I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance) (14 page)

What was
I saying? Oh yeah, Mark. Mark was easy to get along with. When we went out to
Indian food, he was great to the staff, tried all the dishes – even
though he was wary of some, at first. We had an okay conversation, mostly
weather and stuff. We didn’t go into anything, in depth. Being with him scared
the shit out of me, but maybe I was scared only because it was so soon after
David’s blow. Plus, his living in San Francisco spelled imminent heartache,
despite that fact that our elevator ride made the idea very tempting.

I can’t
date both. I’m not a two-guy girl, regardless of my dream. I’ve had dreams
about women, too, but sleeping with a woman isn’t my thing, either. Fun dreams,
though. I would go nuts trying to date two guys at once. Look at me now! Case
in point. Why is this so confusing?!

Is this
my stop? No. One more. Sigh.

 
Life was so much easier when I was living
with a boyfriend. The whole “relationship thing” was handled, and I could get a
good night’s sleep. I was lied to and cheated on, yes…but I was in ignorant
bliss, so I slept like a champ. This coffee smells so good. Maybe it’s cool
enough to drink. (sip) OUCH. Ouch. Ouch. Owwwwch. Burnt my tongue. Perfect.

“You’re
going to Fashion Week, right?” a woman’s voice to my left interrupts my
self-pity.

I give
her a groggy sideways glance and recognize her instantly as one of the models
from the shows. Wonderful. I’m sure I look fantastic right about now. I
fake-smile back, holding my cup close to my nose so I can breath it in. Is
caffeine inhalable? “Yeah, I’m going. You?”

Models
are mutants. I’m a Midwestern girl, and I’m pretty, but I am
nothing
compared to this chick, so I
don’t even try to stand up straighter and compete. Fuck it. As we approach our
stop, the model’s unflawed face scans my outfit. It’s nothing special since I
couldn’t muster the enthusiasm today. (Story of my life when it comes to work,
lately.) I pretend not to see her disappointment. Please leave me alone. I’m
sleeping.

Even her
voice is pretty as she says from the heavens, “Yeah, I’m in a couple shows
today. You work at the magazine with Brittany, don’t you.”

It’s more
of a statement than a question, so I don’t bother to answer it. Instead I ask,
“You know Brittany? Huh. She doesn’t really work there, though. She’s a…I mean…
she’s an intern.” Almost said ‘minion.’
 
Oops.

“Huh.
Well,
I
heard she was getting hired
now. Something about someone putting in a good word for her? You’re Jessica…
right?”

“Yep.
That’s me. Are you guys friends?”

The
knowing look in her face is horrifying as she smirks, “I’m her sister. Yeah.
She tells me everything.”

I gulp. I
pause. I smell my coffee for comfort. “Everything?”

The
nameless skyscraper mutant answers, her mouth moving in slow motion,
“Evvvveryyyyything.” I stare, speechless as she grows horns and a tail. A fire
scepter magically appears in her hand and she gleefully spikes it through a
window, causing shards of glass to burst and fly into my hair. Or maybe she’s
just standing there looking smug. I’m sleep-deprived.

We all
jerk with the train as it stops, except for the devil princess who merely
sways. As the doors swoosh open, she looks away first (which I want to kick
myself for), and strolls off the train as though all of New York City is her
fabulous runway. People clap. They throw flowers. They get out of the way; bow
low, to say, “You first, please.” David Bowie appears out of nowhere and sings to
her, bent down on one skinny, genius knee.

Me? No.
Me, they don’t see. I’m
so
invisible
in fact, that as I stand there stunned to discover that Brittany hasn’t kept
her damn mouth shut like she promised, some oversized idiot knocks into me and
sends my beloved salvation flying through the air. “Noooooooooo!” I scream,
watching, helpless as it bounces once (just long enough to give me false hope)
before the lid bursts off and my coffee explodes all over the platform… lost to
everything but the soles of my shoes, forever.

The
surrounding New Yorkers try to dodge it, but few succeed. “Great!!” “NO!”
“Shit!” and “Oh, come ON!” are among some of the more tame
verbal epithets thrown at me. In Michigan, people would have
consoled me. This is bullshit.

Stepping
onto the puddle, I growl, “You all suck.”

At Bryant Park

As soon
as I walk into the tents, Diego, our photographer, stops me to ask, “Custo
Barcelona or Project Runway?”

“What are
you talking about?”

“They
have shows at the same time.”

“You’re
kidding me.”

“I’m not
kidding you.”

“When do
they start?”

He looks
at me like I’m ill because he knows I normally have stuff like this memorized.
“2 p.m.?”

“Right.
Okay. Sorry. I have to check some things and get back to you. Find me later.”

“You got
it. Need some coffee?”

I grab
him, almost burst into tears and squeeze him tight. “YES! I will love you
forever!”

