two years.
I’d even exhibited my photographs at a small gallery show, a project I’d bled my heart and soul into for the past sixteen months. It wasn’t much. A visual account of the sleep disorders I suffer, but it had been a huge success. I sold every single shot within an hour of the doors opening on the first night. All of them, swept up for some ridiculous price even though I was an unknown.
And tonight, I will take another step into my responsible adult life.
I am getting engaged.
Not that I’m supposed to know it. Grant planned to surprise me tonight at dinner. He’s taking me to Mackinnon’s, a brand new restaurant that is impossible to get reservations. It sits on the eightieth floor of Hedgeman Tower, the exterior walls all glass that give every diner a three hundred and sixty degree view of the city below. I’ve been dying to eat there since it opened. How he got us a table, I don’t know.
His sister, Gloria, had called to warn me of his plans. Not because she thought I’d cut and run, but because she thought I should have a head’s up to get my nails done and also my hair. She was sure there’d be pictures and wanted to make sure it would be special.
Honestly, I am not the type for nails and hair, but I’d thanked her anyway, even if it did ruin the surprise.
But now it doesn’t look like I‘ll be getting there, not with my car being towed off in the middle of downtown, the damn driver refusing to release it from his truck when I ran up to apologize for remaining parked past the metered time.
Promising him cash didn’t help either, he just smirked in my direction, mumbling something rude about rich bitches, and off he went with my only way of getting home.
I thought to call for a ride, but my phone was in that car along with my purse, wallet, and camera. He refused to let me grab any of it because lowering the car would cost him time he didn’t have.
Asshole.
Yes, it was stupid of me to run off with only my keys in hand. It was also stupid to not actually put money in the parking meter, but I thought I’d only be inside the gallery for five minutes to sign a release for the exhibit photographs to be given to the buyer. I ended up being in there for an hour, promising Rebecca that I’d let her know when I have a new collection of photos to show.
A car honks behind me, and I spin, the driver obviously not giving a damn that I’m having a shitty day.
All he cares about is that I am standing in the only open parking space, and he guns the engine to let me know it.
His car lurches forward, and I jump back to dodge between more parked cars to make it to the sidewalk. A male voice calls out for me to watch it, and when I spin, a bike messenger is only feet from me, his eyes wide and his mouth open, telling me to move.
I am yanked away, my feet tripping backwards until my back hits a wall. And while my heart pounds a death metal beat inside my throat, my hand flies to my head to realize I almost went to the hospital with a dozen broken bones.
The city keeps moving around me, undisturbed by my near miss with death, and I turn to see who grabbed me.
An angry scowl meets me, my gaze drifting up to find grey eyes lined with thick, dark lashes, annoyance glimmering behind them.
“You almost got yourself killed.”
I flinch at the snap in his voice, the tone sharp and undercutting.
Running an accusing eye down his grey suit and black shirt, I pause for a moment on the flash of platinum cufflinks where his hands slide into his pockets and pull the front of his slacks taut.
You can tell the guy is in immaculate shape even with his clothes on. Either that or he paid a mint for the best tailor in the world. There isn’t a single stitch out of place, the buttons lying flat over his stomach, and the cut of his jacket is a perfect fit over broad shoulders.
He has money. At least, that’s what his clothes scream.
Judging by his less than patient tone with me, I assume he must be a business owner, some higher up like a CEO, who is