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“I’m sorry,no.”
“It’s important. I was discussing an urgent issue withhim.”
“What’surgent?”
I swallow. “Crotchmaster.” How I say it with a straight face I’ll neverknow.
“You can leave amessage.”
I come up with a few words, which she jots down—hasn’t this woman heard there’s an app for that?—and I close my eyes. I hope I’m not getting fired forthis.
The low-grade buzz of anxiety has long since evolved into a churningstomachache.
My boss, Daisy, is not going to be happy. Either because I screwed up my paperwork or because I failed to land the client. The woman could sell collagen injections to the Michelinman.
A notification sounds, reminding me of my date in fiveminutes.
I have two options: skulk home and roll around in my own panic or find a diversion from the stress andchurning.
The mirrored panel across from me confirms it: I look as if I’ve been through atornado.
But I shaved my legs this morning—not because I’m planning to sleep with the guy, but because Murphy’s law says if I don’t shave them, he’ll turn out to be aHemsworth.
My hair’s down, but instead of sexy waves, it’s in limp noodles over my shoulders. Though I don’t have acne anymore, the pressed powder that keeps down what’s left of it is long gone. I’m pretty sure I have boob sweat going on, but at least it doesn’t show in my sleeveless black top and my leggings are fake leather, not real, which is the only reason I’m notchafed.
Kendall would remind me to find something to be gratefulfor.
I settle on clear antiperspirant as I return to the elevator, punching the button for G as if it’s Brad’s patronizingface.
* * *
The maître d’looks at me expectantly. “Reservation?”
“I’m meeting someone at the bar. Six feet. Dirty-blond hair. Dirty blue eyes.” He doesn’t get the joke. “Last nameRobinson.”
He nods. “Mr. Robinson has atable.”
My date is at a trendy new tapas restaurant. I probably look as if I came from SoulCycle, minus the glow of endorphins andvirtue.
I scan the room as I follow the maître d’ through the restaurant. Every table is occupied, plus each seat at the bar. The happy-hour crowd is just the right blend of eager and chic that only this city can pulloff.
When my friend Jake called to set me up for Monday afternoon drinks with one of his friends from Baden, the high school we both went to, I wasintrigued.
My gaze lands on the man I’m meeting, and I’m glad I shaved mylegs.
Wes Robinson is the reward for my long-ass day. His shoulders and chest fill out his suit jacket perfectly. He’s tall but broad enough you’d trust him to carry you safely out of a stampede, or Macy’s on BlackFriday.
The hair falling across his forehead is actually light brown, not dirty blond. It’s an odd length, as if he was trying to decide whether he could get away with having it obscure hiseyes.
Apparently he decided hecouldn’t.
I’m glad because when I get close enough, I see those eyes are blue-gray, the opaque color of an unfamiliar lake. The kind you don’t know how deep it is and could spend all day trying to decide whether diving in headfirst will kill you or give you the rush of alifetime.
He’s got that mysterious vibe that men in this city seem to project, like a good cologne that’s light enough to drive you crazy while promising something infinitely better if you’ll only bepatient.
The maître d pulls out my chair, and the man I’m meeting holds out ahand.
“I’m Wes. You must beRena.”