He laughs
and wiggles out of my arms, embarrassed. “Go sit outside. Get some fresh air.
I’ll bring it out to you.” He takes off.
 
This is the first time he will save me, this day.

Outside
the tents I find a nice shady spot on a bench beneath a tree. I put my bag down
beside me and pull out my work iPad. It’s time to go on Twitter, Facebook, and
Google + to see audience interaction and hard numbers. Social media will be the
deciding factor in who we cover, not talent. So sad.

An email
alert chimes and I pick up my phone to read Mark’s name. Uh-oh. I didn’t
respond to him yet, did I? Maybe he’s writing to retract his invite. Nervously,
I open it. “Hi. I don’t have your phone number. Hoping you got my email. Not
sure. Coming to New York next weekend. Take you out on Friday? – Mark.”

I look up
to the sky for a sign and close my eyes to send a silent prayer.
C’mon guardian angels. What should I say to
Mark?

I open my
eyes. Across the courtyard, Brittany and her mutant sister stand looking at me
and talking to one another with nasty expressions. They’re even doing that
shitty thing where they half-cover their mouths to hide their moving lips,
making it even more obvious they’re being shitty. I look back down to Mark’s
email. Knowing people are talking about me is a terrible feeling. It makes me
feel very, very alone.

Oh! This
is my sign! I prayed and got the answer. Quick, too! I’m the subject of gossip
because I made the mistake of sleeping with a co-worker. This whole thing with
James has been a wild error of judgment and is causing me so much anxiety. From
Brittany walking in on us to the absolute TERROR I have in my belly every time
I see The Bitch….
It’s just not the
best idea to keep seeing him.

Amber was
right again. I won’t tell her that, though.

So that’s
it, then. I choose Mark. I’ll see Mark on Friday. There will be no accidental
run-ins with anyone who could inspire stress about dating him. He’ll go back
home, three thousand miles away and I’ll be safe from drama and gossip. Safe
and alone. This is a good choice. Okay. I feel better.

I begin
to reply yes to Mark, for Friday, but Diego arrives with my coffee. I drop my
phone in my bag and take the coffee in both hands. Mmmm…. “I love you! You are
the best. Diego, what do you think of Brittany?”

“Brittany?”
He looks over at her just as she walks away with her beautiful snarky sister,
off to gossip about little people and the homeless. “She’s okay. She doesn’t
like you, though.”

I blow on
my coffee to cool it, holding the lid in one hand, and look at him. “No?”

“What it
is with girls? You guys are so nasty to each other.” He shakes his head and
shrugs.

I frown.
“We’re not all like that.”

He
disagrees, “When you guys get mad, you’re out for blood.”

“You guys
beat each other up!”

“Nah.
Yours is psychological. It’s way more fuckin’ badass.” He makes a cat-clawing
gesture, complete with stereotypical meow-hiss. I hate that. He has a point,
though.

“So what
did she say about me?” I ask ever so innocently and friendly-like.

“No way.
I’m not gettin’ in the middle. No way. Who am I shootin’ at 2 p.m.?” Nice
change of subject, Diego. Well played.

“I
haven’t had a chance to research it, yet. You came back with my coffee so fast.
You’re my hero, Diego, seriously. I so needed this.” I bat my long eyelashes at
him.

He
smiles, “Aww… you looked like you needed it. Glad I could help.”

“I
appreciate it sooooo much, though.” I reach out and touch his arm for half a second.
Feminine manipulation. Don’t hate me.

He smile
grows to a sheepish grin and as he goes to leave, he turns, walks backwards and
says, “I’d be careful of her though, Jess. I think she’s after your job.”

She is,
huh? Thank you, Diego.

An Hour Later

“Psst…”

I quickly
look over my left shoulder at the sound. There’s no one there. I’m pretty sure
I heard someone… so that’s weird. I look back to my phone where I’m playing
Amber in a mean game of Scramble With Friends. I have a blessed quiet moment in
between shows and phone calls. I’m addicted to this app. She’s kicking my butt
as usual, getting seventy to eighty words to my fifty or sixty, but I’m
learning. One day I will beat her! I swear it.

“Psst…”

What the
fuck? I jerk my head up, look to where the sound came from, but there’s no one
there, only a tent wall. So annoying. Oh no! I didn’t hit pause! My time ran
out and I’ve only got forty-eight words found. Dammit. She’s going to think I’m
a moron. That’s not fair. She’s already got an advantage over me without my
giving her one.

Oh wait.
I look at the tent. I’m really dense sometimes. That sound had to be James
hiding and trying to get my attention. I scoot closer to the wall, my eyes
glued to the phone in an attempt to appear casual. I cough and it sounds loud
and ridiculous. It’s a good thing I didn’t go into acting because I’d be
terrible.
 

“Get in
here,” he whispers from the other side.

