When I’m done, I spread my arms wide, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door. Yes, my wedding dress has given its life to the cause. Nothing is left of it but shreds.
Fitting.
I leave and head uptown on the subway.
On the train, barely anyone gives me a second look. God, I love this city. I could be dressed like this for work, for fun, or for giggles, and no one would question it or even bat an eye.
I exit and emerge above ground in one of the most picturesque parts of Manhattan: the Upper East Side, or, as I like to call it, What Movies Want Us to Believe. This is what the rest of the country must think Manhattan is like, based on the sheer number of rom-coms shot here—blocks lined with four-story brownstones and canopied with trees. Wealthy women walking small dogs and beautiful couples kissing on the glittering stoops of those homes, since movie kisses always take place by a lovely glittering stoop.
I don’t know any stoops that glitter. But in the movies, they do.
I turn the corner, looking for the boutique hotel, 10 East Club. It’s a landmarked building, with the feel of old New York, when the city toasted itself in the Gilded Age.
When I reach it I lift my gaze, drinking in the gorgeous red brick, the white window panes, and the window boxes, teeming with flowers. The doorman in his cranberry-red uniform holds open the brass door for me. This is New York at its finest. Rich, moneyed, old New York.
But inside, it’s going to be flooded with all the new money the internet has brought to the country’s financial capital.
Ready or not, here I come.
I drop the mask, gold and white, so it covers the top half of my face down to my nose.
Time to network.
Champagne flows freely. Silver and gold lights are draped along doorways and over crown moldings, twinkling like fireflies in the softly lit space. Chandeliers sparkle on the ceiling. Music thumps loudly, and waiters circulate, offering appetizers.
But that’s where the similarities to the tattered paperbacks I used to read end.
The costumes aren’t lavish ball gowns and coats and tails. Instead, I spot a young woman at the photo booth wearing an Instagram sign slung around her neck and a feathered mask awkwardly hugging the lenses of her eyeglasses. Next to her, a skinny guy has donned virtual reality goggles as his masquerade mask. I watch from the bar, peering at the scene with Courtney as we refill our champagne flutes.
“We’ve raised nearly twelve thousand dollars already,” she whispers to me from beneath the hat of a Pokémon Go Trainer. The cost of admission tonight goes to an organization that promotes math and science learning to children from lower-income homes.
“That’s amazing. I’m proud of you,” I say as she waves at a man with a white sheet over his head. He’s no ghost—his costume is marked with 404 error—webpage not found.
She turns back to me, eyeing me from head to toe. “And I’m proud of you. I knew you were crafty,” she says, gesturing to my ensemble, “but this is a whole new level.”
I curtsy, no small feat in my short white dress—it’s not the wedding dress though. It’s a new one I picked up on sale. The remains of my wedding dress adorn my arms. “Why, thank you. If I don’t nab a job at a publication, I’ll consider making costumes from discarded bridal wear.”
“You’ll get a reporting job like that,” she says with a snap of her fingers. “You talked to Henry, right?”
I nod since he’s one of the tech bloggers she wanted me to meet. “And Caroline as well,” I say, naming the woman who works as a producer at a cable business network. I chatted with her briefly about doing some on-camera reports. “She said I’d have to ditch the three earrings if they were to consider me.”
“You’d obviously ditch the earrings.”
“Obviously. And also, obviously,” I say, giving her my most deferential nod, “you were right that it made sense for me to attend.”
She smiles brightly. “Of course I’m right. Now, before you try to skip out of here early, you need to talk to Evil Kermit. He runs a podcast network that just started. His real name is also Kermit.”
I give her a look. “He’s named Kermit and he dressed as Evil Kermit?”
She crosses her heart. “Swear. We funded the tech his network runs on. He’s the front man for it. And he gets a kick out of his name.”
“Evidently,” I say, keeping my eyes peeled for a guy in green.
