“Ah,” Magda grins. “No wonder you’re glowing. Bet you won’t find handsome rockstars like that when you get to Nantucket next week.”
“You never know,” I tease, moving back to the main room to collect more glasses.
When my shift ends, I find myself jostled in the crowded elevator bank. Bodies press against me from every direction. I’m swept forward in the crush, unable to control where I’m going.
Someone’s elbow digs into my ribs. A woman’s stiletto catches my ankle. Then, suddenly, I’m slammed against a wall of solid muscle. I look up into familiar, striking blue eyes.
“Oh,” I breathe. “I’m sorry.”
Cameron’s hands come up to steady me, and the spark hits again. This time, it's more intense, like my body is now attuned to his touch.
"You're the girl who found my ring," he murmurs, his voice hushed and personal despite the clamor. My heart beats so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
“Yes.”
"I should have thanked you properly." His eyes search my face. “I’m Cameron.”
“Tara.” My name escapes my lips as barely a whisper.
His hands are still on my arms, steadying me. I don’t want him to let go.
“Cameron!” someone calls from behind him. “We’re late for the after-party.”
The spell breaks. He glances over his shoulder, then back at me with something that looks like regret.
“I have to leave,” he says softly.
And then he’s gone, swept away by his entourage, leaving me pressed against the wall, the ghost of his touch still lingering on my skin.
CHAPTER 2
TARA
Mickey's Deli in the theater district isn't a fancy place. It's kitschy and retro. Yet for two years, it's been a fun place for me and my besties to hang out.
Mickey's is always a wild scene, with its post-theater crowd mixing with late-night partiers.
Once my two besties and I order, our server sets my dish down with the practiced indifference of someone who has seen everything 42nd Street has to offer at 3 a.m.
It's a plain bagel, perfectly toasted, with a swirl of whipped cream on top. A single pink candle flickers in the center.
"Happy birthday, darling," says Zaza, leaning back in the cracked red vinyl booth. "Go ahead and blow out the candle already."
"What are you going to wish for?" asks Keesha.
"That's a secret," I say, closing my eyes. As I suck in air to blow out the flame. But the image of Cameron Crow comes to mind.
I recall the way our eyes met.
Our lips, just a whisper away from a kiss.
My only wish is to meet him again.
The server approaches with the bottle of Prosecco Zaza ordered and pours the fizzy liquid into three glasses.
"Tell me all about the VIPs at your club tonight,” Zaza demands, her glossy red lips already parted in anticipation of a juicy story.
Before I can respond, a quirky woman appears at our table looking like she raided a Broadway costume shop. Her gold headband drips faux jewels, and she speaks with a fake fortune-telling accent.