It’s not
a good idea for me to go in there. But I can’t just leave him there! Can I?
Probably not. I should take this opportunity to tell him face to face that I
can’t go out with him on Friday. That’s the right thing to do. Here goes.
Looking at my phone with far more concentration than is necessary, I wait for
the right moment, clear my throat and say, “(Cough) How?”

“Anyone
around?” he whispers.

A woman
walks by and looks at me oddly to ascertain whether or not she just saw me
talking to a tent. Time to do yoga. I stretch and pretend I am talking to
myself. Giving myself a pep talk. I stretch my arms in the air. Muscles are so
tight. Etc. Etc. Have to stretch. “Oh yeah. THAT’S the spot. Much better. Let
all the stress just wash away.” When she rounds a corner, I whisper to him,
“Yep.”

From a
fold I didn’t see, his hand bursts out, grabs my arm and yanks me inside. I
yelp and fall into his arms. He pulls me tightly against his chest. “I’ve been
waiting in here for awhile.”

Nervous
laugh from me. He smells delicious. “What are you doing here, anyway, James?
Does Human Resources even need to be at Fashion Week?”

He pauses
before he answers, looking into my eyes at this close distance. “Not really,
no. I’m here because I like doing things with you in dark corners.”

The
frankness of his confession takes me off guard. That was so hot that it made my
heart skip. That’s nice, but I can’t see you anymore, James. It’s not you; it’s
Brittany, her sister, my guardian angel and your ex, my boss. I gulp. Deflect
it with a joke! Always the right answer! “You’re not here to see what’s hot in
the coming season?”

He throws
back his gorgeous head and laughs, and then looks back at me, his eyes dancing.
“I’m looking at what’s hot in the coming season.” He leans in, kisses me and I
melt. Damn men and how good they feel! Damn them all. What was I going to tell
him? I forget. Running my fingers through his hair, I reluctantly return his
kisses, which just makes him more excited to have to work for it. I feel him
grow against my thigh. I press my hip against his erection, move against it,
arouse him even more. We shouldn’t be doing this, a small voice inside my head
tells me, but it’s getting quieter and quieter. The electric shocks… I can feel
this in my knees, in my toes, in the tips of my fingers. He tastes so good. I
can’t help but play… a little. This can’t be wrong. I should go. I should go. I
SHOULD GO.

 
“I have to get back out there,” I groan,
closing my eyes. “The next show is going to start soon.”

“You
don’t want to go.” He kisses my neck, his breath hot on my skin. His bulge
presses through our clothing as the rhythmic movements drive our excitement
upward. He’s not wearing a jacket today and I run my hands down his sinewy,
chiseled back over the cotton fabric stretched tightly over his shoulders.
Mmmm.

“I should
go, James. I really should…”

Deep and
thick, he says, “Skip it. And stop trying to leave.” His hand goes under my
skirt and feels the spaghetti-thin strap on my hip, of my pink panties. “You’re
wearing panties today. I hate that.”

“It’s a
short skirt.”

“Yeah,
well, if you think they can keep me out, you’re wrong.”

Oh my.
Yes, please. I grab onto his ass as he bends his knees a bit, slides both hands
underneath the thin layer of lace barely covering me, to cup my cheeks, too.
Pressing his thick fingers into my flesh, he is screaming to be released from
his pants. C’mon baby. Bring it out. Feeling its firm pressure makes me want
him more. This man is so dangerous for me. For my career. For my sanity. I pull
him closer. Our tongues play as he wraps his fingers beneath my ass to where it
meets the top of my thighs. He slides his fingers into that crease where my
legs meet my torso, touching the soft skin that’s so much more sensitive than I
could have guessed. He’s teasing me, touching around my pussy. He knows that if
he does this long enough, I will give in. How could I not? It feels amazing,
this soft sensual caress as he kisses me slowly… so, so slowly. I don’t know if
anyone’s taken the luxurious time to pay attention to this spot before. I moan
softly against his open lips. He lightly touches me, pressing the tips of his fingers
against my clit, hidden and throbbing. I angle myself so that he has to touch
where I ache. Chuckling, he gives me what I want and rubs me. But only once,
and stops.

He pulls
his hands away and breaks our kiss. His hands cup the base of my ass cheeks
again as he looks at me, thinking about something. Why did he stop?

“Why’d
you stop?” I whisper, our lips inches away. More kisses. More.

“You have
to go.” He releases his hold and steps away. What?!!

“You’re a
jerk,” I moan.

His eyes
glitter. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Then go
out with me Friday.” He leaves, as I stare after him.

“James!”
I whisper-yell it, but he doesn’t come back. If he would have stayed or come
back, I would have told him
yes
for
Friday and fucked him right now! Why are men so difficult? You know what…what
have I been stressing about? The answer is so obvious. I should choose James.
He’s great. He’s obviously very into me. Why fight it? Plus, he lives in the
same city as I do! I’ll let Mark know that I can’t see him when he comes into
town. Yes. This is the right choice.

