Hard Pass by Sara Ney Page 0,55

wanting to punch the hard wall behind me.

“Are you going to go see Phil?” Wallace wants to know.

“What the hell is Phil going to do about it? Tell me to stay home?” Fuck Phil. Fuck the paparazzi. Fuck phones with cameras.

“You have to call Miranda—she’s probably flipping her shit.”

No doubt.

After we had such a great night. For once I had gotten out of my own head at her apartment and it was amazing. She was amazing. Now how will I face her. I know me-I won’t.

“Harding. You have to call her.”

I give a barely perceptible shake of my head. I can’t.

“Dude, you cannot ignore her. I bet she’s called you a million times.”

And I wouldn’t blame her, but I can’t talk to her right now. I need to think.

I don’t want to be near Wallace.

I don’t want to be near anyone.

Pushing away from the wall, I head into the tunnel and away from Wallace, the sorry bastard who had to deliver the bad news. Into the dark, where the temperature matches my mood.

“Harding! Bro, I’m sorry!”

Not as sorry as I am for going on that date to begin with.

I should have known better.

14

Miranda

Noah didn’t sneak out of my place this morning, but he left wicked early—long before the sun came up, like a vampire might—kissing me on the forehead and covering me with the blankets I keep at the foot of my bed.

Eventually, I manage to drag myself up, throw on a cute outfit, and get out the door at a reasonable hour with plenty of day left to accomplish some tasks.

Ten o’clock.

Not the best, but not the worst.

I push through the door to my new offices letting the bright light cheer me up. The walls aren’t the shade I want them to be, but in time, they will be.

My leopard print tennis shoes pad across the hardwood floors and I pull my wireless speaker from my tote, set it on the folding card table doubling as my makeshift desk until I can get my actual desk delivered.

First comes paint.

Then comes furniture.

Humming, I swipe through my phone, pairing the device to my speaker, and set that down too, happy and tapping my feet to the first song that comes on, a playlist I call “Throwback” amping me up to be productive.

Jeans. Cute t-shirt. Printed sneaks. Hair in a pony.

Two orgasms last night.

I am feeling good.

Nothing can bring me down.

I twirl, walking to the window and staring down at the street, marveling at the location I managed to score for my business. Midtown. Up and coming. Tons of foot traffic. Lots of clients living nearby with oodles of connections for more work.

Busy, busy, busy is what I hope to be.

Cars pass by. A woman walking a terrier, face buried in her phone—I admire her chic little polka dot rain boots and red coat with a smile. Cute.

So cute.

Blech, Miranda. Orgasms have addled your brain!

“Time to get to work—quit dillydallying,” I say out loud to no one. No interviews are set up for this week. I do have three candidates scheduled to come in soon, but not until I have something other than a card table and a folding chair.

I’m a startup, but no one wants to take a chance in an office that looks like it’s been robbed!

Laptop comes out.

Sketchbook too.

Pencil.

Through the wireless speaker, still playing my favorite songs, my phone pings once.

Again.

Again.

Three notifications back-to-back can only be one person, and I leave it be for now, because I don’t have time to sit and chat with Claire—not until I’ve gotten something done for work.

“No,” I say. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

I do, however, scoop up my phone, and the tiny red icon in the corner of a social media app has my brows rising.

One hundred two.

Weird.

“Huh.” I poke it open and my jaw drops.

Last night when I went to sleep, my social media profile—the one I recently created for my design business—had 893 followers. This morning?

15,724.

Wait—15,725.

“What the hell?” This makes no sense.

There must be a glitch—that can be the only explanation since I am a nobody with no ad budget and barely a business page.

I click over to my personal page.

4,082 follow requests.

“Eh?” I literally say that out loud: Eh. “What is going on?”

Of course, no one responds, because I am alone.

Ding.

Ding.

Claire texts me again, twice—at least I think it’s Claire? but when I actually look at the messenger notifications on my phone, I notice 44 unread texts.

“What the…”

It rings: a girl I went to college with,