She’s dressed in a Christmas sweater that is covered in silver tinsel, bows, and hand-stitched trees. Every time she moves it crinkles. Mine isn’t much better. I have about three dozen miniature bells attached to me that chime each time I move.
We’re waiting on the sidelines as Rowan and Ava, the two fashion assistants joining us for the shoot, move into a series of purposefully awkward couples poses as the camera flashes.
“It’s a smart move for her job,” I say, turning off my phone and shoving it in my back pocket. “Have you ever heard of someone being a professional plus-one for holidays and weddings?”
“Shit. I have, actually. My cousin tried to book one but she was booked through spring. Classic men, planning at the last minute.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re like ten percent better. You know the difference between a zucchini and a cucumber when I send you to the grocery store.”
“I’m glad that common sense is enough to be in your good graces. But I might have ruined my chances with this girl.” I groan, remembering how she came at me like a storm.
Short blonde hair that flicked out at the ends. Intelligent rich brown eyes that mercilessly cut right through me, yet held a barely restrained humor. The powerful confidence that emanated off her in waves and made my heart go off rhythm.
By some miracle I was composed—okay, not stammering through every word—the second time we spoke. Probably thanks to the three glasses of wine I’d had that day hitting my system.
“Why’s that?”
“We didn’t exactly have the best first encounter on Thanksgiving. She thought I was stalking her. But I think this is the right story to help me get the promotion.”
“Give me your phone.” Jasmine reaches out her hand, palm up.
“Why?”
“You don’t want to sound like a creep, right?”
Resigned, I unlock my phone and hand it over. She types for a moment then rereads her work.
She shows me the screen, revealing an email far better than mine was. Finger hovering over the send button, she says, “You get this on one condition: we get drinks tonight. You still haven’t celebrated killing the Thanksgiving piece even though it was fucking flawless. After your birthday, you have to let me have this.”
How was I supposed to know that the last minute interview I was asked to take over was at the same time as the top secret surprise birthday party Jasmine had planned for me? And it’s not like I’m the best people person. Making the best of my time in New York has mostly focused on writing, which in turn has exposed me to more of the city than I could have dreamed of.
“Seriously? You’re holding my email hostage?”
“Ready for you two whenever!” the photographer chimes, calling us over for the final set of photos next to the lopsided waist-high trees that had absolutely seen better days.
Jasmine cocks a brow as her finger shifts to the delete icon. “You’ve driven me to extreme measures. You can be a quirky shut-in when you’re old and ugly.”
“Fine,” I acquiesce, accepting my fate.
4
Henri
Your celebrity crush wants to buy you lunch and you didn’t immediately reply yes?” Iris says, slamming her hands on the bar top in exasperation.
“He’snota celebrity, he’s just some writer. And I haven’t decided yet.” I got the email just before I needed to head out for my shift at Fender. I’ve barely processed, let alone decided what to do with it.
L. Hughes.
You know what they say about meeting people you idolize.
Don’t.
Because if you’re like me, you’ll make the world’s worst first impression and lose one of the few things that bring you joy. I was happy to be in denial that it was him, until this year's "Feast in the City" was released with his name on it the day after Thanksgiving, and the unanswered email only further confirmed my worst fears. This is what I get for helping a man. I should have just left him on the slushy sidewalk.
“You’re fucking joking, right?”
