, the ice having melted hours ago, ring of condensation dripping onto the corner of my laptop.
“Shit.” I scrub at the keyboard with the sleeve of my long-sleeved shirt, trying not to hit a key and send my entire document out of whack.
I’ve done that before and it’s horrible. Once, I wiped down my computer monitor with Windex, turned it a sick shade of green, and had to get the entire monitor replaced.
My luck with technology is clearly abysmal.
Ugh, where is a damn napkin when I need one?
I twist my torso, elbow inadvertently taking up too much space, skimming across the surface of the tiny table, knocking into my cup, and tipping it. Water spills in one quick fall over the side, and thank God I got a medium cup and not the large one I’d wanted.
Plus, it was half empty so there’s not much on the floor.
Your cup is half full, Peyton. Half full. Positive thoughts only.
Nonetheless, when I stand to clean it, and my foot slips, yanking the cord out of the side of my computer and earbuds from my ears, I curse.