by T. K. Leigh
“You honestly think it’s a mistake?” Chloe presses, obviously annoyed.
“He is under a lot of pressure with that big trial coming up. If this one goes well, he could be on a fast track for junior partner. I think…” I toy with the stem of my glass. “I’m sure he’ll eventually come to his senses. I mean, if he didn’t want to be with me, why wouldn’t he insist I immediately find somewhere else to live? He knows I could crash on the pullout in your den. Instead, he told me to stay as long as I need.” I’m probably grasping at straws, but I’m not ready to give up on Trevor yet. Maybe he needs to know that. “Perhaps if I’m still living there, he’ll be reminded of exactly what he’s throwing away.”
“Oh, I know what you should do!” Nora exclaims, her eyes brightening as if having an epiphany.
“What’s that?” I ask. “And no. I am not putting up a profile on Tinder.”
She laughs. “No. I wasn’t going to suggest that, although there is nothing wrong with meeting someone on Tinder. I was going to suggest you hire August Laurent.”
I pinch my brows together, shaking my head. “August Laurent? Who’s that?”
“He’s this guy…” She looks at Chloe. “I’m not sure how to explain. He provides a…boyfriend experience, so to speak.”
“Boyfriend experience?”
“Yeah,” Chloe answers. “Women pay him to pretend to be their boyfriend for however short or long a time as necessary.”
“So…an escort,” I scoff.
“Not just any escort.” Nora smirks, her eyes dancing with excitement. “He’s, like, the most sought-after escort on the East Coast, if not the country. And he lives right here in Manhattan. Women line up to hire him.”
“Sorry, but I don’t need an escort. Or to pay someone for a ‘boyfriend experience’. I have an actual boyfriend.”
Chloe lifts a finger. “Had.”
“Yes. Had. But like I said, my situation with Trevor is just temporary.”
“This guy specializes in that kind of thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s one of the biggest motivators out there?” Chloe narrows her gaze.
I stare blankly at her.
“Jealousy, Evie.” Nora looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. I’ve just been out of the dating world for so long. True, my job entails doling out relationship and dating advice on a regular basis, but I’ve never had to play any of these games myself. The mere thought exhausts me. “I’m sure hiring a ridiculously hot guy to pretend to be your boyfriend would have Trevor banging down your door in no time.”
“So he takes advantage of women who’ve had their hearts broken?” I bring my glass back to my lips, inhaling the oaky aroma of the whiskey before taking a sip. “Real stand-up guy.”
“People swear by him.” Chloe arches her brow. “For what it’s worth. They say he helped them realize their true value. Helped them feel worthy of being loved again, whether it be by their ex or someone new.”
“He must have a magical penis.” I laugh, wavering a little in my chair. “Super penis.” I snort, amused at the image I’ve concocted in my head of a penis wearing a cape. “Faster than a premature ejaculation,” I joke, coming up with his superhero tagline. Ideas for a feature in my column swirl in my head.
Martini spews out of Nora’s mouth as she chokes on the sip she had just taken. I swipe at my face, removing a few droplets.
“Didn’t that super model hire him?” she asks Chloe once her coughing settles down.
She nods. “Holly Turner.”
“Holly Turner?” I repeat. “Why would she have to hire an escort? The woman’s stunning! You’d think she’d have a line of men vying to take her ex’s place.”
“She refused to confirm she did, in fact, use this guy’s services,” Chloe explains, “but she did admit that had it not been for the help of a ‘dear friend’ during her separation and eventual divorce, she never would have realized how unhappy she’d been. This ‘dear friend’ made her feel beautiful again.”
I straighten my spine, finishing my drink. “I don’t need someone to help me feel beautiful again. And I certainly don’t need to hire some escort to pretend to be my boyfriend. I’ll handle Trevor on my own. I just need…”
“Yeah?”
“I just need to celebrate my thirtieth birthday and forget that Trevor ruined the day for me.”
Chloe and Nora pass a devious grin to each other. I have a feeling I’ll regret this tomorrow, but for now, I need a night with my two best friends.
