Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Even though he tells me it’s because it wouldn’t feel right to take advantage of my time, it chafes a little. I have numerous “friends” I’ve met through my job. But not a single one who is real.
Almost every damn day of my life I’m interacting with people, making them feel a little more loved, giving them a little happiness, and yet I suddenly feel like the loneliest person in New York.
Shaking myself out of it, I offer Richard a bright smile and accept the glass of champagne he offers. I ask, “Whose party is this?”
Richard sips his champagne, makes a face at the glass for some unknowable reason, then glances my way. “A music producer named Pete.” His French accent makes the name sound like “beet.” Richard gives me a lazy shrug. “No last name that I know of.”
I take a closer look around the room. The more I study the guests, the clearer it becomes—most of these people are famous. Models, actors, musicians. I’m pretty sure the guy in the corner is a rapper. And the woman with pale blue hair is definitely a pop star.
Fame. There’s a look to it. It isn’t always beautiful, but we’re attracted to it regardless, little moths to the flame.
I don’t want to be impressed. Fawning over the famous feels diminishing, as if I’m somehow saying that I’m less than they are. Except I am impressed. I admire talent and tenacity. But the idea of being at a party filled with famous people makes my indigo-blue consignment store sheath dress seem a little too shabby. It irritates me.
Without my permission, my mind drifts to John. I should really call him Jax. He’s the only truly famous person I’ve had any prolonged interaction with. And yes, I’m often irritated around him. But it’s different. He’s like a burr under my skin, making me feel too much. I think about him too much—when I wake, at odd moments throughout the day, when I go to sleep, right now.
Is it because of his fame? Maybe. Except, I usually forget he is the famous Jax Blackwood. He’s just … John. Annoying, funny, way too hot for his own good John.
John, who asked me if I was a whore. Bastard asshole dickbag. I don’t want to think about him anymore.
I accept a tart from a passing waitress. Richard inspects his own with another frown.
“Why are you glaring at all the food and drinks?” I ask him before popping the pastry into my mouth. An explosion of flavors assails my tongue. Tart, sweet, peppery, creamy, buttery. I’m hard pressed not to moan.
A gleam enters his eyes. “Good, no?”
“Oh, yes,” I tell him.
“Now the champagne,” he orders.
I comply and the flavors intensify, the champagne crisp and bubbly and refreshing.
“My staff is catering as a favor to Pete,” Richard says, almost smug. “Strawberry tart with pink peppercorn crème anglaise. It is best with champagne.”
“And you knew they’d be circulating these tarts now, didn’t you?” I wave down another waitress without shame. I’m never going to be model skinny and I’m not even going to try. “Freaking delicious.”
Richard chuckles at my enthusiasm. “Of course it is. This is my food.”
“When are you going to give me a cooking lesson?” I ask him, my mouth half full of strawberry goodness.
Ever the gentleman, Richard tucks my arm in his as we circulate. “Now, my dear Stella, I must warn you, I am an exceedingly difficult taskmaster.” He gives me a sly wink. “Are you certain you are ready for my lessons?”
I laugh lightly. “You honestly think I’d turn down lessons from the great Richard Dubious?”
In exchange for putting up with his insane work hours—not that I mind since I’m paid handsomely—he offered to teach me to cook. Something I really want to learn. I can do the basics, but cooking well is beyond my skill set.
His eyes gleam. “You’d be a fool if you did.”
“Don’t worry, I expect you to comply within two weeks’ time or face my wrath.”
Richard laughs, but whatever he says is lost on me because I’ve spotted the one man who manages to haunt me wherever I go.
Jax Blackwood stands in the center of a large group of people, all of whom are laughing and hanging on his every word. He looks every inch the rocker now. His clothes aren’t fancy—a black button-down and black jeans, but they fit his hard body to perfection and are clearly high end. A thick black leather cuff wraps around his left wrist and chunky silver rings adorn some of his long fingers.
Those rings glint in the light as he runs a hand through his hair, sending it spiking in wild angles. That gesture I’m familiar with. I almost smile when I see it.
Almost. Because there is a stunning redhead clutching his arm. Her hair is a dark honey auburn that contrasts sharply with her pale skin and is pulled back in a severe ponytail that highlights the symmetry of her features. She’s tall and thin and wearing impossibly high Jimmy Choo heels. Those heels, with rainbow sequins and fluffy little feathers on the toes, should look ridiculous but instead make her look like some sort of Park Avenue fairy princess.