Finally arriving after what feels like hours, I push open the large, sleek black doors and rush toward the hostess for help, since—of course—my phone died, and I couldn’t ask Becks where she was sitting.
While she directs me to her table, I take in the scene and smile, fascinated by fashionable people and their loud voices talking over the pumping music. It might not be my scene every week, but when I get out, the energy my city delivers is addicting.
“Holy hotness,” Becks calls, whistling loudly across the trendy Tribeca restaurant.
My cheeks burn at the scene she’s making, so I hurry over to the table. She stands as I approach, grabbing me by the shoulders to spin me around. “You like?” I waggle my brows.
“Fucking love.”
There was no trim today.
Isaac not only cut ten inches off, giving me a blunt, cool girl lob that sits on my collarbone, he also added low lights to give my dark locks a subtle glow.
I feel rejuvenated.
We sit, and Becks reaches up and pulls her wig off her head, causing the uptight woman next to us to gasp loudly.
“Couldn’t you have done that before you got to the restaurant?” I hiss.
She shrugs. “It was fucking hot under there.”
I roll my eyes, “Then stop wearing them. Or better yet, keep your hair dark and wear fun wigs when you want some color.”
She aggressively points at me, but her eyes sparkle with delight. “Shut that pretty mouth of yours right now. I will never dye my hair back to black. I won’t let those corporate assholes win.”
“The ones that sign your checks, therefore paying for this extravagant dinner tonight?” I raise a judging brow.
Becks is an analyst at one of the largest financial firms in the country, hence the long work hours, and with that comes her abiding by their archaic rules and dress codes.
It’s a boys’ club—thousands of dollars are spent on perfectly tailored suits, with the reluctant casual Friday.
Unfortunately, for Becks, my crazy, outgoing, free spirit of a friend, that means hiding her blue-dyed hair undercorporate-approvedwigs.
We’re interrupted by the waiter bringing over two drinks, and if I had to bet, they’re two spicy margaritas.
“Thanks for pre-ordering,” I say as we clink our glasses; her dark-green eyes never leave mine, even while sipping her drink. “What?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “I go on a work trip for a week and come home to a whole new Jules. You look amazing, like fucking banging.”
“Thanks. I feel it for the first time in forever.”
Her face drops, and she takes my hands across the table. “How are you, honestly?”
What’s there to say? “I’m taking it day by day. The bakery has been busier than ever, and helping Mom has taken so much of my time that I’m not sure I’ve fully processed everything.”
“Standing baking all day hasn’t been painful for your leg?” she asks, concerned.
“It’s tolerable. I occasionally get shooting pain from the nerve damage, but it usually doesn’t last long. I’m sure wearing these heels won’t help, but the doctor gave me the okay.”
“Well, don’t push it. If you need help, I have a ton of vacation days I can use. I still remember how to make a mean éclair.”
Becks is the sister I’ve never had, and although I won’t let her, I know that she would drop everything to help Mom and me at Le Petit Boulanger. We’ve known each other our whole lives, and even though we’ve gone on incredibly different paths, we will always be as thick as thieves.
I rub my thumb over her hand, silently thanking her for caring, before pulling back and taking another sip of my drink.
“You know, the cabbie who hit me came by the bakery the other day while I was working with Mom to apologize.”
“Really?” Her eyes bulge. “You don’t blame him, do you?”
