Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Trent:
For serious?
Me:
Yes. Don’t ever eat the chicken kebabs.
Trent:
Wait. You ate Chicken in the park? On a day you have a Fucking Meeting?
Me:
Dude, start yelling at me in all caps, bro, I’m about to barf again.
Trent:
I knew I should have met you at the hotel, I’m a goddamn idiot for trusting you to make this meeting on your own.
Me:
Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.
Trent:
Where are you right now?
Me:
Jogging back to my hotel after ducking into a coffee shop and clogging up their toilet. You’re lucky I’m texting you at all. Do you know how hard it is to multitask when you’re on the verge of vomiting?
Trent:
Please tell me you’re joking. This is a sick joke.
Me:
You think I’m enjoying this???
Trent:
I never said you were enjoying this, I asked if this was a joke.
Me:
Negative, ghost rider . . .
Trent:
What the hell am I supposed to tell Dan Sherman? You should see the look he’s giving me.
Me:
Tell him whatever you want—this is why I pay you the big bucks.
Trent:
Shit.
Me:
Exactly.
Waiting for the hotel elevator, I grip the wall beside it.
The wait feels like an eternity as sweat beads on my forehead—I can feel it dripping out from under my cap from my hairline, wetting the brim.
I am a mess.
I slouch, focused on pushing through the stomach pain, grasping for the doors before they’re all the way open.
Blindly I climb inside, oblivious to everything.
My only goal is getting upstairs as fast as I can so I can make a beeline for my room on the top floor.
Yeah. The penthouse.
Not to brag because I’m not the one who booked it, nor am I the one paying for it, but it’s a sweet pad.
“Whoa there,” a female voice says. “Are you okay?”
Dread instantly fills my stomach at the sight of the woman from the park. Is she going to make a production out of seeing me like this, or is she going to let me die in peace?
“Oh crap, it’s you.” She looks me up and down before beginning to step off the elevator and into the lobby. “You look like total shit. No offense.”
She stresses the word total as if she cannot stress it hard enough.
“Gee, thanks.” I barely have the energy to be sarcastic, but somehow I manage.
Her lips curve into a smile, and my brain registers that she’s wearing lipstick. And she’s wearing a dress. And she’s wearing perfume . . .
. . . perfume that roils my stomach.
“Oh God.” I hold the elevator door open, leaning against it for support. Yes, I have to shit my pants. But she doesn’t have to know that.
I play it as cool as I can.
“Are you going up?”
Weakly, I nod.
Her hands go out as if she were about to lift a baby. Me. I’m the baby. “Do you need help? I can get someone—I don’t think I can carry you myself.”
“You won’t have to carry me.” I wave a hand in front of my face. “I’m fine. It’s fine. These things are fast, I’ll be upstairs in no time.”
“You’re sick, aren’t you?” She flips her wrist and fusses with her watch, checking the time. “Only took you a few hours, eh? That’s got to be a record for food poisoning; doesn’t it usually take a while?” She pauses again, shifting on her heels. “Not going to say I told you so but . . . looks like you might owe me.”
“Yeah,” I croak. “What are the odds we’d bump into each other again?”
What are the odds I would actually get sick?
What are the odds she’d be stepping out of the elevator while I was trying to step on?
What are the fucking odds?
She moves aside so I can step all the way into the elevator car, my stomach bubbling again.
My face blanches. I can feel it.
“Well. Clearly you’re not feeling well and probably want to get to your room, so I won’t keep you.” She has the balls to laugh. “And I have to get going too. I’m in room 905, you can send up a message.”
Nine oh five, nine oh five.
“A message for what?”
The doors slowly begin to slide closed—at a snail’s pace, of course—the young woman from the park giving me a cheeky wave through the crack.
“Dinner. You owe me, and do I look like the kind of girl who passes up a free meal?” She wiggles her fingers. “Toodles!”
I stare through the doors, all three inches of the gap.
And just before that gap in the door is gone, she winks.
Actually fucking winks.
Chapter 3
Harlow
“I’m telling you guys, it could not have been any more awkward.” I have my laptop open in the bathroom as I take off my makeup, back from drinks. I would have called my friends sooner, but it would have been too loud doing it in public.
I want my friends to hear every single syllable about my day and not miss a thing, from my meeting in the park to my meeting with the beverage company I hope will advertise on Kissmet, to my second run-in with Mr. Athletic.