“Easy.”
Oh fuck. I recognize that smooth voice anywhere. Fucking Griffin Hunt. He lets go of me, and I’m just looking up to say a polite thanks for saving my life and all that when the heel of my right shoe actually breaks right off, sending me sideways once again.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a heel break on you, but it’s the worst. One minute you’re standing upright and solid and the next the floor has actually fallen out from under you—but only on one side. It’s offsetting on the soberest of days. When you’re nursing a hangover, it’s literally the worst thing that can happen.
I lurch to the side, completely off balance and unprepared, and realize that I’m now going to crash onto my side instead of my ass. Not much better, honestly. Less padding. Just as embarrassing.
And, to my utter shock, Griff plays hero once again, reaching out and steadying me, holding me there until I can get my feet to figure out how to stand at different heights—and my body to figure out how to accommodate it. I rise up onto my toes on my right foot, just to make up for the height difference, and try to get my equilibrium to come back.
It takes me several moments, I’m not going to lie. But when I finally do it, I look up at my savior. If he thinks I’m going to praise him for being a hero, well, he’s sadly mistaken.
And to my even greater shock, he stares down at me, kind of grins, and says, “We’ve got to stop running into each other like this.”
Wait, is he flirting with me…again? Using a line on me in the middle of the lobby of his building?
And wait even longer. Am I… Am I reacting favorably to that?
Yes, yes, I am. Heat rushes through my body at his words, and I can feel my cheeks burning up, a smile actually starting to touch my lips.
What in the ever-loving hell?
I hate this guy.
Okay. Hate is a strong word. It’s more of an extreme dislike. It doesn't matter that he knocked on my door and apologized. The point is he insulted me and my career choice.
But even those things can’t stop me from noticing the sparkle in his eye. The charming grin on his lips. The cuffs of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. The hand still resting on my arm.
And, oh God, my brain might be of the firm opinion that this guy is a Grade A asshole, but my body has a different impression of him. An impression that’s a whole lot more those-eyes-are-going-to-melt-my-bones.
“Is there a better way to run into each other?” I ask, somewhat breathlessly.
“Have dinner with me tonight?”
“No.”
He bites his lip like he’s thinking about my rejection as his gaze slowly moves down to my lips. Oh, Jesus on a scooter, is he thinking about kissing me again?
For the record, my traitorous horny self wants to kiss him again. Except, I don’t have time for that. I have a meeting to get to, and now I have to find shoes that aren’t broken. Instead of standing there gaping at him like he’s the starting quarterback and I’m some freshman who’s never been kissed, I start to turn.
“Sorry, but I’ve got somewhere to be, and now, I have to find another pair of shoes. I guess I’ll have to run into you another time.”
He gives me a surprisingly gentle smile and nods. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I rush for the elevator, my mind trying desperately—and fruitlessly—to figure out what the hell is happening to me. And why my body is so keen to take advantage of it.
Chapter 8
#AlwaysWearAnInvisibleCrown
I spend the morning in the meeting with the agent—and it goes really, really well, thanks for asking—and then head back to Greenwich Village to get a couple more shots. The places I shot yesterday in slightly different lighting, or with me pointing out a different set of characteristics. New places that I didn’t have a chance to hit yesterday. A bunch of footage of me having lunch in my favorite deli there—including the best things on the menu, in my humble opinion. I end up with a little feature at Ground Zero. No, it doesn’t stick to my ‘Historical Things You’d Never Expect in Greenwich Village’ theme, but it’s important. It’s part of the American psyche.
And I might be a millennial, but I know enough to know that no one would forgive me if I went to that area and didn’t bother to cover it.
By the time I’m hopping into a cab and heading home, my replacement heels in my bag and my Tieks sliding off my feet, I’m exhausted. But I’m also really excited. Because I’ve got a whole lot of really, really good stuff here, and I know it’s going to make for an impressive segment.
Maybe my best ever. Which wasn’t something I expected when I got here. That’s the sort of thing you don’t really find out about until you’re already in the middle of shooting, or sometimes all the way to editing. I’ve shot segments that I thought were a complete wreck, and which I almost threw away, only to have them magically come together in editing and become hits for my audience.
I lean back on the seat and close my eyes, trying to go through the schedule for the rest of the day. I don’t have anything planned for tonight, thanks to having done all my socializing the last two nights, so I’m free to take the night off from performing for the masses and just…be. And I have to admit that it sounds pretty freaking good right now. I’m tired. There’s something about being in an airplane that always makes me feel a little bit laggy. It doesn’t help that I jumped right into the action.
Yeah, I could use a night off. A good dinner by myself. Wine. A book. And that is, I think, exactly what I’m going to do.
When we get back to the building, I pay the cabbie and get out, looking up once more at the place. I still can’t believe I’m staying here. This gorgeous building, right across the street from Central Park, in my Gramps’s magnificent condo. As soon as I get back home, I have to take Gramps to his favorite southern restaurant to show my appreciation for letting me use his place.
Smiling to myself, I step onto the sidewalk, and stroll toward the front doors.
And that’s when everything goes right to hell.
“Excuse me, miss, are you here to visit someone?” a man asks, grabbing at my arm.
Surprised, I turn to see the doorman scowling down at me. The very same doorman that I walked right past this morning. No, he’s never seen me coming back into the building, but surely he saw me leaving it this morning.
And is it really his job to try to stop people? I mean yeah, I guess it probably is, but not people who actually live here.
“I’m staying here this weekend,” I say, striving to keep my tone polite. “Apartment 1233.”
“That’s Andrew Thompson’s apartment,” he says in his haughty upper crust tone.
Fucking asshole.
“That’s true,” I say, still trying for patience. “He’s my grandfather. He didn’t have to notify you guys of that.”
“He should have, actually,” the man replies. “The fact that he didn’t makes me wonder.”
“Wonder what, exactly?” Anger spirals from the pit of my stomach. “I have the key, if that’s what you’re worried about. I can even show you my ID if you’d like. I’m not just hanging out in the lobby of your building or something.”