"It's just a matter of time until you get one. If looks could kill, Smith would be a goner." She reaches for my hand. "You know you can tell me anything. Give me the goods on Mr. Booth, so I have justification for going over there and kicking his ass."
Sydney is six inches shorter than me, and I'm five foot eight. Smith has a solid foot on her and at least one hundred pounds. I have no doubt she could knock him on his ass just by looking at him. She's beautiful, and from what I can remember, she's exactly his type.
"It's simple." I glance over my shoulder to where Smith is standing next to a woman with red hair. He's even better looking than I remember and he knows it, the bastard. He's playing the part of Prince Charming to a tee, right down to the grin and cock of his dark brow as the woman he's with laughs at something he says. Her eyes move over his bare chest and tight abs to the black shorts he's wearing.
"Brynn." Sydney taps my hand. "Tell me."
I turn back to look at her. "Smith stole the one thing from me that every single woman in Manhattan wants."
It takes a few seconds for her to sit on that and think it through. "A rent controlled apartment with a view of the park?"
I nod slowly, taking pleasure in the fact that all of my well-intentioned lectures have paid off. Sydney is finally learning that owning a piece of the property pie in Manhattan is a better investment than a long term relationship with any man. A diamond engagement ring may seem like the brass ring to many of the women in this city, but an address in the right neighborhood isn't going to break your heart. "Close. Smith Booth stole a brownstone on the Upper East Side that I was desperate to buy. He took it right out of the palm of my hand."
"You're a Bishop," she points out. "Your dad practically runs the New York real estate market. How the hell did Smith manage to get his hands on a property you wanted?"
"He convinced the seller to take his offer even though it was lower than mine." I shake my head still regretting the fact that I didn't go straight to my dad to help me broker the deal. I used an agent who was a friend of a friend instead. That's what I get for trying to surprise my family. "My terms were better. My offer was the right choice."
"So what happened?" She raises an eyebrow. "What did he offer that you didn't?"
"His dick." I turn and look at Smith walking out of the gym with his arm around the redhead's waist. "He screwed his way into that brownstone and I'll never forgive him for stealing it away from me."
CHAPTER TWO
Smith
Brynn Bishop.
That name has been haunting me since I saw her at the gym yesterday. She may have thought I didn't notice her looking at me, but I did.
I type her name into every social media platform I can think of on my smartphone. The results on each of her profiles are the same. Everything is set to private. The only hint into her world is one visible picture of her. It's a tightly cropped image of her face in oversized sunglasses. There's no mention of her fiancé. I don't see a single picture of the elaborate wedding in the Hamptons that was planned for last summer. She didn't have a ring on her finger at the gym yesterday, but she could have slipped it back on after her workout.
Frustration pecks at me as I exit the browser and scroll through the emails that arrived in my inbox overnight. Not one of them is urgent enough to warrant my full attention. I close the email app and switch the phone's ringer back on. I silence it every night before I call it a day. I have to. My weekdays endearlier than anyone I know and as phone calls, text messages and emails roll in, I'm already clocked out, asleep in my bed in Brooklyn.
When you have to drag your ass out of bed before the crack of dawn five days a week, your bedtime rivals that of a four-year-old. I should know. Earlier this year, I spent time at my sister's place in Kentucky.
My twin nephews are fed, bathed and dressed in their pajamas before most people in Manhattan have given dinner a thought. If nothing else, the ridiculous lights out before eight p.m. rule prepared me for my new job.
Being the co-host of Rise and Shine comes with a multitude of perks I'll never complain about. One is this chauffeured SUV. Hopping on the subway when I've just roused myself out of bed, is something I did in college, but no more.
I use these moments during the drive to the studio to go over the notes Resa, my executive producer, sends me thirty minutes before I wake up. It's a routine we established straight out of the gate when I took this job.
"Do you need anything, Mr. Booth?" My driver, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a slight English accent, asks as he peers at me in the rear view mirror. "We have time to stop for a coffee. I know how much you hate what they serve at the studio."
He knows that because he heard me complaining over the phone to Resa two mornings ago.
My agent requested the essentials in my contract. That started with an eight figure a year salary and the non-negotiable role of associate producer. I want a say in the stories I'm bringing on air. He also secured a decent sized dressing room and office, one Friday off a month, my suits and shirts custom tailored from Berdine, the premier men's wear store in the city, and a driver who was supposed to keep the small talk to a minimum.
Good coffee wasn't mentioned, but unless Resa replaces the shit they've been serving me, I'll comment live on air about my love for the premium blend at Roasting Point, a family run chain of New York based cafés. I have little doubt that a plug to our daily audience of several million will benefit the owners of the business enough that a free cup of their coffee will never be more than an arm's reach away.
"I could use a decent cup." I reach forward to tap Arthur on the shoulder. "There's a twenty-four-hour Roasting Point a block over on Broadway. Pick up one for yourself too. Bill it to my expense account."
"You have excellent taste, sir." He replies with a curt nod. "Is there anything else you need?"
That list is a mile and a half long. It begins with a redo of the last twelve hours of my life and a miracle. Arthur isn't equipped to deliver either. "Just the coffee."
He pulls the car into a tight spot a half a block from the café. "I'll be but a minute."
"Take your time." I glance at the watch on my wrist. The same watch my younger brother gifted me on the day I graduated from college.
