All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

girls again. “Hmm, I think I can make something work for that weekend. I may have to juggle a few things, but it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. That’s the glory of owning your own business, I suppose.” My laugh fell short as I realized the audience sitting in front of me. Stupid, Molly. The majority of these girls didn’t even know what it was like to have a paying job, much less owning a successful company.

“Great!” Clara said. “Then I’ll work on setting something up with Silas and Glo.”

The squeals from five of the six girls were electrifying as talks of what kind of makeup they wanted to try first ensued. I happily obliged in this conversation, offering brands and insights and eventually pulling out my phone to show them a folder of products I had on hand at home. More giddy squeals as they passed my phone around.

“What about you, Wren? Is there anything specific you’d like us to plan for our girl’s night?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll probably just watch,” she said quietly.

“No way. I have a very strict policy of my own. If one girl goes glam, then we all go glam,” I said as if I hadn’t just made up the rule on the spot.

Her lips twitched. “You’re going to do glam makeovers on twelve girls in a single night?”

Hmm. She had a point. That was a lot of makeovers to do all on my own. “Nope, I’ll need an assistant. And I volunteer you as tribute.”

“Now, that’s a perfect job for you, Wren. This girl has skills when it comes to hair,” Clara piped in.

“I know, I’ve seen some of her intricate braid work.” Much like the one she wore now that looked like a rose in full bloom.

Clara stood up from the table and waved to Hannah and her girls from across the field. They were on the move, spiral-bound journals in hand. Obviously, our group was late on dismissing the girls for reflection time. Which meant I’d likely bulldozed right over Clara’s allotted prayer time with talk of going full glam. Way to be spiritual, Mentor Molly.

As Clara asked for prayer requests, I whispered across the table at Wren. “What do you say? Will you be my assistant?”

Wren shifted her eyes to the girls at the opposite side of the picnic table who were staring at us both—Sasha and Monica. But then, shockingly, she gave me a nod. I spent the next several minutes of Clara’s prayer closing my eyes while fighting off an all-teeth grin.

I might have lost out on a romantic beach date with my workaholic boyfriend, but somehow Wren’s little head nod had just more than made up for it.

15

Molly

Molly

Hey, did you forget our call?

Val

Oh no! I’m sorry, Molly. Tucker came down with a stomach bug this afternoon. I don’t think I can do Face-mask Friday with you tonight. ☹

Molly

Ah, poor kid. Tell Tuck I hope he feels better soon!

I flopped back on the sofa and crossed my slippered feet at the ankles. My black charcoal beauty mask was already starting to feel like shrink-wrap on my skin. I faked a yawn to test the crusty layer forming over my cheeks. It didn’t budge. What was this stuff made of? Rubber cement? I picked up the tube to examine the ingredients list, but who was I kidding? No human with average eyesight could read the minuscule print on the back.

I grabbed my phone to take another scroll through all my feeds, noting the stats of my latest post and stopping to heart each comment—or in some cases leave a response—when I noted the top right corner of my opened app. My direct message inbox showed over a hundred waiting messages.

I went in prepared, knowing that half the senders would be trolls—some telling me I was fat, ugly, a poser, or a horrible human being for profiting from the products I promoted, while still others would be asking for a variety of inappropriate pictures. Sometimes I’d even receive a marriage proposal or two. The only response I’d give to any of those was an automatic block. One of the first rules I’d learned in this business: Never engage with the crazies.

But a single message near the top caused my delete-happy finger to pause: Felicity Fashion Fix.

Well, this was curious. Felicity hadn’t said a single word to me since the debacle that involved both our legal teams having to intervene on account of her stealing my series idea and using it for her sponsor’s products. Unfortunately, her crime against me had fallen under the legal header of “intellectual property,” and not much could be done.

Her message simply read: Way to hit seven hundred thousand. What’s it like dating an agent who controls all your content for his own gain? Oh, wait, I already know. Word of free advice: Hold on to your soul before he finds a way to sell that, too.

I stared at her words, my breathing growing shallower by the second as I took in her backhanded compliment and her clickbait lies. She’d never dated Ethan—I’d asked him point-blank before I said yes to going out with him the first time. I hadn’t wanted to be one in a long line of clients-turned-girlfriends. But not only had she not been his girlfriend, she’d only been his client long enough for Ethan to gauge what an absolute train wreck she was to work with. From the stories he’d told me early on, Felicity was a demanding witch of a woman who threw diva tantrums often and schemed her way to the top. I witnessed this firsthand when she stole from me by hacking into Cobalt’s active marketing campaigns—a violation that was rectified with tighter internal security and a termination of her contract. Shortly after the breach, Ethan decided he would only take on one beauty influencer in his agency at a time.

For a moment, I debated responding to her, debated starting a thread with all the reasons I