“Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful, Chloe.”
She places her hand on her hip, analyzing me. “Okay. So he’s gorgeous. That doesn’t explain how you ended up in his apartment in Columbus Circle.”
“I don’t know how I ended up there.” I snatch my phone out of Chloe’s hand and stare at the map of my Uber trip, seeing it wasn’t a complete round trip. The car dropped me a few blocks shy of the bar. I lean against the tile wall, wishing something would trigger a memory. As I rest my head on the cool tile, I inhale a breath, blinking repeatedly.
“What? What is it?”
“All the stop and go of the car. He was a typical New York driver, gunning the gas before coming to a screeching stop at a light.” I snap my eyes to Chloe. “It made me sick, so before I threw up in his car, I had him let me out by the Time Warner Center.”
“And did you throw up in his car?”
“I don’t think so.” I pinch my lips together, thinking. “No. I definitely didn’t.” I squint, pieces of the previous night trickling back like raindrops. “I remember feeling dizzy after getting out of the car, so I grasped a bus bench to steady myself, but it didn’t help. The world kept spinning. I think I mumbled something about never drinking again.” My eyes widen as his voice fills my mind. “That’s when I heard someone say, ‘That’s probably a good idea’, or something like that.”
“Who?”
“Him. Mr. Armani Suit.” I smile dreamily at the memory of looking up to see my knight in shining armor standing before me, his blue eyes emblazoned in my mind. Noticing Chloe smirking, I quickly wipe the smile off my face, pretending not to be affected. “After that, I don’t remember much.”
“You like him,” she comments after a brief silence.
“What?” I step back, aghast. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t even know his name.”
“That’s never stopped me before,” she answers dismissively.
“I was under duress. I drank far too much, made the mistake of going home with some random guy, then woke up practically naked in his bed. Just goes to show you what kind of slimeball this guy truly is, sleeping with someone who’s obviously drunk. So not only did my boyfriend dump me, I get to end my week with a visit to the clinic to get tested because who knows if this guy put on a condom.”
“How do you know you slept with him? You said yourself you don’t remember much.”
“I woke up in my bra and panties.”
“All the more evidence you didn’t sleep together. Who in their right mind puts their bra and panties back on after sex? Especially drunken sex. Who sleeps with a bra on anyway?”
“Again, I can’t attempt to rationalize what I was thinking last night. And trust me. I know how I get when I’ve had too much to drink. I’m sure once I saw this guy without his shirt on, all thoughts of Trevor went out the window and I only cared about one thing…getting laid. Or maybe I did it to spite Trevor…a revenge screw, so to speak…which I must have thought was a brilliant idea with all the alcohol I drank last night.”
She smirks, amused by my misfortune. I guess I deserve it. I’ve repeatedly claimed I would never have a one-night stand. That I would only sleep with someone I felt a strong connection to. I’m not a prude. While I enjoy sex as much as any other woman, I don’t feel the need to sleep around.
Then again, when most people are at the age where they’re exploring their sexuality, I was already dating Trevor. We explored our sexuality together. Is this what my life will be like without Trevor? Having to sleep around and hope to find someone I connect with? God, I don’t even want to think about having to date, especially in New York City.
“So…” She grins deviously. “What did he look like without his shirt on?”
“An Adonis,” I answer before my brain can tell my mouth to shut it. “Fuck, Chloe. Male perfection. Broad shoulders. Sculpted chest. Abs you want to lick. With a body like that, I’m sure I was all over him. Which makes me feel even more guilty.”
“Why? Trevor broke up with you.”
“Yes, but—”
“Oh, there you two are,” a voice interrupts. We whip our heads toward the door. Maggie, the editor-in-chief’s assistant, stands there, a self-important expression on her face. Sometimes she forgets she’s the editor’s assistant, not assistant editor. Big difference. “The meeting’s about to start. Viv’s waiting on you guys.”
“Sorry, Mags. We’re coming.” Grateful for the reprieve, I smile at Chloe as I follow Maggie, dropping off my clothes from yesterday at my cubicle on the way.
As I’m about to walk into Viv’s office, a hand covers my arm. I look at Chloe, her slate-gray eyes narrowed on me. “Listen, Evie. I get that you’re hurting over what happened with Trevor, and you have every right to be. Maybe this is the opportunity you need to have a little fun and figure out who you are.”
“I already know—”
“Who you are?” Her voice is low, her expression filled with skepticism. “If you do, why are you willing to change that just so Trevor will want to be with you? I get you have a history. I can’t even imagine how difficult the next few weeks…hell, months will be trying to adjust to a new normal. I’m the last person you should take relationship advice from, considering I avoid them like the plague. But instead of wasting time concocting a plan to win Trevor back by becoming the type of person he wants to date, you should focus on finding someone who wants to date you as you are right now.”
She places her hands on my biceps, her eyebrows pulled down. “Because the Evie I know is a complete badass. And any guy who doesn’t see that doesn’t deserve you.”
Chapter Five
Chloe’s words leave me questioning whether salvaging my relationship with Trevor is the right move. How could it not be? Like she said, she’s the last person I should take relationship advice from. In the five years I’ve known her, she hasn’t been in a single committed relationship. She doesn’t understand the dynamic of a real relationship. It’s all about give and take, being in a partnership. Sometimes one person has to shoulder more of the weight. Right now, I need to do the heavy lifting. I refuse to give up so easily.
Resolved, I step into the conference room, coming to an immediate stop when my eyes fall on the spread of flowers covering the table, cards and chocolate interspersed among the extravagant display.
“What’s going on?”
I want to believe this is merely a birthday celebration for me. It probably started that way, but as I spy the sympathy covering my coworkers’ faces, coupled with the balloons that say “I’m sorry” and “Get Well Soon”, I’m positive that’s not the case.
“It appears condolences are in order.”
Vivian Wood, Editor-in-Chief of Blush magazine, is the picture of sophistication. Then again, I’m fairly certain she could make a paper sack look like this year’s latest fashion trend. Not a single strand of her platinum hair is out of place. She’s in her sixties, but her youthful complexion, devoid of wrinkles, makes it appear as if she’s not a day over forty. She’s slender, dressed in skinny jeans, gorgeous heels, and a suit jacket. I consider myself on the tall side at five feet, nine inches, but that’s no match for Viv. That’s probably one of the reasons she’s remained single most of her life. Her six-foot height must intimidate most potential partners. Let’s face it. The majority of men would feel emasculated standing next to a woman who’s taller than them…especially a woman as confident and successful as Viv.
“Sorry about the breakup, Evie.” There’s an air of authority about her as she strides toward me, a devilish smirk crawling across her thin, pink lips. “Or I should be sorry, but the opportunist in me looks forward to how this will affect your perspective in some of your articles.”