She snorts. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”
“You know,” I say, “I’ve lived in this city for five years now, and you know what I’m starting to realize?”
“What’s that?”
“This place is full of people faking it. Everyone’s pretending to have their shit together, but very few actually do,” I say. “You know that saying, fake it ‘til you make it?”
“Yeah.” She reaches toward her nightstand to grab a tissue, and I spot a half dozen wadded up tissues beside the box.
“Can you do that tonight?” I ask. “Can you fake being the confident, beautiful woman I know you are underneath all these tears?”
Helena laughs, sitting up a little straighter. “I don’t know, Aidy.”
She rises, moving to the dresser mirror and dabbing the black streaks on her cheeks.
“I’ve ruined the beautiful makeup job you did,” she says.
“You didn’t need it anyway,” I say with a wink. “But I can do a touch up on the house. Only if you want . . .”
She turns to me, her expression undecided.
“But if I fix your makeup, I’m going to expect you to go on this date,” I say, injecting the kind of tone I’ve seen my sister use on Enzo.
Helena glances back at her reflection, gathering the lapels of her robe in one fist. I watch as she drags in a hard breath and lets it go.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s do it.”
“Good.” I stand, clapping my hands together. “Let me grab some makeup remover. I’ll be right back.”
Leaving her room, I make a mad dash to my cosmetics case on her kitchen table, rifling through the myriad of products in search of the small and oh-so-necessary bottle of makeup remover I keep on hand.
Gone.
Shit.
I search again, wondering how the hell I’m going to explain to my brand new client that I showed up without all the necessary tools for the job.
An electric wave of panic sears through me until I recall passing a CVS on my way here. It’s just down the street, situated right on the corner.
“Helena?” I call out.
“Yes, Aidy?” She peeks her head out from behind her bedroom door, and I catch a glimpse of her bare shoulder.
Good, she’s getting dressed again.
“I need to run to CVS really quick. I’ll be back in five,” I say. “Or ten. At most. Please tell me you won’t change your mind before I get back.”
Helena nods and gives me a thumbs up before waving me out. I grab my purse, leaving all my products scattered across her kitchen table, and make a mad dash down the hall. Flying down three flights of stairs, I nearly knock over a middle-aged man carrying a bag of groceries.
“Sorry,” I call out, but it’s too late. I’m already outside, feet on the pavement, running in ballet flats toward the brightly lit CVS sign a block away.
Inside, I’m bathed in fluorescent lighting and an overwhelming amount of aisles, but fortunately a smiling face points me toward the makeup section. I grab a bottle of drugstore makeup remover and make a beeline for the checkout line.
It’s a mile long, wrapping all the way to the photo department. I never knew a drugstore could be this busy on a Wednesday night. Sighing, I check the time on my phone. It’s already been six minutes, and it’s going to be at least ten more judging by the length of this line.
Mumbling under my breath, I grip the bottle of makeup remover and sit tight. The line moves ahead, and I’m washed in relief that things might not move so slow after all. Grabbing a magazine from a nearby rack, I flip to the middle to read about the latest Gwen and Gavin drama and fully concur with the rest of America that it’s his loss. I flip through two pages before realizing the line still hasn’t moved. By the time I glance up, I see the light above our checkout lane is flashing and the cashier is paging a manager. A red-faced, scowling patron stands with one hand on her hip and a fist full of coupons in the other.
“Jesus,” I mutter, checking my phone again.
“Got somewhere to be?” A man’s voice buzzes into my ear from behind.
Whipping around, my heart drops to my stomach when I see the Lexington Avenue Asshole.
“You’ve got to me kidding me.”
“I need to know if you’re stalking me.” He slips one hand into the pocket of his dark wash jeans, and the intensity of his stare burns straight through me.
My jaw hangs. “Seriously?”
“I know it was you,” he says, “with the journal on Monday.”
I shrug, frowning. “Yeah? So? Doesn’t mean I’m stalking you.”
“It doesn’t?”
The line finally moves up again.
“You’re everywhere I go,” he says. “It’s a little disconcerting.”
I shove my magazine back into the rack, crossing my arms across my chest. “Who’s to say the feeling isn’t mutual? I had no idea you were going to be at my future brother-in-law’s pizza place Monday night. I had no idea when I agreed to fill in for my friend that you were going to be co-hosting Smack Talk. And how was I to know that you were going to be standing behind me in line at CVS when I just so happened to need a bottle of makeup remover for the client I’m currently working on?”
He glances around. “What client?”
My face pinches. “She’s up the street. Anyway, almost feels like you’re the one doing the following.”
“Yeah. I followed you to Smack Talk,” his words are coated in sarcasm.
“Pure coincidence,” I shoot back.
“And the rest isn’t?”
I shrug, taking a step away. “This city’s awfully big for us to be running into each other every five minutes, just saying.”
He drags a hand through his beard, which does a shitty job hiding that smug smirk he’s wearing.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asks, head cocked. “Really quick. Won’t take much time. I just think we need to straighten this out.”
“There’s nothing to straighten out,” I say. “Just stop following me.”
His chin dips to his chest, and he drags his hand through his dark hair before locking eyes with me. His are a vibrant shade of aquamarine, and they briefly distract and disarm me.
“Five minutes,” he says. “I just need to know you’re not a crazy stalker.”
Sighing, I look him up and down. “Fine. Because I need to know the same thing.”
The line moves ahead again, and suddenly I’m next. The group of people a couple spots in front of me must have all been together, thank God.
“Good. Meet me at Gilberto’s. It’s on the corner, two blocks north,” he says.
“I have to finish up a job,” I say. “Give me half an hour.”
“Next,” the checker calls.
I turn away from Ace, though I still feel his eyes on me, his stare weighted and unapologetic. Placing my bottle of makeup remover on the counter, I pull out my wallet and complete the transaction, forgoing a bag and receipt.
Dashing up the street, I return to Helena’s and fix her up. By the time I’m back, her hair is already swept up into a modern French twist, and she’s wearing that sexy little black number she so desperately pried herself out of not long ago.