Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“Why would I get mad at you working? You’re successful. That doesn’t come from watching everyone else do the work. And I’m always designing. I try to control the urge, but it’s excessive. You might be the one who gets mad at me.”
“Never. You’re going to make us both rich.”
“You’re already rich.”
“In some ways,” I say, thinking about how close she is to her father. “Money isn’t everything, of that I promise. It sure won’t bring either of our mothers back.” There’s a bitterness lacing those words that I bury in distraction, motioning to a wall of framed drawings. “Can I look?”
“Of course. Those are my first designs that actually ended up in my store. They’re sentimental.”
I catch her hand and walk her with me to a closer view, studying a drawing of a pantsuit, a formal gown, a pair of jeans, and a dress, each better than the next. “You do it all.”
“I love clothes, all clothes, so yes. I design a little of everything.”
I glance down at her, curious about the definition of “all.” “But only women’s wear?”
“I’ve actually been working on a men’s line.”
“Good. That’s good. And necessary to truly make the Zoey line take off.”
“I can see that,” she says. “And I want to do a full-service brand. I can show you the designs over dinner.”
“I’d like that. How have you handled manufacturing up to this point?”
“That’s been a struggle. I’m not high volume enough to get discounts, so I overpay a small company to produce a handful of each design. I keep them all limited edition, and the customers like the idea of owning something no one else can get. I’ve made it work.”
“The store is profitable?”
“It is,” she confirms. “A location in a high-end neighborhood has helped. I truly believe that foot traffic matters, but I’d have to expand in a big way to ever make any real money.”
“Which is why you pitched Moore’s. And why you’re going to Paris. You’re expanding your brand.”
The doorbell rings again. “That will be the pizza. It’s right down the road, so it will be hot and wonderful.” She heads for the door and calls over her shoulder. “It’s a lot, though. We’ll never eat it all.”
I follow her to offer aid, and discover that she wasn’t joking about how much she ordered. A few minutes later, we’re sitting at her round antique wood dining table with her to my left. There isn’t one, but four boxes of pizza, cheesy bread, and a variety of drinks in front of us. The volume of food barely fits on the small tabletop. With plenty of choices to fill our bellies, we eat heartily for a few minutes, chatting a bit, but when I reach for my can of soda, she points at the Diet Dr. Pepper label to match her own. “You didn’t seem like a diet kind of guy. I thought for sure you’d choose something else.” She finishes off a slice of pineapple and bacon pizza, which we’ve discovered is also a shared favorite. We seem to just click. We get each other, and I’ve never experienced this level of ease with any other woman.
“I hate sugar in a drink,” I say, “but give me a Mr. Goodbar any day and I’ll make it disappear.”
“Oh, I love those. And Tootsie Rolls. It was a thing for me as a kid I never outgrew. My mother loved them, too.” She shoves away her plate.
I do the same with mine. “I was admiring the photo of you and your parents. She was beautiful.”
“Inside and out. You have no idea. She was a high school teacher. The kids wanted to please her, even the rowdy ones. She had that quality.”
“I wish I could have met her.”
“I wish you could have, too. She wouldn’t have been intimidated by your money.”
“I wish you weren’t. Why are you?” And then I pull one of my father’s negotiation tricks out of the bag, seeking truth in spontaneity as I challenge her with, “Answer without thinking.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ethan
To my surprise, rather than leaning away from me in withdrawal, she leans in closer and meets my stare. “I have thoughts about this. I’m self-analytical to the extreme sometimes, which translates to I overthink and drive people crazy. So be ready for that, but to answer the question, different worlds and bank accounts might not bother me as much if you didn’t hold my career in your hands.” I open my mouth to object, but she holds up a hand. “I know I’m the one who holds my world in my hands, but your belief in me has helped, and it’s hard to separate that. And before you protest, you know you took a risk getting involved with me when you sit on Moore’s board.”
“Is there anyone else I would chase across the country? No. That’s true. My mother died when I was young. I think I told you that, right?”