“You got it, Evie.” Chloe signals Aiden. A line of shots appears in front of us within a few seconds.
“Here’s to thirty.” Nora raises her shot, Chloe and me mirroring her, gulping down the liquor.
Just as I take a sip of the water Aiden’s thankfully placed in front of me, a body brushes against mine. A shiver rolls down my spine, making me breathless. I glance behind me to see Mr. Armani Suit walk toward the door. Everything tells me to look away, to return my attention to my friends, but the tipsy version of Evie doesn’t listen, keeping her eyes glued to his tall physique instead. This is the best suit porn I’ve seen in a while and can’t get enough.
As he’s about to walk out the door, he stops. My heart skyrockets to my throat when his gaze locks with mine. A blush builds on my cheeks as I snap my eyes forward, doing everything to pretend he didn’t catch me ogling him. But he did. And the smirk on his full lips confirms this fact.
Bastard.
Chapter Three
Sun streams through the windows, bathing the room in light, rousing me from unconsciousness. I squint, having difficulty adjusting to the brightness. I don’t remember my bedroom being this bright, considering it faces west. Then again, the last thing I probably thought about last night when I stumbled back to the apartment was closing the drapes.
Rubbing my eyes, I try to shake off the cobwebs, my tongue feeling like sandpaper. Thankfully, drunk Evie must have predicted I’d wake up with a hangover to rival all hangovers and left a water bottle and a couple aspirin on the nightstand. Drunk Evie really is thoughtful.
I reach for the pills, pop them into my mouth, and chase them with a huge gulp of water, practically downing the entire bottle to dull the fire. After returning the bottle to the table, I collapse back onto the bed, the cool, silky sheets comforting against my skin.
As I stare at the ceiling, I exhale a long breath, the reality of yesterday slowly trickling back. Trevor really did break up with me. On my thirtieth birthday. Because I’m not serious enough. I’ll show him how wrong he is. I just need to nurse this hangover, then I’ll begin Operation Prove Trevor Wrong. If he wants a serious girlfriend, I can be that. I can tone down the jokes. I can stop making snarky comments. I can even write some different articles for the magazine. Less raunchy, more smart humor. What I can’t do is throw away over a decade of our relationship because he doesn’t think I’m the type of girl he can be with if he wants to make partner. I’ve always been a problem solver. Right now, this issue with Trevor is simply a problem I vow to fix.
Closing my eyes, I wrap the comforter around my body. I expect the remnants of Trevor’s scent to infiltrate my senses. But it doesn’t. One night and his aroma has already faded from the bed we once shared.
As I try not to think about that, my foot brushes against another body. I still, inhaling sharply. Did Trevor forget he broke up with me? Was he so exhausted after working all night he was on autopilot and climbed into bed? Better yet, did he already realize what a mistake he made and changed his mind, but I was in too much of an alcohol-induced coma to remember him telling me as much?
Hope building, I glance beside me, expecting to see Trevor’s impeccable dark hair. Everything about him is always perfect, right down to the lack of bedhead when he gets up in the morning. He makes me feel like Cousin It next to him.
When I see a full head of disheveled, sandy brown hair instead of Trevor’s pristine locks, I bolt up. The duvet falls around my waist, rev
ealing my underwear-clad body. Then I look up, realizing I’m not in my bedroom.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper shout, wracking my brain for a clue as to how I went from having a girls’ night to sharing a bed with a stranger. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe I told him my sob story about what happened earlier in the night and he offered me a place to sleep so I didn’t have to go back to a home full of memories.
But practically naked?
Nice try, Evie. There’s a better chance of it snowing in Florida than that being true. There’s only one explanation why I’m scantily dressed and in another man’s bed after a night of drinking.
I had a one-night stand.
With a stranger.
Hours after the man I thought I’d marry dumped me.
No wonder it seems like the world’s out of balance this morning, aside from the dizziness consuming me due to the alcohol I’m sure still flows through my bloodstream. I’ve now slept with four men.
