So moving on and all that. I found the apartment in New York through an old college friend—she's one of the roommates. She's a perfect size four. Apparently some women are a size four, but not perfectly. I don't get it either, but it means she gets paid a hundred dollars an hour to be a fit model. Only in New York, right? It's a great gig—when you can get it. Turns out most fit models don't work forty hours a week—my roommate only books six to eight hours a week, so she has to supplement it with waitressing.
I found the job through our other roommate. She was dating a guy who worked in the IT department and told me there were openings in marketing. I got the job and he got a five-hundred-dollar referral bonus. Two weeks later he gave my roommate chlamydia and they broke up. It's exactly as awkward as you'd imagine it is when I see him at work, which thankfully isn't often.
I was offered two jobs that week, but I had a really good feeling about this one, so I went with my gut.
I ended up placed with a supervisor who is a total nightmare. Yay for my amazing intuition.
But it's a good company. There's a lot of room for advancement and I'll need a promotion or two if I'm ever going to get my own place.
Which is why I cannot be distracted by the hot guy I just caught staring at me from across Starbucks.
Sometimes I stop here on my way home from work. I splurge on a plain black coffee and use their free wifi and enjoy the peace and quiet while I blog. I know technically a Starbucks in Manhattan isn't that peaceful or that quiet, but unlike my apartment no one here will try to talk to me.
He's spinning his phone in his hand and making no attempt not to be caught staring at me. I smile in a polite I can see you staring at me kind of way and he drops his phone into his lap. His crotch more specifically. And—I look. Of course I look. And then I catch myself looking and I burst out laughing which must be really loud because three people turn to look at me. You know how headphones kind of mute your own noise? Oops.
He really is attractive. And in New York models are everywhere. He looks like he falls into that category: under thirty, fit, attractive and cocky. Literally. And he looks like a guy I’d see on a billboard for men's cologne or something.
A willowy female slides into the empty seat across from him and starts talking a mile a minute. She looks like a model as well. Tall, thin, gorgeous and dressed like she just came from a go-see. Her dark hair is pulled into a low ponytail and her delicate fingers are polish-free as she waves them around while she speaks. He breaks his gaze from mine for a moment to greet her before flicking his eyes back my way.
I laugh again, a little shocked that he's ignoring the beautiful creature before him to partake in whatever weird flirting he thinks he's doing with me. He's full-on smiling now—at me—while the girl continues to chatter away.
I raise an eyebrow at him in disbelief.
He raises his in return.
I just shake my head and blush.
This guy is like four levels of hotter than I'm used to dealing with. The girl finally turns to see what's got him so distracted and she smiles at me.
Oh, hell, no—I bet they're one of those kinky couples looking for a unicorn. You know, a single girl willing to join an existing couple for a threesome? I'm not into that no matter how hot he is. Firm no. I turn my attention back to my laptop and the blog post I'm working on. Ignore him, I tell myself. Focus on what you came here for.
What I came here for is some peace and quiet so I can finish this review for my book blog. Then it hits me. The book I just finished was about a threesome, and I loved it. I burst out laughing all over again. Oh, the ridiculous irony. But hey, just because I like to read about something doesn't mean I want to do it.
When I look back up the girl is gone and he's still there. This time he raises an eyebrow at me and then stands—and heads in my direction.
I drop my eyes to my screen and realize I was in the middle of making a graphic for the review. A really racy graphic with three semi-dressed people. Oh, fuck, abort! I snap the lid of my laptop closed half a second before he stops at my table.
"I couldn't help but notice you," he says by way of hello.
I bet, I think.
"It's nice to see a beautiful woman not afraid to laugh," he continues and it catches me by surprise. This isn't where I thought the conversation was headed.
"Thank you?" I say, but it comes out more like a question than an affirmation.
"You're welcome," he replies. "But you shouldn't sound so uneasy when you receive a compliment."
I blink, a little unsure how to take him.
"What's your name?"
"Lauren," I find myself telling him, but I'm not sure why. My go-to name for creepers is Samantha. Why did I give him my real name?