It’s not the most coherent telling off I’ve ever given, but it seems to do the trick, since he’s left staring at me. Turning unsteadily on my heel, I march back across the hall, only to remember the door had shut and locked. Groaning, I rap on it with my knuckles, doing everything in my power to keep from stealing another glance at the man behind me. Several agonizing seconds later, Amelia pulls the door open, and I storm inside, throwing it closed with such force that the door frame rattles.
After a second or two of utter silence, my friends burst into laughter, and I give them an exaggerated bow.
“Well, you told him,” Sage is the first to speak, her index finger tapping her chin. “Am I the only one sensing the serious sexual tension between the two of you?”
“Nope,” Amelia chimes in. “It’s totally there.”
“Not my fault he’s sexy as fuck,” I answer. “And he was wearing gray sweatpants.”
“Oh yeah, that’s her kryptonite,” Sage says to Amelia who nods in agreement.
I walk past them and plop on the sofa. “That’s the safest way of sending a dick pic without the social stigma of it.”
“It’s a very casual flex,” Amelia adds.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “But he’s still an arrogant asshole.”
“You still haven’t told us what happened between you two, though,” Sage points out, coming to sit next to me. “Don’t you think it’s time you spill the beans?”
Ooookay, so talking it is.
Chapter 6
#WhatHappenedInVegas
Three months ago
The laughter and chatter of the casino is punctuated by the sounds of slot machines and the occasional drunken cheer. Sage and Eli have already slipped off to God knows where, but that hardly matters to me. I might not be winning at roulette, but I’m on a different kind of roll.
From the start, Griff—with those shockingly green eyes and that roughed-up blond hair—had been more outgoing than his friend, Eli. He’s like Chris Hemsworth in the flesh, only American. And more interested in debate than jokes. I liked him right away, and we’ve spent much of the night debating the relative pros and cons of cider versus beer, theaters versus Netflix, and then finally social media versus real life.
In between all of that, there’s been some kissing. And by “some,” I mean… well, a lot. Look, the guy is a freaking amazing kisser, and don’t even get me started on what he’s been able to do with his hands, brushing his fingertips over my skin until I am actually shaking with desire—something I’d always thought was a myth. I’m drinking wine tonight, and my whole body has been humming, my core absolutely aching with a deep, groaning need for him.
“New York City,” he said, when I asked him where he lives. “I’m a lawyer there. Work at a big firm.”
“Oh, quite the grown-up job,” I joke. “And I bet they have leather furniture and enormous desks, right?”
He leans in, running his hands up my thighs, and brushes a kiss across my lips. “Enormous.” There’s something intoxicating about him, a sort of juxtaposition between playfulness and seriousness that makes for an intriguing combination, and I can hardly take my eyes off him. Then he sits back, licks his lips, and asks, “So what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an influencer,” I say without hesitation. “Mostly on Insta. I do features for people who want to travel. Art, local watering holes, the best places to go when you’re in a specific city. That sort of thing. It’s a nice little niche, and it means I basically get paid to travel, which isn’t the worst thing in the world.”
The moment I stop talking and look at him, I can detect that something is wrong. He’d been all come-into-my-arms-baby a second ago, and now he’s…shrinking back from me, a sneer twisting his lips like I’d just insulted his mother.
“What?” I ask, confused.
He shakes his head and tries to lean into me again, tries to get back to what we’ve been doing.
But I can’t forget the look on his face, and push him off. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Lawyer?”
He tips his head back and forth. “It’s just that you seem so sure of yourself and so confident. I’d have thought you did something more adult. Like, I don’t know, publicity or something.”
My stomach drops right into the floor beneath me. “Something more adult?” I repeat the words, my voice deadly quiet.
“Yeah. I mean, something that actually pays the bills, you know? Not something puerile like making videos for social media. It just seems so…frivolous.” He ends the statement vaguely, suddenly realizing that I’m looking at him like he had insulted my mother.
I narrow my eyes, trying to get control of my temper. Yeah, maybe he’s joking or trying to be funny. Maybe he even thinks he’s flirting. But I do not take well to people insulting me—or what I do for a living. You see, the greatest prison people live in, is the fear of what other people think.
So, I do what any self-respecting girl would do. I throw the remains of my drink right in his face, get up, and stroll out of the bar without looking back at the asshole who’s known me for a couple of hours and thinks it’s okay to insult me.
Chapter 7
#YouAreSoNakedInMyMind
Present Day
The next morning, I rush through the lobby of the building a lot earlier than I would like, with an only somewhat functional brain and enormous sunglasses already covering my eyes. I’m in better shape than Sage and Amelia—who are still laying in their beds groaning about how they’re never going to drink again—but I’m certainly not looking forward to going outside. Where the sun is. And all that light.
Hence the sunglasses. And the enormous, wide-brimmed hat I grabbed on the way out the door. In short, I’m doing my best impression of Audrey in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Only I have more curves. And also, I don’t have that face. No one has that face. Or that presence. Especially, when they feel like they might have had five bottles of champagne all to themselves last night.
Anyway, I’m five steps from the elevator and rushing like my life actually depends on it—or rushing as much as I can in heels, so it’s more of a quick walk than anything else. Why am I wearing heels, you ask?
Easy answer: I’ve managed to land a meeting today with an agent who wants to talk about a book deal. I didn’t even know about it until this morning, but one of my fellow Instagrammers made a phone call at dinner last night, and here we are. I’m beyond excited and so nervous I can hardly keep the coffee I’ve had in my stomach. And I definitely can’t be late.
I also don’t want any awkward meetups here. Now that I know Griffin lives in the building, I want to get through the place and out the door as quickly as possible. If I can make it through the rest of the weekend without another run-in, I’ll count myself incredibly lucky.
At that moment, though, I go barreling right into an enormous person coming right at me with the same speed and intensity, and we hit each other so hard that we actually both bounce back off, again—causing the heel of my right shoe to slide forward and very nearly send me crashing right onto my ass. The person I’ve just crashed into grabs for me, though, and keeps me on my feet, thank God.