She scurries off, and I weave through the crowds, passing a woman dressed like Candy Crush, and a couple of guys wearing animal masks and ears, so they’re Snapchat filters. Like a surveyor, I scan the crowd as music plays, a mix of rap and hipster, and I’m pretty sure it would be some sort of sin to play Ed Sheeran or Taylor Swift here. God forbid the taste be anything but ironic.
When I spot a man in green, he’s removed his Kermit face mask, and he looks exactly like Seth Rogen, a little round in the middle with a thick beard and glasses. I head over and introduce myself. “I hear you’re the man to meet,” I say, then tell him I spent six years at the paper, covering the internet business and writing industry features.
He scoffs. “I know your work. We don’t exactly do your type of journalism,” he says gruffly.
I straighten my spine. “What is my type of journalism?”
“Long, detailed, thoughtful, analytical . . .”
I don’t know if that was a compliment or a backhanded-AF compliment. I play it calm as I reply, “Long or short, the goal is always to be fair, to get it right, and to go the extra mile when asking questions.”
He rolls his eyes, and now I know he wasn’t complimenting me at all.
“Why would you think that’s not a good approach?” I ask.
He leans in close. “Because you’re sucking up to me at a party, that’s why.”
“I’m not sucking up to you at all,” I say defensively. I’d really like to give him a piece of my mind.
“Then why don’t you tell me what you could really bring to the table? Tell me why I’d want you on my network, and don’t give me a canned answer.”
I’ve faced off against CEOs, corporate executives, and douchebag billionaires who flaunt their McLarens like the car is a ticket for a woman to drop to her knees. This life-size puppet doesn’t scare me. “No, Kermit, I meant it. I wasn’t sucking up to you. I believe in being relentless and being fair. That’s why I do what I do. I’m not giving you a canned answer because I’m not sufficiently interested in sucking up to lie. Either you like my style, or you don’t.”
His eyes narrow. “I believe in taking risks. Being scrappy. Going for broke. That’s what I do, and that’s who I want to work with.” Before I can answer, his eyes drift across the room, and he speaks again. “I need to talk to someone. I’ll catch you another time.”
Kermit, who is aptly costumed tonight, turns away, his cloak trailing behind him.
As he exits, I’m unable to make heads or tails of that interaction, though it’s safe to say there won’t be any work coming my way from Kermit the Douche.
I head to the nearby bar, so I don’t look like I was ditched by a frog. I spot a button on the floor, like the kind you’d use to make eyes on a sock puppet. It’s bright red, with the word start on it in black marker. Grabbing it, I tuck it into my clutch in case I come across someone missing a button.
As I wait at the bar for the bartender to pour my champagne, I watch the crowd. Some people are dancing, most are mingling, and even though my phone hasn’t rung, it’s still a good night.
I’ll drink this champagne then get out of here. I could probably make some headway on a new minidress I want to make from some emerald-green velvet I snagged at a thrift shop. Hell, if I play my cards right, I can catch a subway in ten minutes, spend some time with my Singer, and brainstorm story ideas to pitch to Henry and Caroline.
Sounds like a good end to a decent night.
The bartender hands me the champagne. I thank him, take a quick sip, and have jus
t set it down to leave, since I shouldn’t sew while buzzed, when I hear a voice.
“You’re no ordinary angel. You’re a next-generation angel.”
I turn around and see a man dressed all in black, with lips that are made for sin.
5
Flynn
I’m batting zero. My night has gone like this:
A woman asks, “Are you a code ninja?”
I scowl and shake my head.
The next guess comes from an employee. “You’re an awesome Dark Web.”
“I’m not the dark web,” I tell him.
A woman wearing a pink mustache cocks a smile and says, “You must be an SEO ninja.”
Seriously, I am not a ninja at all. Maybe the all-black get-up is throwing them off, but I’m definitely not a ninja. Don’t they get why I can’t be a ninja?
“Nope,” I say, with the dejected sigh of someone whose costume is understood by no one. It’s quite sad to fail at dressing up. But I’ve earned my F in this class tonight.
