The launch party for Jessa was set for seven o’clock, so at five I fed Brontë, shoved a piece of peanut butter toast in my mouth, and took the stairs two at a time to the third level to take a shower. A towel slung around my waist, I stood in the enormous walk-in closet that now sat mostly empty – save for what I referred to as my authorly wardrobe that had, for the most part, all been picked out by my ex. I was tempted to one day burn it all in exchange for clothing that didn’t make me feel like a pompous asshole. But for now, and because I hated shopping, it would have to do.
I picked out a pair of jeans that hadn’t cost a small fortune, a shirt that had, and a pair of shoes that said, “I like nice things, but I also care about comfort.”
Satisfied I looked nice, I moved to the mirror to assess my hair and face. The person that greeted me was decidedly not the guy readers saw on the inside jacket of my novels. That guy was clean cut, clean shaven, and wore contacts. This guy, on the other hand, was a bit more unkempt. And while others probably thought I’d let myself go, I actually preferred this version of myself. The longer hair that had a slightly wild, likes-to-go-on-adventures look, the five o’clock shadow, and most importantly, the glasses. I hated wearing contacts. Hated putting stuff in my eyes. Really hated having to get them out at the end of the day when I was tired. As with everything else, they had been pushed on me by Nadia, my ex.
“The overall aesthetic is just so much more…” She’d peered at me. “Pleasing to the eye.”
Pleasing to her eye, is what she’d meant. I preferred slipping on a pair of glasses at the start of the day, and then taking them off at the end and letting everything slightly blur as I drifted off to sleep. But I’d liked making her proud to be seen with me, and she’d enjoyed showing me off. Until it all became a bit much and every time I walked into a room she was scrutinizing me.
“Those sweats are too baggy,” she’d say. “They don’t show off your ass.”
“I’m just hanging out at home working,” I’d respond.
“But don’t you want me to want you?”
I did. Until I started to not.
I arrived at the location of the event – a swanky bar with a large back room that had a small stage and a couple dozen chairs set up – at seven on the dot. It was standing room only and I stood just inside the door, smiling and laughing as my old friend expertly navigated questions before we all adjourned to the main area of the bar that had been rented out for the evening. There were two tables of appetizers, another with bite-sized desserts, and the waitstaff was walking around offering champagne for free – or one could go to the bar and purchase a cocktail if they pleased.
I grabbed a plate and surveyed the offerings, zoning in on cupcake liners in blue and black to match the cover of Jessa’s new book, with fancy macaroni and cheese inside. I grabbed two and then, unable to resist, took a third.
Someone nearby chuckled and then I heard, “You gonna save any for the rest of us?”
The voice was decidedly female and definitely teasing.
I grinned, feeling slightly guilty, and looked up.
Golden-brown eyes… Those golden-brown eyes.
For a moment my heartbeat accelerated with excitement. And then I remembered the shit that had gone down.
Plus, you know, the literal shit.
And the smile on my face dissipated into the ether.
Chapter 6
Lior
The bespeckled guy from the park was standing on the other side of the appetizer table from me. Only I now realized with horror that he wasn’t just any guy. He was Graham Forrester, author of my favorite novels… and that article in the Brooklyn Tribune. The one that painted me as a crazy person.
It’s Mr. Meet-Poop himself.
The article had started off as sweet, lulling the reader in with descriptions of our little neighborhood, Prospect Park, his dog Brontë… before it quickly moved on, describing our encounter, with me taking a starring role as the childish woman who threw a tantrum over a little fecal matter before stomp/scuffing away. I mean, I was used to starring roles, but for Prada – not poop.
It had been embarrassing to read. And he’d absolutely blown my reaction out of proportion. Yes, I’d been mad. Yes, I’d yelled. But there were signs all over the park and the neighborhood about picking up after your pets. I’d noticed the dipshit hadn’t said much about his part in the whole thing. Hadn’t offered any explanation for letting his dog crap on the pavement and walking away. Mr. Author Man had turned all the attention on me, making himself out to be cute. Innocent. The victim. And as if he’d done no wrong.
And now here he was, standing on the other side of the table from me, looking annoyingly sexy with his glasses, whiskers, wavy, dark hair, and Armani t-shirt.
Dick.
He held my gaze as he exaggeratedly reached out and took a fourth mac-n-cheese bite.
“There are other people here, you know,” I said, the amusement now gone from my voice. But if he was embarrassed by taking more than his fair share of food, he didn’t show it.
“I didn’t realize you policed other things besides poo,” he said, moving to grab two caprese skewers and then pausing to make sure I was watching as he grabbed a third.
My chest rose as I inhaled, preparing to set this guy straight once and for all.
