Page 1 of Wingwoman
One
HOPE
When I was in kindergarten,I had this friend wholovedhorses.
I don’t just mean she liked them as a hobby… I mean she loved them. Lived and breathed horses.
You know the type, right?
Her obsession extended far beyond the occasionalMy Little Ponyplaytime.
She took riding lessons and spent more than my monthly rent on expensive riding clothes and gear that would inevitably just get covered in dust and dirt within an hour anyway. Her free time was spent in stables, cleaning, brushing horses, and shoveling horse poop.
She shoveled horse poop…for fun.
The concept baffled me in kindergarten.
It still baffled me now at age twenty-eight.
The bad news was … I was pretty sure my current client was a quintessentialhorse lover.
The good news, however? We were in Texas. Where I was the one in the minority, not her. I had no doubt I could toss a pebble into this crowded bar and find a horse loving guy to be interested in this sweet girl sitting across from me.
Why was that good news?
Well, because she was paying me a lot of money tonight to help her find a date.
“What about him?” I asked. “Ten o’clock behind you.”
I didn’t dare point. Instead, I angled my chin in the direction of a man, mid-thirties, drinking an IPA. His suit was nice. It wasn’t Prada, but also not JCPenney. He had a good job I would guess, but not anything high-powered.
I glanced at horse-loving Maggie sitting across from me. Her long brown hair fell in soft waves around her face. She gave me a nervous smile and quickly turned around to look at him.
“No,” I hissed. “Don’t gawk at him.”
Her hands flew into the air as she grunted in frustration. “Well, how am I supposed to see who you’re talking about then?” She fell back in her chair, grabbed her margarita, and slurped a big gulp through the straw. “This is what I’m paying you for!” she cried and shook her head.
Wow. Most of my clients weren’t great at flirting, but Maggie was especially bad.
Out of habit, I went to twirl my engagement ring, only to be met with bare, smooth skin on my left hand. I flicked a glance down at my finger. Just a few weeks ago, a twinkling diamond would have winked up at me.
So instead of fidgeting with my ring, I brushed my fingers over the Hermes silk scarf I wore draped around my neck. I didn’t have a massive wardrobe like some women. Being from New York meant I had very limited closet space. But I made sure the clothes I did own were quality. Almost every designer item I owned was bought secondhand. It was a hobby of mine. I loved scouring eBay and thrift shops to try and find everything from Burberry bags to Jimmy Choo shoes.
Not only were they more affordable, but it was also fun.
Even still, someday I hoped to shop in the actual stores. To walk into Chanel or Stuart Weissman and buy whatever I wanted without having to worry about whose stinky foot germs might be lingering on the insoles of the shoes.
“My friends told me I was hopeless,” Maggie said sullenly. “I guess they’re right.”
My attention snapped back to Maggie and the matter at hand.
Focus on your client, Hope. Not your own broken heart. And not your own stupid shopping sprees.After all, I was always better at finding love for other people rather than myself.
Ignoring the lump in my throat, I turned my attention back to Maggie, studying her closely. “You are not hopeless,” I reassured her.
She was beautiful. Naturally pretty. Her tanned complexion had zero foundation and only a touch of concealer around her eyes. A dusting of gray eyeshadow covered her lids with a swipe of mascara on her lashes and a little bit of lip gloss. A late bloomer, without a doubt. I had to be gentle.
Reaching for her purse, she shook her head. “This was a stupid idea,” she said, her voice cracking. “A professional wingwoman? What evenisthat?”
