What Pretty Girls Are Made Of Read Online Free

(not all eaten by me!), Jill, Bradley (the third of our Northwestern-to-NYC trifecta), and I excitedly discussed my soon-to-be new life as we sat at our local twenty-four-hour diner—so local, in fact, that it was located across the street from the apartment that Jill and I shared.
    Midtown Restaurant was the scene for celebrations, first dates that we knew weren’t going anywhere, teary breakup dissections, and that oh-so-nice basket of french fries after a long night out. It only felt right to be planning the future from “our” booth.
    “I know this is probably jumping the gun,” Jill said, her mouth full of omelet, “but I’m calling dibs on the makeup that you bring home. I know you’ll want to give some of it to your mom, but your roommate has to get some love, too.”
    “Oh man,” Bradley interrupted before I could reply. “The makeup talk I’m going to have to endure is already killing me. I have enough of it with Andrea.” He rolled his eyes. “Is this like if I were to get a job with the Rangers and you guys were fighting for free hockey tickets?”
    “Yes, just like that, Brad.”
    “So you’re really going to make the switch and just go for it?” Bradley asked.
    “Yes, I’m ready. I’m going to dive in one hundred percent. I’ve always had the cosmetics bug, and it’s time to see it through. And health insurance is part of the deal, which is a nice first for me.” I will not bungle this opportunity.
    These two were my buddies, my support staff, and my family. With them by my side and Madison supporting me from afar, I was ready to start a new adventure.

CHAPTER THREE

    Cell Turnover
    M y office wasn’t at “corporate.” It was at the Sally Steele Cosmetics Studio. It sat between the stairway to the basement shipping area and the hallway to the bathroom, and was positioned in an alcove directly in front of the passage to Sally’s office—she had offices at both the studio and corporate —where everyone seemed to congregate.
    But being at the studio had its perks, since I was with the makeup artists. And the lemon meringue scent in the air—whether from cleaning products or the candle burning in the front, I did not know—made me want to bring the essence home and bathe in it.
    On my first afternoon, I took a few minutes to look around Sally’s empty office, seeking (not snooping for) clues about my new boss that would help me know the woman whose schedule I would now keep. It was filled with tchotchkes of all sizes, giving me the impression that a cameo on Hoarders could be in this woman’s future. The walls and desk were white, her chair black, and all the accents a vivid red. Sally’s signature logo was a red lipstick tube.
    Her shelves were cluttered with lipstick-shaped pillows, a lipstick-shaped telephone, lipstick-shaped picture frames, lipstick-shaped business card holders, and lipstick-shaped makeup mirrors. I assumed that for the past ten or so years, everyone gave her gifts related to this fetish. If a product was shaped like a lipstick, Sally had it in her office.
    What I didn’t understand was the photographs and articles about Sally and her business that covered the walls. They were in frames hanging in a seemingly random pattern. It wasn’t the pride in her company that confused me, but the sporadic scattering of these tributes.
    “She likes organization,” I heard Jolie, one of the resident makeup artists, say with a chuckle from behind me. (Busted for snooping—I mean seeking.) “But none of us understand her wall pattern. One of the many great mysteries of this place, I guess.”
    “Got it,” I said, curious as to what the other mysteries were.
    “Your brows need work, hon,” Jolie kindly mentioned to me. “Come into my makeup room when you have about fifteen minutes and we’ll shape them.”
    “Do you think Sally would mind?” I asked, hoping for a no.
    “Of course she wouldn’t mind. She likes it when her girls look perfect. Always makeup,