Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Change out of your jeans, put on some lipstick, and go downstairs. Do not stay in your room. Okay?”
“All right.” After all, I didn’t blow a hefty portion of my savings just to sit here on this bed and watch reruns of Friends. I came to New York City to try to find myself, and I need to walk out of this room to make it happen.
Ending the call with Maggie, I decide my Taylor Swift T-shirt and skinny jeans make me look like a fourteen-year-old fangirl, not a twenty-three-year-old woman. Determined to make myself presentable, I open my suitcase and find a pink dress with off-the-shoulder ruffle sleeves.
After quickly changing, I slip on a pair of nude pumps, coat my lips in a sheer pink lip gloss, and grab my bag. It’s time to face my dreams head-on, even if they scare me more than I care to admit.
2
Tessa
Walking through the lobby, I take a deep breath as I approach the restaurant. The hostess is dressed in all black, making me second-guess my pink attire.
“Good evening. I’d like a table for dinner, if one’s available,” I say in a smooth, I-have-it-all-figured-out way. No need to expose my anxiety for being by myself in a city where I don’t know a soul.
“Sure thing, miss,” she says with a slight hiss. It stings a bit, but I brush it off. “Will your family be joining you?”
Ouch. That one hurt.
“No. Just me,” I say, defeated by her words and feeling like a fifteen-year-old runaway.
After rolling her eyes at me, the bitchy hostess grabs a menu from under her stand, then leads me to a small square table.
“Your server will be with you shortly,” she says, looking down her nose at me before turning away. Good riddance.
After settling into my seat, I glance around the restaurant. It has a definite Old World-meets-hipster vibe with its worn, polished tables and brick walls. Muted lights are strung high overhead, giving the space a dark ambiance. I picked Hammond Hotel because it was rated high on the trendy scale, and it definitely lives up to it.
I peruse the wine list, which consists of several pages, and concentrate on the reds served by the glass. I don’t see a pinot noir or merlot anywhere, so I move to the sparkling wines, finally finding one that’s familiar: my beloved prosecco. It’s my version of champagne on a budget. A thirty-something man in a long-sleeved white shirt and black pants stops at my table.
“Good evening. My name is Jeffrey and I’ll be your server.” I give him a welcoming smile, which he returns. “Would you care for something to drink tonight?”
“Yes. May I please have a prosecco?” I respond, closing the catalog list of wines.
“Certainly,” he answers, bending closer to me. “But I’ll need to see your I.D.”
At least he whispers the last part. Though, I should’ve expected it after the comments from the hostess. Seriously, it’s surprising she gave me the wine list at all.
I pull my wallet from my purse and hand Jeffrey my Alabama driver’s license. He scans it over, then appraises me, and finally smiles. Whew.
“I knew you were Southern, Contessa Holly,” he says, giving me my license back. I don’t miss the mischievous and flirty spark in his eye either. “And you have a beautiful first name. Fitting for a beautiful young woman.”
“Thanks.” I turn my eyes down toward my lap, feeling a flush spread across my face. I wonder if all men here are this forward.
“Do you go by Contessa?” he continues, though I wish he would go fetch my drink already.
“Just Tessa,” I say, looking up at him once again.
Maybe in my thirties I’ll try the older sounding version. I’ve always felt I needed to be more accomplished to wear my first name properly. Perhaps after I make senior executive, or get married and have a couple of kids. Though, at my pace, I’ll be lucky to snag a first date.
“Tessa suits you. Be right back with a prosecco for the pretty lady in pink.” He taps the table and gives me a not so subtle smirk before walking toward the bar.
I open the dinner menu and browse over the choices. My eyes go wide at the prices. All the entrees are over twenty-five dollars, even the usually less expensive pasta and chicken dishes.
The fact that I’m not in Alabama anymore hits me hard, and I realize a sobering truth: I need to land a job where I make some serious bank to survive here. I finally decide on one of the least expensive things: lentil soup. It should be filling and might include some bread, if I’m lucky.
As I wait for the server to return, an older man dressed in a rich dark suit enters the restaurant by himself, catching my attention. A suited man always turns my eye. It’s my version of male lingerie.