“Ugh, what?” I shake my head, laughing. “No. Never. Who on earth would that even be? Ronald Smith?”
We both giggle, imagining my mystery man as our sixty-eight year old Sports editor.
“Nah, I pictured Harry Harlow. You know, the one who just started?”
A pot sticker almost flies out of my mouth. Harry is our acne-faced teenage intern. He’s in his first or second year of college and I hear him on the phone with his mother while he eats lunch most days.
I give her a look of unbridled disgust. Who does she think I am?
“My God, Nicole. Harry is like, nineteen. That’s just creepy, not to mention disgusting.”
She shrugs, grinning. “I was joking! I’m sorry for suggesting it, okay? But maybe Harry will grow up handsome,” she winks.
I shake my head.
“Um, maybe in five years. No, make that fifty years. Yeah, that’s about how long it’s going to take to turn Harry into a Prince Charming. But seriously Nic, the guy I’m talking about isn’t from work, trust me.”
My buddy goes back to thinking. “Hmmm. Well, do I know him?”
“No.”
“You met him on Tinder!” she squeals. “I knew those dating websites worked! I think even Prince Harry met Meghan Markle on Tinder, although they’re saying they met through friends.” I roll my eyes.
“No, it’s not Tinder. It’s more complicated than that, and how could Prince Harry be on Tinder? Wouldn’t everyone recognize him?”
“There are ways,” Nicole sniffs. “Trust me, there are ways. Maybe there’s an exclusive Tinder for royals.”
I roll my eyes again, but fortunately I’m saved from answering by the appearance of our food. Good thing this place has delicious ramen because Nicole gets distracted, and at last, I get to have five minutes of peace before the inquisition starts again.
8
Casey
Ah, Friday. My night to relax. On Saturdays, I’m generally scheduled to the brim. Sometimes it’s day trips away from the city or tickets to concerts and plays, but recently, there have been quite a few baby and bridal showers to attend. I swear I’m going bankrupt just buying gifts.
As a result, Sundays are somewhat calmer; I usually sleep late before meeting some friends for a long, boozy brunch and some shopping.
But Fridays? Fridays are strictly me-time.
The truth is, I’m too exhausted after a long week at Two One Two to really want to do anything on a Friday night. The only appealing activity is to lay on my couch and read my latest bodice ripper. Sometimes I take a bubble bath, and sometimes I watch a movie. But it’s always Casey time at the end of a long work week.
This particular Friday is even better than usual. My roommate, Rebecca, is out of town for a wedding so I have the whole place to myself! Yippee!
I’m stretched on the couch, engaging in my ultimate guilty pleasure: reading a romance novel. This one is particularly juicy because the hero is a sexy lumberjack who rescues an amnesia-struck woman he found in the forest. She’s afraid of him, since she has no memory, and doesn't know how she got there, but he is so brave and caring. If only guys like this existed in the real world.
But the funny thing is that even though I should be immersed in the story, tonight, I’m not. I can’t fully concentrate to be honest because the lumberjack character is so strong, alpha and commanding that no matter what I do, I can’t imagine him as anybody except Pierce Lane. Mr. Lane, who is nothing like a lumberjack. Pierce Lane who has probably never even worn a flannel shirt. Mr. Lane with the dreamy blue eyes and incredible build that makes me hungry. Despite the obvious differences, all I can see is Pierce wielding a powerful axe.
Is this what obsession feels like? The lumberjack hero is self-assured with a massive physique, just like Pierce. He has big, manly hands and strong, solid shoulders, like Pierce. He even has black hair and blazing blue eyes, like Pierce.
Suddenly, I realize that I’m obsessed. Who wouldn’t be? Pierce Lane looks like he could be a male model for a romance cover, he’s that gorgeous. Shit. Men like him aren’t supposed to exist in real life. And yet, he is very much a real person with real emotions and real anger.
I’m startled by the sound of someone trying to buzz up to my apartment. What? Oh right, I almost forgot I’d ordered myself some Thai food. Usually, I ask who it is, but today I don’t. I press the button to let the delivery guy upstairs, and pull out a plate and some napkins, my mouth watering with anticipation.
Heavy footsteps sound on the stairwell, and then there’s a knock at my door. I open it and shock hits me in the gut … because it’s Pierce Lane himself standing in the doorframe, glowering at me.