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“I hope not.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” His deep chuckle fills my ear. “Love you too, sis.”
We hang up a few seconds later, and I waste zero time getting down to business.
Comfy pajama pants? Check.
TV remote? Check.
My ass on the couch? Check.
But just before I can completely lose myself to a few hours of mindless TV, my phone pings from the cushion beside me.
Lena: Also, the next time you come into JG, you need to tell me who you were texting today.
My failed text attempts to Milo? Oh, hell no. That is not something I want to share with any-fucking-one.
Not to mention, how in the hell would she know that? Maybe she is a psychic.
I respond by pleading the fifth.
Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Lena: Girl, I know what that kind of focused means. That wasn’t the look of a girl mindlessly browsing Instagram. You were texting…someone. But I’ll let you off the hook as long as you promise to go shopping with me next week.
Me: Not going to lie…being friends with you is kind of weird…
Lena: When you say weird, I’m pretty sure you mean FUN. And I’m also taking that last text as a blood-oath-promise that our lunch and shopping date for Tuesday is a go.
Either Lena is batshit crazy or the exact kind of friend I need in New York.
Honestly, at this point, it’s a toss-up.
But for some unknown reason, despite her apparent proclivity for demands and threats, I’m amused by her.
Me: LOL. Fine. Count me in.
Lena: FANTASTIC. And PS… My motto when it comes to texting a guy I like is Just Do It.
Me: Who says it was a guy I like?
Lena: HA! So you WERE texting someone…
Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
Me: I’m pretty sure Just Do It is owned by Nike.
Lena: And look at how far it’s taken them…
Yeah, despite my momentary lapse in judgment at Jovial Grinds, hell will freeze over, JK Rowling will give me a call to edit her next book, and Bruce will stop nearly shitting himself whenever his shipment of Gerbera daisies is running behind schedule before I’d actually think about hitting send on a text message to Milo Ives.
Milo
The warm, late-spring air hits my face as I step out of the back seat of my driver Sam’s Escalade, and I button the front of my suit jacket and take a breath.
I’ve lived here nearly my entire life, and still, the city’s sounds are almost overwhelming. Taxi cabs honk as they try to race through red lights, pedestrians clamor for their place on busy sidewalks, and a fire truck’s siren blares somewhere in the distance.
It’s just a little after six thirty on a weekday evening, but instead of going home, I’m heading to dinner at Motel Morris with a woman by the name of Rosemary Cook.
Ever since I landed on Forbes Richest List and was apparently named one of New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors on Page Six, my assistant Clara has more than earned her salary fielding calls from hungry media sources.
It’s all a bunch of bullshit if you ask me.
My drive and success have never been and will never be motivated by accolades or attention. And truthfully, if Page Six never mentions me again, it’ll be too fucking soon.
But nonetheless, here I am, ready to have dinner with the tenacious Rosemary Cook of the Times.
If that woman called my office one hundred times, she called it a thousand.
Not to mention, she managed to snag my personal email address and inundate my inbox with messages. All sort of nice. All kind of friendly. All pushy as hell.
Somehow, I found myself admiring her stubborn tenacity, and I agreed to do this interview—something I almost never do.
It only takes one instance of getting stuck in an interview with a woman named Tina who tosses out questions about your cock size and sexual preferences like she’s making it rain with dollar bills at a strip club to become prudent with journalist requests.
When I check in with the hostess, she leads me toward a private, white-cloth and candle-lit table at the back of the restaurant where my redheaded dinner companion is seated and ready to dive right in.
I stop on my side of the table and glance down to find a wrinkled legal pad, and the first page is absolutely filled to the brim with questions.
God help me. This woman came real-fucking-prepared.
Internally, I sigh.
“Mr. Ives,” she greets with a bright, megawatt smile, jumping up to stand and shake my hand. “Thank you so much for meeting with me this evening.”
“You’re lucky. I don’t normally negotiate with terrorists, Ms. Cook,” I say, offering a little smirk, and she blushes.
“I can be persistent,” she admits, and my respect for her blossoms a little more. It’s always refreshing to come across someone who doesn’t falter or apologize when called out for actions they’re proud of. “And, please, call me Rosemary.”
