bank account a little more flush, give my mind a little more time—then try again.
There was a loud honk, and the SUV swerved, my hand gripping the center console as I tried to open a text from Benta, my eyes glancing briefly up at the traffic before looking back down at my phone. The text was short, letting me know they had landed and were at baggage claim. Thank God. After a week alone, I was convinced I wouldn’t make it in New York without these girls. Life sans them sucked.
Granted, there were a few negatives about their return. I’d have to tell Cammie about the dress—her Nicole Miller number that I might have snagged slightly during my borrow. And I’d have to disclose the conversation with Vic. They had me on strict probation from answering any of his calls, so I’d be in trouble over that slip.
The SUV rolled into JFK, and I could already see them, their enthusiastic wave barely visible through the snow. Only minutes until their bronzed and relaxed selves would hop inside, and I’d be back in my rightful place: the pasty white stressball in our trio. Granted, I had that title before they spent a week sipping margaritas on a Miami beach. Cammie’s ethnicity had blessed her with perfect dark skin and almond eyes that made my blond hair and blue eyes look bland. And Benta was from Spain; she looked like a tanned, dark-haired version of me until she opened her mouth and a ridiculously sexy accent flowed out.
“I know you aren’t welcoming us back glued to that phone.” Benta crawled into the backseat, her gloved hand unsuccessfully swiping for my cell.
I held it out of reach with a glare. “I’m still trying to catch up on your Instagram vomit. I swear, you guys woke up each day determined to make me miserable. Give me two minutes to get over my jealousy and pretend to be happy for you.”
“Two minutes … ooh, that reminds me. Chloe, when we get to dinner I have to tell you about this ‘stud’ that Benta hooked me up with. The guy finished before I unbuttoned my shirt.” Cammie snorted.
“Is there more to that story?” I glanced up from my phone.
“Nope,” Cammie said cheerfully. “That’s about it. But ohmigod, wait ’til you hear…”
I stuffed my phone in my purse and settled in, their excited chatter filling the car, a welcome distraction from my current issues.
5. Kissing a Frog
We didn’t head home, our first stop a bar in Chelsea, then a club in Midtown, dancing and drinking until 3 AM when we finally called it a night, stumbling out the doors.
A hand caught mine as we stepped into the street, the pull interrupting my giggle at something Cammie had said. The hand was attached to a tailored suit, wide smile, and flushed face. “Hey beautiful,” he said, his breath frosting in the night air. I gently worked my hand free, feeling the flank of my girls rallying beside me.
“Hey.” I smiled. “You good?” I stepped back, glancing up the street to make sure we weren’t all about to be run over.
“I was hoping for your number, didn’t get it in the club. I’m Tommy.” He smiled, a grin that probably made his girlfriend real happy.
“Nice to meet you Tommy.” I stepped back another pace. “I’m not interested.”
He scowled. Held up a hand that swayed slightly, his friends pulling at his shoulder, sending apologetic looks our way while failing to move Tommy. “Awww… come on. One kiss, princess. If it’s not incredible, I’ll give you a thousand dollars.” He fumbled in his suit pocket, pulling out a thick wad of hundreds and holding them out. “Come on. One kiss.”
I hesitated. Three months ago, I’d have laughed in his face. But with my low bank balance fresh in my mind, a thousand bucks was tempting. More than tempting. I stepped closer, Benta’s hand wrapping like a vise around my arm. “Chloe,” she warned.
I hesitated. When Benta barked, I normally listened. Her authoritative tone was that of the dominatrix variety. But there, on that street, I stood firm.
“One kiss,” I repeated, meeting his eyes. “For a thousand bucks.”
“You’re probably worth it.” He shrugged, smacking the cash across his palm as he swayed slightly, the action drawing attention to the shine of his watch, the same brand my father wore. Or rather, used to wear. Behind him, his friends stopped their efforts, suddenly interested in the late-night negotiation.
I examined him closer. He wasn’t