As the woman dressed as Lyft walks away, I notice an angel chatting with Evil Kermit.
And I can’t look away from her.
Those legs.
That waist.
That body.
The little bit I can see of her face tells me I can’t complain about the shape of her jawline or those lips like a pink bow. But honestly, it’s the costume that has me most intrigued. Because it says she has a brain that works well.
That’s what I find most attractive in a woman.
When she’s done with Kermit, she heads for the bar, and shortly after, I walk over to her.
“You’re no ordinary angel. You’re a next-generation angel,” I say, since a clever costume deserves something much better than a pickup line.
Her lips quirk up. “I am?”
“And let me state, for the record, the costumes here are damn good. But yours is the best one I’ve seen tonight.” I take a beat. “Angel investor. That’s brilliant.”
She wears a white dress, a halo over her head, and has the coolest wings I’ve ever seen, because that’s where she stops being a regular angel.
She juts out her hip and gives me a smile. “Would you like to see my wingspan?” Her invitation sounds vaguely dirty but also adorably cute.
“I would love to see your wingspan,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart, and maybe from other parts too.
She steps away from the bar and spreads her arms wide. They flutter with ribbons of white fabric, something satiny or shiny, shimmering faintly. The strips of material that hang from her arms are covered in Monopoly money. Ones, fives, tens, and hundreds.
I reach for a strand. “May I?”
“By all means, touch my money.”
I laugh as I run a finger over a yellow ten-dollar bill. The money is pinned to the fabric, covering her wings. It’s the perfect sexy costume, with a twist and a wink and nod to our world, where angel investors often set new start-ups in motion with their first cash infusion.
But the insider joke doesn’t stop at her wings. The concept extends all the way to her gold halo. The best part? She’s wrapped bigger bills around it—a handful of thousand-dollar bills.
“I see you don’t just have a halo. You have a halo effect,” I say, referring to the marketing term as I signal to the bartender for a glass of champagne.
“Why stop at one bit of wordplay when I can have two?” she says, with a clever grin I’m pretty sure I want to kiss off her face.
“Where did you find a one-thousand-dollar Monopoly bill? I thought the game only went to five-hundred-dollar denomination.”
“It does. Unless you have Mega Monopoly,” she answers.
I mime an explosion by my temples. “Mind blown.”
She gestures to her ensemble. “I made the whole thing myself.”
“Clever and handy. I’m defenseless before your charms.”
She laughs. “Good to know, since I make all my clothes. Will that render you completely helpless?”
“That’s a likely possibility. As long as you aren’t about to pitch me an app for how to make your clothes.”
She laughs and shakes her head. Her hair is light brown, almost a caramel color, and it’s braided down one side. From behind her gold mask, her hazel eyes twinkle at me.
“No. My app would say go buy scissors, a sewing machine, and a pattern.” She raises her flute to her lips, and I watch her drink, wondering briefly how the champagne tastes on her lips. She sets down the glass. A faint imprint of pink from her lip gloss decorates the rim. “Can you even imagine if someone tried to make an app for how to do that? There can’t actually be an app for everything.”
“But people try. Next thing you know, someone will make an app with a sign that says taxi on your phone screen, and you hold it up to hail one.”
“I think someone did make that. Also, I didn’t fund it,” she says, laughing, as the bartender slides me a champagne.
“I didn’t either.”
She runs one hand along a wing full of money. “I only fund the best and brightest ideas with my Monopoly money.” Her voice turns slightly more serious. “Do you get pitched on apps a lot?”
I take a drink of the bubbly. “I get pitched on everything all the time.”
She nods. “That must be par for the course, being a VC and all.”
I part my lips to speak, to tell her I’m not a VC. But I flash back to the racquetball game, to the face-lift suggestion from my sister. If this angel thinks I’m a VC, that means my face-lift is working. My costume is doing what I want it to do—it’s making it possible for me to be me. To have a conversation as Flynn Parker the guy, not as Flynn Parker the multimillionaire.
