“You read my mind,” I tell her, beaming. “Give me an hour to shower and get ready, and we can go paint the town red.”
She laughs. “You sound like an old woman when you say stuff like that.”
“You’d better be careful with that kind of talk,” I warn her teasingly, getting to my feet. “This old woman knows how to party.”
“Damn right you do.”
A little over one hour later, we’re lounging on a couch at the Monarch, a rooftop bar in Midtown I’ve never been to before, but damn, I sure wish I’d known about this place earlier. The lights are dim. Pulsing music drifts across to us from the inside room, and partiers cluster around in tipsy groups, laughing and drinking as they shake off the work week. We’re towering above the city, so close to the Empire State building that I feel like if I reached out I could touch it. The whole place is bathed in a purple neon glow, and it’s the perfect combination of chill and lively to start my weekend in NYC. In short, Amelia couldn’t have done better.
I pull my camera up on my phone. It won’t be super high-quality footage, but it will have that cool, old-school grainy vibe, and I want to get some of this down. It’s such a classy party—so high-society, in a stereotypical New York sort of way—that it would be a fucking waste not to document it.
I shoot some video, then take some still shots, and put together a quick Insta story. “Just hanging out with some friends, no big deal.” I add in the text portion—with a couple of heart-eye emojis. Seconds later, the story is up on my feed. Seconds after that, the likes start coming in, along with comments.
“You should’ve seen her,” Amelia says, slurring her words and nudging me playfully in the arm as she gestures with her cosmopolitan. “She was all like, ‘that’s funny, because I’m not happy to see you.’”
“Damn.” Sage laughs, shaking her head and taking a sip of her cocktail. “Mic drop. Just remember, he who angers you, controls you.”
I hate when she’s right, still, I say, “I can be mean if I want to.”
“You’re just so… bubbly,” Amelia remarks. “You’re like the perfect southern belle, sweet and deadly.”
I laugh. “And you’re drunk.”
“Well,” Eli says, leaning forward, “I’m sorry Griff was so… abrasive that time in Vegas. I know he can sometimes rub people the wrong way.”
Sage and Eli are sitting across from us, nursing their own drinks. The handsome doctor has his arm around her shoulders, and the tipsier they get, the more touchy-feely they seem to become. Not a look I would’ve pictured on my snarky little friend, but they seem to suit each other. For all my frustration at having run into Griffin again, at least I can say our second meeting wasn’t for a pelvic exam. Still, there’s something strangely sweet about the way Eli and Sage are around each other. He keeps glancing at her when he thinks she isn’t looking, and she keeps looking for excuses to move closer to him. They remind me of middle schoolers in their first relationship, or something.
“It is what it is. I feel bad, though,” I add, looking at him. Whatever went down between Griff and me has nothing to do with Eli. And I certainly can’t make Sage pay the price for her boyfriend having an asshole for a friend. For what it’s worth, Sage has never asked about that night, and frankly, I’m relieved. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas—well, at least for me. I can’t say the same for my BFF. That’s good though. She’s so happy and in love. “Like I’m shit-talking your best friend.”
Eli shrugs his shoulders. “We’re all adults here.”
“Tell you what,” I tease, “you first. How’re you two doing?”
“Like, as a couple?” Sage glances at Eli who has an adoring look on his handsome face. “We’re doing good.”
“We’re taking it slow,” Eli adds. “That said, though…” He grins at Sage, touching his forehead to hers. She tries to maintain a serious expression, but breaks into a fit of laughter, nudging him playfully away.
“God, you guys are so sweet, it’s making me sick,” Amelia jokes. “Why can’t Daniel be this romantic when we’re in public?”
“At least you guys have relationships,” I groan. “Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the same hotel as Mr. Personality himself.” I glare at Sage. “Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Asshole would be my next-door neighbor?”
Sage takes a sip of her drink then says, “Remember back at the airport when I tried to tell you something, and you told me I was killing your happy buzz.”
I roll my eyes dramatically and say, “Whatever. You should have been more persistent.”
“Technically, he’s not your next-door neighbor,” Eli says. “He lives in the penthouse.”
“Owns,” Sage adds. “He owns it and lives there.”
“The penthouse?” I know how much those places go for in Manhattan…lots of zeroes. “He’s a lawyer,” I point out. Last I checked unless you’re a lawyer for a celebrity or politician, you aren’t earning enough to buy a penthouse in Manhattan.
Eli takes a long swig of his beer as if he’s mulling something over.
“Spit it out, doc,” I say.
“Did he ever tell you his last name?” Eli asks.
“Who exchanges last names in Vegas?” I ask. I mean, he and Sage are living proof of that sacred rule.
“When you get a chance, do a search on Morgan and Hunt law firm. Griff works there,” Eli explains.
Across from me, Amelia is already swiping on her phone. I have no doubt what she’s up to. Within seconds, her brows shoot up, and she says, “Holy shit, he’s the Griffin Hunt. I thought he looked familiar.”
Still puzzled, I take the phone as she hands it over to me. By the way, I’m simply curious. I could care less about…whoa!
The image staring back at me is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever met and, according to some newspaper article titled: Rich. Single. Under 40…Griffin Hunt—partner of Morgan & Hunt Law Firm, son of William Griffin Hunt —New York City’s most eligible bachelor, second guy is Cameron Daniels…also good looking, I note. The list goes on accompanied with shots of New York’s richest and finest, but it’s Griff’s face I stare at for a few seconds too long. There are flashes of memory from Vegas that still make me buzz: his sparking touches, the way he brushed his lips against my forehead, my hands on his neck, his face against my throat, his arms around my waist.
“You know,” Eli says, snapping me out of my stupor. “Griff is a solid guy. I’m willing to vouch for him on that. He can get weird sometimes, but considering what he’s been through…”
“What exactly has he been through?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
Eli shakes his head. “His story, not mine. I just think he might surprise you. That’s all.”
I can only eye him over the rim of my cocktail glass. “Maybe. But I doubt it.”
Chapter 4
#JustAGirlBossBuildingHerEmpire