The next morning, I get up as early as it’s possible to get up when you’ve spent most of the night catching up with your favorite people in the world.
Yes, yes, I know, it’s only been a couple of months since I last saw Sage, and we talk all the time, etc., etc., etc. We’ve been through this already, remember? Put together a road trip—or a vacation, I guess—with your best friends, and then throw in wine, good food, and then tell me you don’t stay up all night chatting and getting drunk together.
And if you don’t spend all night chatting and getting drunk together, then what the hell is wrong with you, and what are you doing with your life? Because you need to rethink it, like, stat.
So, that point made, let’s get back to the story. I get up in the morning around nine-ish, which is the earliest I can possibly manage with the quasi-hangover I have going on. And though the room spins a little bit when I sit up, it stills again pretty quickly. And after my regular cup of coffee, I decide that yes, yes, I can still go out and do what I’ve been planning to do today.
Outside is painfully clear. The trees of Central Park, right across the street from the apartment, are tinged with gold, orange, red, and amber, and it’s freaking gorgeous. In short, it looks like the perfect morning to capture the moment. Just the right amount of bite in the air to make the trip to Greenwich Village pleasant, and of the sun is brilliant in the sky for a beautiful shooting.
An hour later, I’m on my way, my camera bag hiked up on my shoulder, comfortable but trendy shoes on my feet, fitted and extremely dark jeans on my legs, a tight white tee, and an oversized gray motif blazer to top it all off. It’s the perfect I-don’t-really-care-to-try-but-I-still-look-fabulous sort of outfit, and I’ve perfected that sort of thing for days when I work. I want the audience to be able to look at me and think I’m relatable and someone they could be friends with. Less Gucci and Revolve. More Girl Next Door.
I mean, I guess that comes with an asterisk, though. Depending on who you are, Gucci and Revolve might be the same thing as Girl Next Door. But not in the part of the world where I come from. Yeah, my parents are well off, and I’ve spent much of my life traveling the world—and documenting every single thing that I find interesting. But rich in Raleigh doesn’t mean the same thing as rich in NYC.
And I’ve just never been that into representing myself as spoiled or being able to buy every single thing I wanted. Social media is already too full of that sort of thing. I want to literally look like I could be anyone. Hence the non-label jeans and t-shirt from that store where we all go too often and spend too much money. That’s just me.
I quickly step out of the elevator, locate the front doors, and then look down at my phone, trying to map out my route to Greenwich Village while speeding through the lobby. I need to get out there before the sun gets too high in the sky, or I’m going to have to wait until afternoon to get any quality shots, and that just won’t do. Not when I have a dinner party tonight.
My mouth curves a bit at the thought of hanging out with all my peeps in the city. I’m scrolling through my contacts list on my phone, when I run into him. And by ‘run into him,’ I mean I’m walking incredibly quickly, and he must have been doing the exact same thing—in the exact opposite direction. While also looking down at his phone, evidently.
We literally smash into each other. It’s not sexy or graceful or even very funny. Not at all like people who bump into each other in those stupid movies that you end up watching late at night when you can’t sleep. It’s a bone-crunching, tongue-biting, jarring sort of collision.
The only kind of romantic thing is that he immediately puts both hands out to catch me and hold me steady, in case I might be on my way to falling down.
“Careful,” he says. “God, you girls on your phones, walking like no one else could possibly be in the area.”
I would recognize that low and gruff voice anywhere. My skin hums with want. My stomach flips. My whole body is immediately alive with desire.
Pull yourself together girl. The guy might have caught me and kept me from falling, but he’s also Griffin Hunt. Mr. Asshole extraordinaire.
Planting my hands against his very firm chest, I pull out of his grasp, putting some much-needed distance between us. My body silently curses me. “Umm… I can say the same thing about you.”
Why do I keep running into him?
Seriously God, give a girl a break, will ya?
His eyes scan my face, and I notice desire flitting across his handsome features. “I didn’t realize it was you,” he says.
“Let me guess, you would have been nicer.”
The asshole actually smiles and says, “Yes, actually, I would have.” He checks his cell phone then shoves it in his pocket. “How long are you in town?”
“None of your business.”
“Have dinner with me.”
I fake gasp and clutch my heart. “No.”
He arches a brow, seeming shocked that someone actually said no to him, then his mouth twists into that sexy smile again. “How about a drink, then?”
“When pigs fly.”
He stares at me for a long beat, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Chelsea.”
Jesus, the way he says my name. His voice is like deep dark chocolate that makes me want to get all up in that. My eyes flit down to his full, soft lips, and for a moment, I remember what it was like to kiss him in Vegas. But then I blow right past him, reminding myself of what he said after that kiss—and further, that I want to punch the guy, not kiss him.
He doesn’t bother to rush after me—to keep yelling, or to apologize. And for that, I’m truly grateful…and maybe just a tiny bit disappointed. But I refuse to dwell on that traitorous horny part of me.
Instead, I say a silent thank you to the big guy up in the heavens that I don’t live in NY. Guys like Griffin are way too thick on the ground, here. Give me a southern gentleman with southern charm any fucking day of the week.
I resolve once more to get to Greenwich as quickly as possible, get this shoot done, and then get back so I can plan my party. Hopefully, without running into Griff the Grumpy again.
Chapter 5
#StuckBetweenFuckItAndIWantYou
Later that night, after we said goodbye to my crew, Sage, Amelia, and I are a giggling mess as we make it back to the hotel—a feat in and of itself, considering that all three of us are utterly trashed. Dinner was a blast. I lost track of the number of drinks I had, and now, I’m walking the line between drunk and too drunk.
“So you sure you wanna stick around?” I ask Sage as we stumble up the front steps.
“Are you kidding?” She laughs. “I haven’t seen you in months, girl. Eli can deal for one night. No offense, babe,” she adds, glancing at her other half. The more time I spend with him, the more I like him. It doesn't hurt that he’s so obviously in love with my BFF.
Eli just chuckles. “None taken. Our place isn’t far from here…I think maybe I’ll walk. I could stand to clear my head.”
“Text me when you get back,” Sage tells him. “I would hate for you to get chopped up by a serial killer.”
“Noted,” Eli says, nodding, before turning to me and Amelia. “Have her back in one piece, yeah?”