I wasn’t off the horse, therefore there was no need to hop back on and ride it. Riding had never been the issue. I did just fine with one-night stands—no need to add a relationship to the mix.
And I hadn’t lost my touch with women. So what if I’d had a few bad dates in the past month? It wasn’t my fault my last date accidentally set herself on fire. To be fair, the candles had burned a bit out of control, but candles were romantic. I was setting the scene, damn it!
And the other two girls? Well, they just lacked—something. I wasn’t sure what, which was exactly how I’d worded it when I took them both out to a fancy dinner the night before my flight out to LA. I didn’t have time to separate the dates, and it wasn’t like we were serious. I couldn’t even remember one girl’s name, but when you’re in bed, does it really matter? I received wine in my face from one and a swift knee to the balls from the other, which meant I spent the majority of my five-hour flight with an ice pack on my crotch.
I refused to believe it was bad luck.
Bad luck was seeing a black cat and then getting hit by a semi, not going on bad dates with overly emotional women who got pissed because I refused to commit.
I flipped off the lights in the living room and made my way to the bedroom.
Sleep—that would cure everything. Besides, I was meeting with my new PR company in the morning. My manager was adamant that we use the best company in the business, considering this movie was going to either make or break my career. I hated that it was a necessity, but I wasn’t going to say no even though it was so expensive I wondered if each publicist came with their own private jet and small island.
Ridiculous that in this day and age I needed to have a glorified babysitter because I couldn’t be trusted on my own. Now, if it was Max, I’d get it. But I’d never had a problem being in the public eye. I’d just have to make that crystal clear when I met with them. Hell, I’d probably be the easiest client they’d ever had.
“Sleep,” I repeated to myself.
After all, tomorrow was another day.
CHAPTER FOUR
JORDAN
As luck would have it, I was late for my nine a.m. meeting. It wasn’t my fault. I was one of the “lucky” people in my apartment building who suffered from a freak power outage.
I was midrinse when the lights went out in my bathroom and the shower turned frigid.
Which meant no hair dryer.
Making my normally smooth and at least semiglossy brown hair the current obsession of at least two poodles, both of which tried to hump my leg on the short walk to work.
It didn’t help matters that I’d had to put my makeup on using a tiny mirror and sunlight from the window.
Lipstick did, however, manage to make it on my lips and I think I managed to draw a semistraight line on for eyeliner. Though by the odd looks I was receiving from people walking down the street—people who seemed to be giving the crazy lady a wide berth—regardless of how straight the eyeliner, it wasn’t helping.
The only bright spots in my morning were the Starbucks in my right hand and the promise of a promotion if I was able to make the next client as squeaky-clean and shiny as a new toy.
I was one of the best publicists at my firm.
The other star students were all glossy haired and perfect. The women had magic faces that kept makeup on even into the wee hours of the morning and the men had chiseled jaws and killer smiles. So basically I was the evil stepsister of the firm, or it sort of felt like it. Then again, I wasn’t a horrible or jealous person, so maybe I was just the ugly duckling?
My heel caught on the sidewalk, and as I moved to brace myself, my coffee flew out of my hand.
“Nooo!” I could have sworn it happened in slow motion, my athletic body flying through the air while I reached out to grasp what was left of the only good thing in my day—nay, my life—and missed. My body collapsed against the stairs, scraping up my palms as my hands braced for the impact.
And honest to God, tears welled in my eyes as I glanced down at my venti mocha with extra whipped cream.
And like Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage, my cup was squashed under the heels of busy New Yorkers as they made their way into the same building.
Nobody offered a hand.
Because this wasn’t a fairy tale.
And I was no Cinderella.
Instead, my cup was shredded to pieces.
Sticky coffee stained my bloody hands.
And what were at least cute shoes—though not glass slippers—now missed a very vital part—the heel.
With a sigh, I pushed to my feet, my body aching, hands stinging, and hobbled into the building, clutching my purse to my body. My Gucci was now my armor as it shielded me from anyone and anything that would and could push me down.
Finally, I made it to the elevator and squished in between a woman who smelled like too many one-night stands and a man who clearly had onions on his bagel, with a side of hummus.
I breathed through my mouth.
My floor dinged.