Surely this can be excused as a result of some relationship-related PTSD. I’m not trying to make light of the severity of actual PTSD, but I need something, anything to make me feel better about the situation. I don’t have one-night stands. I just…don’t. Especially with someone I met at a bar. What kind of man takes home a drunk girl and sleeps with her anyway? No one worth sticking around to find out about.
Mumbling a silent prayer that I can escape unnoticed, I carefully lift the duvet off me and step onto the chilly hardwood floor. As I tiptoe around the large room, every muscle in my body aches, probably due to the previous night’s calisthenics. I search for my dress, expecting to find it crumpled on the floor, along with a trail of his clothes leading to the bed. Instead, it’s neatly slung over a chair in the corner. Maybe he’s a neat freak.
When I tug the dress over my head, a whiff of a powder-fresh scent filters into my nostrils. I’d anticipated it to smell like alcohol and sweat, not as if it had been recently laundered.
Curiosity piqued, I glance at the bed to get a better look at the man I found irresistible in my alcohol-induced fog. When I see his chiseled face, I release what I hope is a noiseless gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth.
It’s him. The man I noticed sitting across the bar after telling the entire place about my breakup. The man who caused a jolt of electricity to course through my veins when he brushed against me. The man whose blue eyes I couldn’t get out of my mind all night, even after he left. How the hell did I end up here?
Cautious, I step closer to the bed, hoping something will trigger a memory. If nothing else, at least I went home with an attractive guy. Well, attractive isn’t an accurate descriptor of this man’s beauty. The way he looks so peaceful, yet still incredibly masculine as he sleeps causes a tingle to spread through me at the thought of what we did last night. I can almost hear his deep voice whispering his most carnal desires into my ear. I imagine he was a sensual lover, one who put my needs first, making sure I was taken care of. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t remember. Then I can pretend it never happened. Pretend I’ve still only slept with three people.
My eyes rake down his naked torso, confirming what I’d imagined last night as I ogled his physique. Broad shoulders. Sculpted pecs. Chiseled abs. And the cherry on top… An intricate tribal tattoo of a phoenix covering his back. This is a man who obviously takes care of himself. He’s not one of those guys who’s too muscular that it’s unattractive. His muscles are firm and defined, but not overly so. He’s pure perfection, making it nearly impossible to look away.
That’s when I notice the triangle of scars on his abdomen near his hipbone, an imperfection on an otherwise flawless physique. They’re pink and faded from the obvious passing of years, but I’m intrigued by the story behind them.
Instantly, my mystery man shifts, letting out a raspy groan. It hits me deep in my core, a heightened desire filling me. It almost makes me want to crawl back into bed to see if we can recreate what happened last night in the hopes of jumpstarting my memory. But I can’t do that to Trevor. Not now that I’m coherent and thinking clearly again.
Hastily collecting my shoes and purse, I hurry from the bedroom, praying I’m able to escape before he wakes up. I have no desire to face him, not when whatever happened last night was a giant mistake. I need to get out of…wherever I am before whoever he is notices I’m no longer in his bed and comes looking for me. Then I can pretend this never happened. New York is an enormous city. The likelihood of our paths crossing again is nonexistent.
Quietly shutting the bedroom door behind me, I pause, holding my breath, listening for any movement from within. Thankfully, all I hear is silence. I blow out a slow exhale and continue down a long corridor, wondering where I am. Whoever this man is, he must do pretty well for himself. His place is bright and modern, sleek wood flooring coupled with immaculate walls containing well-appointed black-and-white framed prints of famous landmarks in New York. The Brooklyn Bridge. The Empire State Building. Ellis Island.
As I emerge into the luxurious living room, I’m caught breathless at the view from the expansive windows filling the far wall. The sun shines through them, the breathtaking sight of Central Park several dozen stories below us.
“Wow.” I can only imagine what a place like this cost. The mortgage on the apartment I shared with Trevor in Brooklyn was over $3,000 a month. A place overlooking Central Park in Columbus Circle? It must cost several million.