Good. I
feel better.

I fix my
dress. I pick up my phone and bag from the floor (didn’t even notice I’d
dropped them, heh heh). I wait a moment before peeking out - with just one eye
- through the curtain. Can I get out of here without much ado? There is a small
handful of people directly in my eye-line, but I don’t recognize any of them,
so who cares? I step out, ignoring their stares as though it is perfectly
normal for me to walk out of a hidden door. I look down to my phone and open up
email to finally reply to Mark. I turn to the left and collide into a
stationary twelve-year old.

I should
have waited longer to come out of hiding.

Brittany
is standing with her little arms crossed and a weird triumphant smile on her
face. She’s wearing a form-fitting power suit, similar to The Bitches. In my
mind, she’s twelve, so it looks like she’s playing dress-up. I can’t help but
notice her Jimmy Choo shoes because one of them is tapping excitedly from
discovering my clandestine move. So she has money… or a heftily charged credit
card. Her skin is flawless, but then again, skin is always flawless when you’re
twelve. You haven’t hit puberty yet.

“Well
hello, Jess.” she says, with a tone I don’t love. She shortened my name, too,
like we’re friends. We are not friends.

Did she
see James? I can’t tell. I take the friendly cue, just in case. “Hi Britt.”

“Diego
wants to know if he should be covering Custo or Project Runway, next.”

 
“Project Runway.”

She
frowns and cocks her head to the side in a way that I know men love. I,
however, am not a man.

“Really?
Not Custo?” she asks, innocently.

“No.” I
reach up and rub my temple because my lack of coffee combined with this moment,
is giving me a severe headache.

Head
still cocked, she looks like she’s very confused and starts pretending to
fiddle with her nails. “Huh.”

Sigh.
“What is it, Brittany?” Oops. That didn’t come out with the sweet tone I’d
intended. Tee hee.

Behind
her fake innocence, a keen spark flickers in her eyes as they narrow, and it is
vicious. “Do you think that’s wise, Jess? Because I don’t want to see you make
a horrible mistake.”

“Oh,
that’s very sweet of you. I’m not.”

“No?
Don’t you think Custo is more
high-end
,
more fitting of a magazine of our stature?”

“Project
Runway’s ridiculously huge twitter following of a hundred and eight-seven
thousand plus, makes them the stronger choice. Thank you for your input,
though. And thank you also, for letting Diego know when you tell him, that we
are happy to help his career, too, by all the pic-tweets that are about to go
ape-shit viral. He’s such a nice guy, isn’t he?” I smile, and adjust the bag on
my shoulder. I want to get out of here. I want to run. I can’t stand the way
she’s looking at me.

“Oh,” she
says, deflated by my competence and logic.

 
“Brittany, I’m sorry if we’ve gotten off
on the wrong foot. Whatever qualms you have about me – and I see that you
have many, from the look on your face – we’re going to be working
together. We both want the magazine to do well. We’re here to learn about the
coming trends – yes – but we’re also here for publicity, and that
means numbers first. The magazine industry is falling on its ass and we are all
fucked if we don’t access a larger crowd. We love Custo. He is a genius, but
that’s not what matters right now. If you’ll excuse me, I’m starving. I have to
eat something.” With the best smile I can muster, I turn to leave.

“You mean
James didn’t… fill you up?”

I freeze.
My blood runs cold. “Excuse me?” I say, turning slowly back around.

An evil
The-Bitch-In-The-Making sardonic smile tugs at her mouth. She walks forward and
says quietly, for only us to hear, “I saw James come out of that hiding place
before you. I have a meeting with his boss in HR tomorrow and I’m going to tell
him what a slut you are, and
you’re out.
Me? I’ll be in! Your boss loves me! What did she say? Oh yeah. She said I
reminded her of her, when she was starting out. We’re gonna be like this.” She
holds up her middle and index fingers wrapped snugly around each other. “I
heard you met my sister today?”

I can’t
believe it, but I mumble, “She made me drop my coffee.”

“Oh yeah?
Good!” As she saunters away, she calls back over her shoulder, “Thanks Jess!
I’ll tell him! You’re amazing!”

This is
one of those stupid moments that I will play over, and over, and over, in my
head later on, isn’t it? That was the best that I could do?
She made me drop my coffee?!!

I watch
her, until I can’t see her anymore. I look around and see strange faces walking
by. They don’t know or care, that I was just bitch-slapped. I can’t help but
wonder, how did I get here? How’d I get to this moment, right now? I can take
the threat of being fired. I deal with that
every
day. But calling me out on my slutty behavior, telling me you’re out for my
job, that The Bitch
who loves no one
,
loves you – and then topping it off with IT’S GOOD I DROPPED MY
COFFEE????

This is
so not fucking cool.