“Sleep,” I repeated to myself.
After all, tomorrow was another day.
CHAPTER FOUR
JORDAN
As luck would have it, I was late for my nine a.m. meeting. It wasn’t my fault. I was one of the “lucky” people in my apartment building who suffered from a freak power outage.
I was midrinse when the lights went out in my bathroom and the shower turned frigid.
Which meant no hair dryer.
Making my normally smooth and at least semiglossy brown hair the current obsession of at least two poodles, both of which tried to hump my leg on the short walk to work.
It didn’t help matters that I’d had to put my makeup on using a tiny mirror and sunlight from the window.
Lipstick did, however, manage to make it on my lips and I think I managed to draw a semistraight line on for eyeliner. Though by the odd looks I was receiving from people walking down the street—people who seemed to be giving the crazy lady a wide berth—regardless of how straight the eyeliner, it wasn’t helping.
The only bright spots in my morning were the Starbucks in my right hand and the promise of a promotion if I was able to make the next client as squeaky-clean and shiny as a new toy.
I was one of the best publicists at my firm.
The other star students were all glossy haired and perfect. The women had magic faces that kept makeup on even into the wee hours of the morning and the men had chiseled jaws and killer smiles. So basically I was the evil stepsister of the firm, or it sort of felt like it. Then again, I wasn’t a horrible or jealous person, so maybe I was just the ugly duckling?
My heel caught on the sidewalk, and as I moved to brace myself, my coffee flew out of my hand.
“Nooo!” I could have sworn it happened in slow motion, my athletic body flying through the air while I reached out to grasp what was left of the only good thing in my day—nay, my life—and missed. My body collapsed against the stairs, scraping up my palms as my hands braced for the impact.
And honest to God, tears welled in my eyes as I glanced down at my venti mocha with extra whipped cream.
And like Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage, my cup was squashed under the heels of busy New Yorkers as they made their way into the same building.
Nobody offered a hand.
Because this wasn’t a fairy tale.
And I was no Cinderella.
Instead, my cup was shredded to pieces.
Sticky coffee stained my bloody hands.
And what were at least cute shoes—though not glass slippers—now missed a very vital part—the heel.
With a sigh, I pushed to my feet, my body aching, hands stinging, and hobbled into the building, clutching my purse to my body. My Gucci was now my armor as it shielded me from anyone and anything that would and could push me down.
Finally, I made it to the elevator and squished in between a woman who smelled like too many one-night stands and a man who clearly had onions on his bagel, with a side of hummus.
I breathed through my mouth.
My floor dinged.
“This is my floor.” I pushed through the throngs of confused faces and wasn’t surprised at all when I heard someone mutter. “Who’s that?”
“Only been riding the same elevator for the past eight years, but no sweat,” I muttered under my breath, hobbling toward the glass doors of Platt Publicity.
“Jordan!” Ren, my boss, flashed a pearly white smile and then frowned. “Did you get in a car accident?”
“Don’t own a car,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Did you get run over by a taxi, then?” He opened the door for me, and his concerned expression choked me up a bit. He was nice and the only man who noticed me. Then again, he was like sixty and married with five kids. So there was that.
“No,” I huffed. “Just a rough start to the morning.” I stopped at my office and tossed my things onto the nearest chair. “Tell me they’re late, Ren. Tell me I have time to change clothes and tame my hair and—”
“They’re here!” Ren’s assistant rounded the corner and ushered us toward one of the meeting rooms. I was half-tempted to dig my broken heel into the ground, but knew it was pointless. I was going to meet one of the biggest clients of my career looking like roadkill.
“Just smile,” Ren said under his breath.
I smiled.
He winced. “Less aggressive, more . . . friendly.”
I tried again.
He patted my hand, his kind brown eyes looking me up and down with pity. “Why don’t you just let me do the talking?”
“Fine,” I grumbled. The silver-haired fox of a boss could charm anyone and anything with a pulse, so it was probably best he did the talking anyway. After all, it was his company, and I was just one of his favorite publicists.
At least I could do something right.
I averted my eyes as he’d instructed and made my way to my usual chair, only to find it occupied.
I blinked, my gaze narrowing on an athletic, lust-inducing body that definitely knew how to fill out an Armani suit.
The body was attached to large hands that looked strangely familiar.
I continued my appreciative stare all the way up his broad chest and stopped when my eyes zeroed in on his mouth.
It was a nice mouth.
One I wouldn’t forget.
Even after the oddness of the night before.
“Handsome Stranger?” I blurted.
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mean Gay Handsome Stranger?”
I smirked. “How is Max?”
“You two know each other?” Ren asked.