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“You work for New York Prestige?”
“Currently. Just something small for now but trying to move up.”
Nick placed the menu back down on the counter, nodding his classic little approval that I adored. “Lots of pretty girls there,” he said, staring into my eyes, but I diverted away to the gorgeous model on the cover.
Yes, lots of pretty girls—girls who didn’t look like me, because honestly, since working there not many people did. I wasn’t the tall, five-foot-eleven blonde, with large breasts and designer handbags. Instead, I was petite, built with a small waist, large hips, and an ass like a peach; some compact woman with long, black, curly hair and small breasts. According to the magazines I wasn’t the pretty girl, and since coming here, I started to believe it.
“Yeah… lots,” I parroted.
“Well, I’m particular.” Nick flipped the magazine over, placing its cover face down. “I hope I didn’t take too long. I’m sure you have plans tonight. You look like you’re getting ready for something.”
God! I was getting ready, and suddenly I felt so shy about why. Going to my holiday office party wasn’t a big deal, though the fact that I had a plus-one ticket to give away was. Here Nick was, essentially begging for an excuse to leave his family gathering, and here I had the answer.
I watched Marty, who undoubtedly sniffed around for the dildo, waiting patiently below the cabinet I stored it in.
I tried not clench my teeth and scream.
The truth was I was nowhere near Nick’s league. He was a ten, a solid—muscle-wrapped, Calvin Klein model—ten. And I… I was the epitome of an unpolished shrew. Despite working for New York Prestige, I wasn’t your typical New York Prestige girl, and I certainly lacked the confidence of one. Regardless, there was still one absolute truth that I held close to my heart; that I could survive the constant awkward moments I shared with Nick, but in turn, would never be able to survive his rejection. It would kill me.
I froze.
“No plans tonight… just pulling an all-nighter for a deadline I have. Work, work, work,” I smiled, trying not to flail my arms, stewing in the awful lie I told to an otherwise disappointed Nick Stafford.
3
Elena
#3 He’s Easily Likable
“You’re telling me that Henry Cavill could have been here tonight, and you didn’t invite him?” Camilla Martinez, my boss and staff writer at New York Prestige gasped as she stared at my phone. I tried to steal it back, but her manicured, cranberry nails swiped feverishly across Nick’s Instagram feed.
“He’s hotter than Henry,” I defended, the almost sacrilegious statement for who he was compared too. It was true though, Nick was hotter; a little older than me—probably mid-thirties—a tad larger in the forearms with a deeper voice. “Sure, he’s not superman, but he might as well be.” I sipped on my third Mistletoe Martini, trying to dance as little as possible as a jazz pianist played Santa Baby in the corner. The music, the chatter, the massive fifteen-foot Christmas tree that sat center of lobby was all enriched by the soft, Manhattan snow that sauntered across our skyscraper view of Madison Avenue and 42nd Street.
“Well, he’s definitely a hero, or better yet, the man of my dreams.” Camilla oohed and awed, flipping the phone over, showing me the screen occasionally. On it, Nick was carrying a case of new tennis balls to an animal shelter, Marty barking by his side. “Did you see his vinyl collection? Oh, and he makes his own pizzas?”
“He fixes everything in the building, too. He’s good with his hands.”
“Oh, I’m sure he is.” Camilla peered over the table-top candle, her large black eyes caught in the flame. “And wait… he saw your dildo?”
“God, don’t remind me.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, my cheeks hot from embarrassment and strong vodka.
“Relax, amiga. He’s obviously cool about it.”
“Well yeah, he’s not some prude, but he’s always catching me in the worst situations.”
“But he still comes over, doesn’t he?”
“He has to, he’s my super.”
“But nobody is making him drink your coffee. Coffee’s a date.”
“Coffee’s a courtesy. It’s hospitality.”
“This day and age, coffee is the precursor to dinner, which is also the precursor to moving in and splitting the rent. You’re practically twelve months away from getting married.” Camilla reached up, fixing my antler headband with the flick of its little jingle bells. I tried not to roll my eyes, the thought of ever marrying Nick, let alone being on a date with him felt so unreal.
I tugged on my black turtleneck, feeling antsy as I adjusted the length of my plaid skirt. Nick was clearly into models, which meant at least half the staff here was his type, but not me. Even Camilla, the only other Latina in the building, was different than me. She was taller, her hair flat and sleek, her breasts fuller, and her hips more trimmed. She was devastatingly gorgeous in her luscious black, floor-length gown, shimmering gold earrings, and thin see-through stilettos. She didn’t have to even resemble Christmas, because she lit up the entire room with her radiant smile. If only I could have an ounce of that confidence.
“He said he has particular taste.” I took another long sip of my martini, catching Camilla’s attention.
