Times Square(3)
"Lauren," he repeats with a nod. "Would you mind if I asked you a question?”
"Um, okay," I reply. Oh, shit. He's going to invite me to a three-way now. I'm so not ready. "Wait," I blurt out.
"Wait?" He smiles at me, and damned if he doesn't have the cutest dimples ever. Dimples are supposedly a genetic deformity and I find myself wondering if it hurts his modeling. Probably not because it's somehow adorable and erotic simultaneously. He probably gets paid extra for them. I wonder if they're insured.
"Well, first you should tell me your name too." Ugh. That's the best line I can come up with? Lame.
"Max," he replies with a small tilt of his head and a bemused expression on his face.
"Okay." I nod. And because I really have no game I shrug and blurt, "What?"
"What were you looking at online that had you so entranced?"
"Oh." I glance down at my closed laptop and back to him. "I'm a blogger. I was working on a book review." He nods and I notice his hair is slightly damp, as if he just came from the gym. It's dark and his eyes are the most seductive shade of blue. I'm still not doing the threesome. Nope, no way.
"What kind of books do you read?”
"Smut mostly," I blurt out before I think better of it. I feel my face heat up while he smirks.
"Nothing wrong with reading a little smut, Lauren. But it's even better to act it out."
Holy. Hell.
Then he winks at me, turns around and walks out.
Only in New York, right? And holy crap, now I'm all hot and bothered and I can't even go home and masturbate because the apartment is always occupied. Always! And I've never successfully been able to get myself off in the shower, dammit to hell.
I tightly cross my legs while opening my laptop again. I really need my own place.
Chapter Two
I wake up the next morning before my alarm—as per usual. Someone is always creeping in and out of the bedroom in the mornings. Luckily the bathroom in this apartment is off the living room, so that cuts down on the noise a little. We also keep a vanity table set up in place of a kitchen table to create a hair-and-makeup zone, keeping the bathroom open as much as possible.
But someone is in the bathroom now, so I'll have to wait. No biggie. I plan my morning routine around this, so when my alarm sounds I hit the snooze button and stretch out under the covers to wait.
In retrospect, that's the exact moment when this day goes to shit.
Because somehow, inconceivably, in an apartment shared with three other girls, I wake up an hour later to complete silence. And now I'm late. Really late.
"No, no, no, no, no!" I mutter while tossing the covers off and dropping out of bed. I drop because I'm a top-bunker and I don't have time to use the ladder and oh, holy shit, how does my life include a ladder required to get in and out of bed?
My feet hit the floor, but one lands on a sock and my foot skids until my pinky toe bangs into the milk crate my bottom bunkmate has been using as a nightstand. I do that weird dropped-open-mouth thing one does when they hurt themselves right before they swear, which I do next. How? How did I even just do that? I hop around for a second while I do the math on how I'm going to make it to work on time. Then I bolt for the shower and thank the water gods that it's hot before jumping in.
I'm out in under a minute, sans hair wash. No time. I'll spray some dry shampoo on and make the best of it. I've got a perfect record at work. I'm always on time, always dependable, and I don't need today to ruin that. Especially when I'm applying for promotions.
Plus my boss is a bitch of the worst degree. I'm pretty sure she hates me so I'm not going to give her anything to use against me. No way, no how. I just have to pay my dues and then get promoted out of her department. Fingers crossed.
Teeth brushed, pants on, blouse buttoned and I'm flying out the door. And… the elevator has two strips of yellow caution tape forming an x across the doors. Okay, Lauren. Just breathe, you got this. Six flights is not that many. I shove open the stairwell door and keep one hand on the rail as I book it down the stairs as fast as my feet will move, my sneakers thumping on the concrete steps and echoing through the stairwell. I don't have time to care about the racket I'm making, I'm just counting my blessings that it's only six flights.
Shoving open the door on the ground level, I sling my purse across my body and make a run for the subway. I think I've still got this, as long as the trains are running on time I'm going to make it with a few minutes to spare.
I'm two minutes into my run when I remember I forgot to grab my office shoes on the way out the door. Dammit, I hope I have a pair of flats in my drawer at the office or I'm going to be stuck in these all day and my boss will make a snide comment about millennial shoe choices while pretending it's a joke.