Once upon a time Jeremiah used to be a self-proclaimed foodie. At first it was a cute little hobby of his. We’d try new restaurants and food stands. He’d blog about it for his twenty-eight followers. That was that. After two years of late nights and long hours, helping him learn his DSLR camera, and utilizing every PR strategy known to man, Jeremiah’s food blog took off and his ad revenue hit somewhere in the tens of thousands per month.
That’s when the book deals came and the TV network executives approached him. It took a year, but a cable TV deal was hatched out, making Jeremiah the star of his own show, EAT ME, JEREMIAH!
Then everything changed.
My college sweetheart fiancé morphed into an overnight celebrity complete with a dentist-bleached smile, sprayed-on tan, and highlighted tips of thick, sandy blond hair. I stifled giggles from behind the director the first time he filmed. He looked like a glammed up country music star, and the deep-woods, Georgian accent didn’t help. Jeremiah went from downhome boy next door to gracing the pages of Us Weekly in the blink of an eye.
Sometimes I wish he’d never started that damn blog. One taste of celebrity was all it took for him to become addicted.
I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a fluffy white robe and checking the time. I’m good. And lucky. Going out on a Thursday night when I should’ve been hitting the sack early and mentally preparing myself for my new job was grossly and uncharacteristically irresponsible of me.
Without looking, I reach for my toothbrush, dropping it the second I realize I grabbed Jeremiah’s royal blue Oral-B. He left without taking a thing. I’m not sure if he thought he’d be back soon enough or if he figured he had enough money to replace it all, but everything about him still lives in my apartment.
Everything but him.
My stomach sickened in that moment, and any excitement I held for his future – for our future – vaporized. I wanted it all back, but it was too late. All that was left was my hope that underneath his exciting, new façade, the old Jeremiah still remained.
I want to believe we can get us back.
I pick up my sparkly ring. “He’s never coming back, is he?”
A groan passes through my lips. If I’m talking to inanimate objects now, next thing I know I’ll be a bag lady feeding Central Park pigeons.
I’m not that person.
It ends today.
If Jeremiah comes back? Great. Fine. We’ll figure everything out and go from there. If he doesn’t come back? He doesn’t deserve me.
I comb my hair into a neat bun, slip on some black-framed glasses, a lacy cream blouse and chic, gray pencil pants that stop just above my ankle.
Today I’m refined.
Professional.
Today I’m not the girl who screwed an obnoxiously attractive man from sundown to sun up last night.
Four different times.
Today I’m not the girl teetering between missing her ex and resenting him for abandoning the good thing they had.
Today I’m a ball-busting public relations consultant. I’ll take no shit, and I’ll make no apologies.
I transfer my fully charged phone into a new bag and check my wallet before dashing out the door. The sky holds a brighter shade of blue in it, depositing the sun on a downy soft pillow. An April morning chill bites into my bones though I hardly feel it with all the anticipation coursing through my veins.
Here’s to the future, whatever it holds.
Chapter Three
BECKHAM
Karma.
That’s what it is.
It’s fucking karma.
For the first time in my twenty-seven years I spent the entire morning feeling used.
She’s good, that Odessa. I spotted her the second she slinked up to the bar last night and ordered herself a lemon drop martini. We spoke for a while, swapping stimulating conversation laced with sexual innuendos. All I remember after that point is I couldn’t get her home fast enough. By the time I got her to my bedroom, I was two seconds from ripping her dress clean off if she didn’t stop fumbling with the zipper.
I just want the upper hand back.
That’s all.
She’s a microscopic shard of glass stuck under the top layer of my skin. I can’t see her, but I sure as hell feel her.
I rotate my office chair, staring out the floor to ceiling windows at the building across from me. A cute little marketing executive with nice tits and long blonde hair likes to eye fuck the hell out of me most Friday mornings. Not that I can see her eyes from this far away, but in my mind that’s what she’s doing.
Today she’s nowhere to be found.
I slink back in my chair, running my palms along the slick wooden arms and taking in the view of the city in the morning. While my half-brother, Dane, is stationed in Salt Lake City ensuring the business end of our joint venture is running smoothly, I’m posted in the greatest city on earth, focusing on our brand and making valuable connections.
Dane was never a people person. He could command a room with authority and solemnity, but I could charm the pants off any high-powered female executives and get a chuckle from the crustiest of CEOs.
“The consultant is here.” The saccharin voice of my assistant comes over the phone system.
I twist around and press the call button. “Send him in, Julie.”
Our New York branch is small, consisting of Julie and myself, but Dane and I decided to bring someone on to set up our social media and handle press releases while I’m out hobnobbing with the people who matter. Besides, Facebook and Instagram have never been my thing. While everyone is busy posting about how much fun they’re having, I’m actually out having fun.
Never one for patience, I smooth my tie and head to the door. Clearing my throat, I check my breath quickly, and yank the doorknob.
Hell.
Fucking.
No.
The girl before me freezes mid-step, and for a split second I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked. She picks her jaw up off the floor and pulls her shoulders back, zipping her spine.
“Good morning, Beckham.” Odessa Russo pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, those familiar pink lips tightening.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I lean against the doorframe, ramming my forehead against my clenched fist.
Her arms fold and cinch against her chest.
“My brother hired someone named Sam.” And I was expecting Sam to come equipped with a set of standard issue cock and balls…
“Samantha is my first name.”
“Why’d you tell me your name was Odessa?”
“Because the last thing I need is some crazy one-night-stand Internet stalking me.”
“Lucky for you, I have better things to do with my time.” I inhale the perfume-scented air that envelops us.
Funny how she stands there in cream and pearls like she wasn’t riding my cock all last night. I can still feel the way her tits felt cupped in my hands as she rode me backwards, her pointed nipples grazing my palms.
“So you don’t go by Odessa?”
“Not usually. No.”
I can’t call her Sam. Sam is a girl next door. Sam is benign. Sam is cute and harmless like a fluffy Golden Retriever puppy. That name doesn’t belong on the smart-assed firecracker shooting poison darts my way behind thick-rimmed glasses.
“We going to get started?” She clears her throat and glances over my shoulder. “I assume you have an office for me. I don’t do shared workspaces.”
“You’ll have an office.”
“You have me for three weeks.” She pushes past me, our shoulders brushing in the doorway, and takes a seat in my chair. Her leather satchel rests on top of my desk as she retrieves a thin tablet and swipes her finger across it. “You going to stand there or are we going to get started? I charge by the hour, and the first one began about five minutes ago.”
Fucking Dane. I told him we needed to hire someone fresh out of college, someone young, competent in social media, and obsessed with branding. Bonus points if their degree is in marketing or advertising.