Smart Girl by Rachel Hollis Read Free Book Online

was coming together so nicely, I figured if I was going to take this on, I was going to do it right. I spent last night reading that scene over and over, trying to memorize all the questions and nuances. At the last minute I dropped my iPad with the e-book on it into my purse in case I needed it for reference.
    I can’t believe it was Landon who realized number fourteen on my list made a much better option than number one. Sometimes I get so caught up on the way something might look that I don’t take the time to ask myself whether or not it’s in any way realistic. It’s one of my fatal flaws.
    “Stella, are you kidding me?” I demand playfully as Liam’s fifty-something assistant opens the door to his office for me. “You have to try coconut oil. It works for everything . It makes your hair shiny, your hands smooth. Sometimes I drink a spoonful just to counterbalance the quantity of gummy bears I eat in the course of a week.”
    She smiles sweetly.
    “I absolutely will, Miss Jin. Thank you for the tip.”
    “Oh, and I hope Frank feels better soon. I’ve heard plantar fasciitis is super painful.”
    She thanks me again and closes the glass door behind her as she leaves.
    If the confusion on his face is anything to go by, Liam has been watching the whole exchange from his desk.
    “Do you two know each other?”
    “Stella and me? No. I mean yes—we do now. We just met on the walk over from the lobby.”
    “You got all of that in a three-minute walk from reception?”
    I’m fairly certain the answer is obvious, so I just shrug and take a seat in the chair in front of his desk. Today my outfit says classy , sassy , noticeable . He’s wearing a tailored black suit and a crisp white shirt. The formality of his clothing is in direct opposition to that golden Viking hair that brushes against his collar every time he turns his head.
    He nods at the skinny gray tie I added just before I walked out the door this morning—it’s so Christian Grey of me.
    “Business attire?”
    I flash a grin.
    “Something like that.”
    An exposed brick wall lines one side of the room, and the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk look out over Little Santa Monica in Beverly Hills. The wall that faces the hallway is made entirely of glass so you can see into the other executive offices along the corridor. The other wall was once white, but now its twelve-feet-high by however-many-feet-wide expanse is filled with graphics. Not framed images or posters, but actual drawings done right on the wall in bold black ink. I get up from my chair to look at it more closely. It’s a collection of hundreds of small pictures, words, or graphics that share no commonality other than the style they’re drawn in. It’s a mismatch of imagery and feelings that is no less powerful for appearing to be cartoons at first glance. Apparently Charlie isn’t the only member of the family who collects art.
    “Is this Goodman?”
    When he doesn’t answer, I turn around to ask again. He’s sitting on the front side of his desk, studying me, though I have no idea when he moved closer.
    “I did it again?”
    He nods. “Now that I know you’re not having a stroke when you zone out like that, it’s actually really interesting to observe.” He gestures to the mural beside me. “I carried on for several minutes about his process and how long it took him to draw it out. When you started to trace the rain cloud with your fingers, I realized that you weren’t actually listening. It is Timothy Goodman, though. Good on you for recognizing his work.”
    I tuck my hair behind one ear and walk back over to my seat.
    “My creative crush on him knows no bounds. Have you seen his Instagram account?”
    His brow furrows, and he shakes his head.
    “Well, trust me—if you followed him, you’d understand.”
    He walks around to his chair and takes a seat himself.
    “So do you have the design on your Mac, or do you need—”
    “Actually, I was hoping I could ask