She doesn’t know who I am. And I don’t correct her. “It can be.”
She nods thoughtfully then roams her gaze over my black attire. She taps her bottom lip. “Hmm. Let’s see what we have here tonight because I don’t think you’re a ninja.”
I punch the air. “Keep going.”
She studies me more closely. “You’re something mysterious. You’re trying to fly under the radar. Am I getting warmer?”
More like hot. “Yes.”
Her brow knits. “You want to go unnoticed, at least for the moment.”
I tense, hoping she’s not putting two and two together as to my identity. Absently, I raise my hand to my glasses, wondering if they give me away. But then I remember. I’m wearing my contacts tonight, something I rarely do.
She snaps her fingers. “I know! You’re a stealth start-up,” she says, using the term for a new company that’s keeping quiet.
I raise my arms in victory, a thrill racing through me. “Everyone else has guessed code ninja or SEO ninja, but you’re the first person all night to get it right. I am, indeed, a stealth start-up.”
Admittedly, donning black pants, a black shirt, and a black eye-mask might have made it challenging to guess. But then again, the angel figured it out, and all without the missing start-up button.
“Your lips gave you away.”
She recognized me from my lips? I furrow my brow behind my mask. “What do you mean?”
“Your mouth,” she says, raising her fingers dangerously near to my lips. “I could tell you weren’t a ninja because your lips aren’t covered. Ninjas cover their mouths.” I relax again since she was referring to my clothes. “Only their eyes show. But you’ve covered most of your eyes, and you’re showing only your mouth and your chin. That’s how I knew you had to be something other than a ninja.”
“I could kiss you for that,” I blurt out. I take a step back and hold up a hand. “I’m sorry. That was probably terribly inappropriate.”
A smile slowly spreads across her lips. “No, it wasn’t inappropriate. It wasn’t inappropriate at all,” she says. Something in the way she takes her time with each word tells me she wouldn’t mind being kissed. That gives me one mission and one mission only: keep talking to this angel.
But before I can ask
her a question, she reaches into her purse, grabbing at something. She holds out her hand. It’s in a fist. “Is this your start-up button?”
She opens her hand to reveal a red button.
Laughing, I take it from her hand, and slip it into my pocket. “You found my start-up button. Maybe that’s why no one knew what I was. Or maybe you’re just a genius.”
“I prefer to think genius.”
“I’d offer to buy the genius a drink to keep the conversation going, but the drinks here are free . . .” I let my voice trail off, inviting her to pick up the thread if she wants to.
She smiles coyly. “I wonder if you could come up with another way to keep talking to me.”
And she wants to, so now it’s my turn. The music shifts from hipster rap to something slower, smoother. One of those songs I never know the name of but you hear on trendy TV shows before a hot couple kisses. I nod my forehead toward the speaker. “I planned that,” I say as I hold out a hand.
She laughs. “No, you didn’t.”
“But you have to admit it’s good luck, like the button. Care to dance?”
Her lips twitch in a sexy smile. “Yes, I care to dance.”
I take her hand and lead her to where the chandeliers cast patterns of light across the hardwood floors. The dance floor is surprisingly crowded, but I don’t notice who’s here since I’m not actually looking at anyone but the hazel-eyed angel. I twirl her once, and when I tug her closer, her eyes sparkle.
“You know how to dance,” she says, a note of surprise in her voice.
“I’m not just a clever costume-maker and a producer of the finest knock-knock jokes.”
She leans her head back and laughs, exposing a gorgeous throat that I want to kiss. Yes, this is instant attraction. But then, that’s exactly how some attraction can be. And, perhaps, how it should be.
“One, your costume skills need work,” she says, giving me a pointed look as we move in time to the music. “Perhaps you should enlist the help of a crafty costumer for your next ball, at least to sew on the buttons so they don’t fall off. Two, tell me a fine knock-knock joke.”
The One Love Collection Page 61
