Right. Small words.
“Ask Dean to call these people back. He’ll know if it’s worth my time talking to them, and if it is, I’m free to do so this afternoon.”
“Got it!” she said with a wink, jumping from one heel to the other, spinning, and sashaying her way out of my office.
I wasn’t a psychic, but one thing was increasingly clear—I was going to need to stop and buy an extra bottle of scotch tonight.
I dove through the subway doors mere seconds before they crushed me to my death.
Okay, maybe that seems a tad dramatic, but if you lived in New York, you’d understand the sentiment I’m trying to portray.
The subway waited for no one. It didn’t care if you were the next big shark on Wall Street. If you didn’t reach those doors in time, fuhgeddaboutit.
I loved my job. I loved working at my job, once I managed to get my “never on time” ass there. It was that whole getting out of bed thing that caused me the most grief. Morning person, I was not. My body preferred to wake up on its own time. Therefore, my snooze button was ridden hard and put away extremely wet.
Every day was a race against time, and today was no exception.
I found a seat across from a thirty-something-year-old guy whose nose stayed buried in a book. He was hot by all accounts—brooding eyes, red flannel shirt, beanie-adorned bedhead, and cheekbones that would make Michelangelo’s David look soft.
His book: Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto by Chuck Klosterman.
I knew that book well. I’d fiddled around with it during undergrad at NYU. It was a handwritten bomb of pop culture references and reflections on pretty much anything that mattered to young people. The Real World, porn, kittens, Star Wars, you name it and Klosterman discussed it. His witty take on American culture was supposed to be ironic in an existential kind of way. But I wouldn’t say any of the topics were deeply examined, which was probably why the book had left me with a Tumblr-like aftertaste in my mouth.
Translation: Total hipster. Although insanely good-looking, this guy would probably end up an NYC transplant in Portland within the next year. But I wasn’t ruling out seeing his gorgeous mug on one of my favorite Instagram accounts, Hot Dudes Reading.
Because who doesn’t love seeing man candy nose deep in a book?
My ogle time came to an end as I jumped off at my stop. Brooks Media headquarters was located on the prestigious Fifth Avenue, smack dab in the center of Midtown. This part of Manhattan was the central business district of the city—hell, even the country. Name a successful business, and it was probably located here. And lucky for me, my apartment in Chelsea was only a ten-to-fifteen-minute subway ride away.
Doesn’t explain why I’m running twenty minutes late.
Following the hustle and bustle of sidewalk traffic, I maneuvered past as many map-reading tourists as possible. Street vendors littered the sidewalks. A guy on a bike missed getting hit by mere inches, elegantly flipping the driver off over his shoulder.
It was a weekday in New York, and it was fucking beautiful.
I loved my city. I loved the ebb and flow of its many eccentricities. Heels click-clacked against concrete, headed for Fifth Avenue’s upscale boutiques. Loafers tip-tapped their way toward the Financial District. Taxis honked. Delivery trucks unloaded their goodies with clashing bangs and swift maneuvers. It was the New York song and dance. Everyone was on a mission to start their day. And nothing would stop them.
I strode into the Winthrop building, the spacious lobby greeting me with its gorgeous marble pillars and floor-to-ceiling windows. It was breathtaking. The office space was just as exquisite—wide hallways, natural stone floors, and the perfect amount of light coming in through large windows and skylights. Brooks Media had definitely shelled out some cash for this prime piece of real estate. By all accounts, it was stunning.
“Morning, Paul. Morning, Brian,” I greeted the front desk security guards.
“Well, hey there, pretty lady.” Paul smiled. “I see someone is still having issues with getting here bright and early.”
“Oh, shut it, Paul. Not all of us can look as good as you without a little work in the morning.” I grinned and batted my eyelashes.
Brian laughed. “She’s got your number, dude.”
“I wish she had my number,” Paul interjected. “C’mon, Georgia, let me take you out to dinner.”
“We’ve been going through the same conversation at least once a week for the past two years, Paul. My answer isn’t going to change,” I called over my shoulder as I made my way to the elevator.
“It will change!” he yelled. “One day, it will change!”