“Mm,” I say, refusing to let myself think about Travis again.
“Anyway.” She shakes her head, twirling her martini glass. “What do you do?”
An hour ago this question would have had me wilting with shame, but now I can’t contain the grin that spreads across my face. “I’ve just got a new job at a bookstore in the West Village.”
Cat nudges me. “She’s also a writer. That’s why she moved here: to write.”
“I’m not really a writer,” I say quickly. “I want to be.”
Mel nods. “What do you write?”
“Um…” I glance down, feeling silly. All that talk about coming to New York to be a writer and I’ve only written one measly blog post. “I write a blog,” I say at last. “Well, I used to. I’ve been lacking direction lately. I feel like I need a project or something to guide me, because I’d like to write more.”
“What did you blog about in the past?”
For some reason I feel my cheeks color. “Just dating, mostly. And how shit it was.”
“Sounds interesting. I’ll have to have a read. I work for a women’s website and we’re always looking for new writers.”
“Of course!” Cat rolls her eyes to herself. “Why didn’t I think of that?” She turns to me with a grin. “Mel should check out your blog.”
“Oh.” I wave a hand. “It’s mostly posts from a few years ago.”
Mel offers me a benevolent smile. “It doesn’t matter how old it is if it’s well-written and there’s truth to it.”
I contemplate Mel’s sincere face. I don’t know why I was intimidated; she seems like a lovely person. I guess she’s one of those people that we all love to hate: beautiful, successful, intelligent and also nice. You know the ones I mean. It’s like they’re perfect and you can’t help but hope that there must be something secretly wrong with them, like maybe they have an extra toe or a hideous scar somewhere or something.
But gazing at Mel’s friendly face, I can’t hate her. She’s just too nice.
“Anyway,” she adds, sipping her martini, “if you want to be a writer, you need to be writing. Find something you love to write about, and do it.”
I sigh, sagging against the booth. She’s right—I need to be writing. It’s pretty damn simple, isn’t it?
9
A couple of hours—and many drinks later—Mel and Cat want to head to another bar downtown, but I decide to call it a night. Even though I’ve been here for two weeks now, my body still feels like it hasn’t quite adjusted to New York time.
Plus, I’m in a weird mood. I might have found a way out of the job from hell thanks to Geoff, but Mel’s words about writing brought me down from that temporary high. Because now that I’m not trapped in a soul-sucking job, I have no excuses.
I get an Uber back to Cat’s place alone and wobble up the front steps. Probably a good thing I called it a night when I did, because I can feel myself sliding into sad drunk territory.
I key in the code for the front door and let myself into the lobby, looking forward to getting into my PJs. Searching in my bag for my keys, a hiccup escapes me, followed by a giggle. I did have a fun night. And I’m pretty sure I caught Cory checking me out at one point, which was a nice confidence boost. It’s this crazy Snow White dress, I’m sure. I giggle again as I glance down at the skimpy costume I’m wearing. I wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing this back home, but here, on Halloween, I fit right in. And, just quietly, my boobs look great in it.
But… oh, shit. My keys are not in my bag, I realize, as I dump the contents out onto the table under the mailboxes. A million things tumble out—wallet, phone, EpiPen, tissues, pens, lip-gloss, earphones—but no keys. Even in my tipsy state I can see they aren’t there.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my empty bag and rubbing my face. I must have left my keys on the kitchen counter.
I grab my phone with a sigh. Cat’s going to hate me asking her to come home now, but what else can I do? It’s already close to midnight and I don’t fancy sleeping on the lobby floor. But when I call her it goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message. Then I scoop the contents back into my bag and trudge over to the stairs, slumping onto the bottom step.
I’m just about to attempt a sexy selfie when the front door to the building opens and I look up expectantly. But it’s not Cat, it’s—fuck, not again—him. My heart jumps and I silently curse Cat for making me wear this preposterous costume. I, once again, look like an idiot, while he’s still wearing his suit, his gaze focused down on his phone as he strides across the lobby.
From where I’m perched on the bottom step he looks taller, his shoulders broader than I remember. Each time I see him it’s like he’s gotten a bit more handsome—and a bit more grumpy.
He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, lifting his gaze to meet mine. His brow furrows into its default frown and he heaves out a breath. “You know, I’m trying to think of a time recently when I looked up and you weren’t there.”
Okay, a lot more grumpy.
I raise my eyebrows, huffing in disbelief. What is he implying, that I’m loitering out in the lobby, desperate to run into him? It’s hardly my fault he happens to live in the building where I’m staying. And I’m getting pretty sick of his unpleasant attitude, if I’m honest. Maybe, I think, as the alcohol courses through my veins, it’s time to give him a piece of my mind.
I push to my feet, ready to say something scathing, but as I do his expression shifts. I watch as his gaze dips down my dress, lingering on
