Dating Games(9)
That’s when I notice the triangle of scars on his abdomen near his hipbone, an imperfection on an otherwise flawless physique. They’re pink and faded from the obvious passing of years, but I’m intrigued by the story behind them.
Instantly, my mystery man shifts, letting out a raspy groan. It hits me deep in my core, a heightened desire filling me. It almost makes me want to crawl back into bed to see if we can recreate what happened last night in the hopes of jumpstarting my memory. But I can’t do that to Trevor. Not now that I’m coherent and thinking clearly again.
Hastily collecting my shoes and purse, I hurry from the bedroom, praying I’m able to escape before he wakes up. I have no desire to face him, not when whatever happened last night was a giant mistake. I need to get out of…wherever I am before whoever he is notices I’m no longer in his bed and comes looking for me. Then I can pretend this never happened. New York is an enormous city. The likelihood of our paths crossing again is nonexistent.
Quietly shutting the bedroom door behind me, I pause, holding my breath, listening for any movement from within. Thankfully, all I hear is silence. I blow out a slow exhale and continue down a long corridor, wondering where I am. Whoever this man is, he must do pretty well for himself. His place is bright and modern, sleek wood flooring coupled with immaculate walls containing well-appointed black-and-white framed prints of famous landmarks in New York. The Brooklyn Bridge. The Empire State Building. Ellis Island.
As I emerge into the luxurious living room, I’m caught breathless at the view from the expansive windows filling the far wall. The sun shines through them, the breathtaking sight of Central Park several dozen stories below us.
“Wow.” I can only imagine what a place like this cost. The mortgage on the apartment I shared with Trevor in Brooklyn was over $3,000 a month. A place overlooking Central Park in Columbus Circle? It must cost several million.
Even more intrigued as to who this mystery man is, I consider snooping to see what else I can find out. Hell, I can’t even remember his name. I wonder if I asked for it, or if I agreed to sleep with him regardless of whether I knew it. I’d like to say I’d never do such a thing, but all bets are off.
I shift my attention to the enormous kitchen island and spy a stack of mail on the corner. When I start toward it for no other reason than to learn his name, I discern the faint echo of footsteps from down the hallway.
My pulse soaring, I spin around, hurrying out of the apartment, leaving my one-night stand where it belongs… Behind me.
Chapter Four
When I emerge onto the street, I’m enveloped by the fevered pace of midtown Manhattan, the sidewalks moving with the energy of this place I’ve grown to love. Sirens blare, horns honk, truck brakes squeak and moan. But as I revel in the mass of people walking in every direction possible, coupled with the strength of the sun on this summer day, the panic of waking up in a strange man’s bed is overshadowed with a new reason to panic… It’s Friday. And I’m most likely late for work.
Reaching into my purse, I retrieve my cell, thankful it still has a little battery life left, and spy the time. 9:35.
“Crap,” I mutter, dashing through the crowd of men and women in suits, as well as the occasional tourist snapping photos, not paying attention to the people trying to skirt around them. At least I had the wherewithal to have a one-night stand with someone who lives only a few blocks from the office. As much as I hate showing up in the dress I wore yesterday, I don’t have enough time to go back to Brooklyn and change if I want to be on time for the weekly checkin with the magazine’s editor. Thankfully, I have extra clothes at work.
I reach the building in record time and run through the lobby, my heels clicking on the marble tile. After scanning my ID badge, permitting me entry through the turnstiles, I join the mob of people waiting for an elevator. When one arrives, we all pile in, everyone glued to their phones as we ride up to our respective floors.
Having no idea how I must look this morning, I pull out the compact I keep in my purse, checking my reflection. I cringe, the bloodshot eyes staring back evidencing a night of overindulgence and lack of sleep.
I do my best to adjust my appearance with the few tools I have. I secure my wavy red hair into a fashionable messy bun on the top of my head, then pull out a few ringlets to frame my face, making it appear the haphazard style is intentional. After I put a little powder on my fair skin and line my lips with gloss, I pop a mint into my mouth to rid myself of rank morning breath, hoping it will be sufficient until I can get to the toothbrush I keep in my desk.
The instant I’m done readjusting my appearance, the elevator comes to a stop on my floor. I straighten my spine, holding my head high as I emerge into the magazine’s busy newsroom, smiling as I pass the chipper receptionist who, just like the rest of the entry-level staff, is waiting for her big break in the modeling industry. The place is bright and buzzing with energy, phones ringing off the hook, nails tapping against keyboards, music playing from a few desks.
As I continue through the rows of cubicles, I exude all the confidence I can muster in the hopes no one realizes I dragged myself out of a stranger’s bed and am wearing the same dress I had on yesterday. What am I thinking? Of course they’ll notice. This is a women’s fashion magazine. For many of these people, fashion is their life. They could probably tell me what I wore on a certain date better than I can.