On Thursday, Marcus works late again, so I use the time to proofread my new client’s novella, and then, because I still somehow have energy, I open my super-secret project file to write a few paragraphs. It’s slow going, so I set it aside to play with my cats, but as I’m petting Cottonball, the scene suddenly unfolds in my mind.
It’s so exciting I get completely absorbed in writing it, to the point that when Marcus arrives an hour later, I’m startled to realize it’s almost nine p.m. and I still haven’t eaten. We have another delicious dinner together, followed by a prolonged lovemaking session, and when I wake up on Friday morning, I feel so good about life I don’t even get upset that Puffs broke another priceless vase overnight—especially since Marcus doesn’t seem to care.
When I get to work, I find the bookstore again mobbed by customers, but luckily, my boss is there to help. By noon, the flow of book shoppers eases a little, so I ask him to cover for me while I take a longer lunch break. Then I quickly wolf down the pear-and-gorgonzola sandwich Geoffrey so considerately packed for me and step out to run my errands.
My first stop is a clothing boutique a few blocks from my work. I’ve walked by it a dozen times in the past, but have never actually gone in. It’s got that organic-cotton, made-in-the-USA vibe, and I figured all the hipster-stylish clothes there are bound to be out of my budget.
Sure enough, the very first item I pick up—a plain but well-made T-shirt—is forty-nine dollars. The jeans that I pick up next—nearly two hundred. Dispirited, I’m about to walk out and try my luck elsewhere when I spot a discreet “50% Off” sign in the back.
Now we’re talking.
The sales rack isn’t huge, but every item of clothing on it is about ten times better than anything I have in my closet. Browsing through it, I find a casual long-sleeved dress, a little blue cocktail dress, three cute tops, and a pair of jeans in my size. There’s also a small shoe section in the back, where I see taupe-colored ankle booties that go with absolutely everything and a pair of nude pumps that would dress up any outfit—and would look beautiful with the blue dress.
When I try on my finds, everything fits but the jeans—they’re too long—but I decide to get them anyway, as they do amazing things to my butt. I’ll just have to get them hemmed. The shoes are what really makes the outfits, though, so even though they’re not on sale, I take both the booties and the pumps to the register, determined not to give in to the part of me that’s freaking out about the expense.
My editing business has been picking up, to the point that I’m booked out several months in advance—and have all those partial deposits in my bank account. Which means that I can afford this splurge, even if it feels otherwise.
It’s not until the cashier rings up my purchases and I see the four-figure total on the register screen that my resolve wavers. The last time I spent anywhere near this amount on clothes was… well, maybe never. I don’t do shopping sprees; I grab one item on clearance here, another there. My current wardrobe, such as it is, has been assembled piecemeal over the years, and as I mentally do that math, I’m stunned to realize that some of my things date back to when I started high school.
God, no wonder Kendall’s been on my case; my look might be more than a decade out of date.
My resolve firming, I hand my credit card to the cashier. I might not be able to bring myself to let Marcus purchase clothes for me, but that’s no reason to embarrass him in front of his friends and acquaintances. Everyone might’ve been nice to me at that investor dinner, but I’m sure they wondered why a billionaire’s girlfriend was wearing the modern-day equivalent of rags. Marcus didn’t look embarrassed, but I’m sure he would’ve preferred that I wear a nicer outfit—and now I can.
The blue dress and pumps might not be by some high-end designer, but they’re good quality and won’t look out of place at any business dinner.
Shopping bags in hand, I head over to my second stop—a hair salon I found this morning. Located just five blocks from my work, it’s small and unassuming, with a discreet sign above the door and only two hair-cutting stations inside. It does, however, have rave reviews on Yelp, with people claiming it’s both dirt cheap and crazy good. They don’t take appointments, only walk-ins, so I sign in and wait.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in front of a mirror with a sharply stylish Asian man examining my unkempt curls. “Gorgeous color, but a lot of split ends,” he says, lifting one strand to peer at it through purple-rimmed glasses. “A lot of frizz, too. What products do you use?”
I tell him, and he winces, as if I’ve just dealt him a physical blow. “No wonder your hair is so dry. You’re killing it with all those harsh sulfates. I’ll teach you how to care for it properly. First, though, let’s see if we can give it some shape. Do you have any preference as to the length?”
My pulse jumps. The change-resistant cat lady inside me is freaking out at the idea of getting anything more than my usual basic trim, but I’m determined not to listen to her. “It’s up to you,” I say, my voice mostly steady. “I want whatever will look the best and be the easiest to care for.”
“Got it. I’ll do a dry cut, so we can see how each curl behaves.” And before I can panic at the excited gleam in his eyes, he picks up