Even more intrigued as to who this mystery man is, I consider snooping to see what else I can find out. Hell, I can’t even remember his name. I wonder if I asked for it, or if I agreed to sleep with him regardless of whether I knew it. I’d like to say I’d never do such a thing, but all bets are off.
I shift my attention to the enormous kitchen island and spy a stack of mail on the corner. When I start toward it for no other reason than to learn his name, I discern the faint echo of footsteps from down the hallway.
My pulse soaring, I spin around, hurrying out of the apartment, leaving my one-night stand where it belongs… Behind me.
Chapter Four
When I emerge onto the street, I’m enveloped by the fevered pace of midtown Manhattan, the sidewalks moving with the energy of this place I’ve grown to love. Sirens blare, horns honk, truck brakes squeak and moan. But as I revel in the mass of people walking in every direction possible, coupled with the strength of the sun on this summer day, the panic of waking up in a strange man’s bed is overshadowed with a new reason to panic… It’s Friday. And I’m most likely late for work.
Reaching into my purse, I retrieve my cell, thankful it still has a little battery life left, and spy the time. 9:35.
“Crap,” I mutter, dashing through the crowd of men and women in suits, as well as the occasional tourist snapping photos, not paying attention to the people trying to skirt around them. At least I had the wherewithal to have a one-night stand with someone who lives only a few blocks from the office. As much as I hate showing up in the dress I wore yesterday, I don’t have enough time to go back to Brooklyn and change if I want to be on time for the weekly check-in with the magazine’s editor. Thankfully, I have extra clothes at work.
I reach the building in record time and run through the lobby, my heels clicking on the marble tile. After scanning my ID badge, permitting me entry through the turnstiles, I join the mob of people waiting for an elevator. When one arrives, we all pile in, everyone glued to their phones as we ride up to our respective floors.
Having no idea how I must look this morning, I pull out the compact I keep in my purse, checking my reflection. I cringe, the bloodshot eyes staring back evidencing a night of overindulgence and lack of sleep.
I do my best to adjust my appearance with the few tools I have. I secure my wavy red hair into a fashionable messy bun on the top of my head, then pull out a few ringlets to frame my face, making it appear the haphazard style is intentional. After I put a little powder on my fair skin and line my lips with gloss, I pop a mint into my mouth to rid myself of
rank morning breath, hoping it will be sufficient until I can get to the toothbrush I keep in my desk.
The instant I’m done readjusting my appearance, the elevator comes to a stop on my floor. I straighten my spine, holding my head high as I emerge into the magazine’s busy newsroom, smiling as I pass the chipper receptionist who, just like the rest of the entry-level staff, is waiting for her big break in the modeling industry. The place is bright and buzzing with energy, phones ringing off the hook, nails tapping against keyboards, music playing from a few desks.
As I continue through the rows of cubicles, I exude all the confidence I can muster in the hopes no one realizes I dragged myself out of a stranger’s bed and am wearing the same dress I had on yesterday. What am I thinking? Of course they’ll notice. This is a women’s fashion magazine. For many of these people, fashion is their life. They could probably tell me what I wore on a certain date better than I can.
Bypassing my cubicle, I head straight for the break room, needing caffeine before I face what I imagine will be a day from hell. I enter the space, the aroma of coffee making my mouth water. As I pour myself a cup, I hear a familiar whistle, followed by the sound of drawn-out clapping. I groan silently. There’s only one person it could be.
“Did you just slow clap my walk of shame?” I slowly turn around, stirring sweetener and creamer into my coffee.
“You bet your ass I did, sweet cheeks,” Chloe retorts, annoyingly chipper for what seems like an early hour.
Her hair is sleek and lustrous, her outfit stylish, her gray eyes bold and refreshed. I hate her for not suffering from the same hangover as me. Then again, she exhibited something called self-control last night, whereas I fired for effect. I didn’t drink to take the edge off. I drank to forget. It worked...a little too well.
“Based on your appearance…” She gestures to my dress, more than aware it’s the same one I wore yesterday, “it looks like you never made it home last night.”
