When we were kids, my brothers and I would play Tag at the old quarries. When the person who was It chased me, my heart would race a million miles a second as I hauled ass back to base. My heart raced like that now. I yearned for sanctuary. I needed to get to base.
A sharp mental smack landed in the back of my head as the last of my common sense showed up to save the day.
He’s not for you! Stop looking at him like that before you ruin everything! Do you want to move? You don’t shit where you eat!
Without another word, I turned and hobbled to my door, my bare feet slapping along the cool tile, and my face pinching with every limping step. With a trembling hand, I removed my key and completely missed the lock, stabbing just past the deadbolt and taking a gouge out of the finish. I tried again, my heart pounding in my ears and fingertips.
I wasn’t a fool. This wasn’t some mere burst of sexual attraction throwing me off. It couldn’t be. My sole desire remained to appear as if I belonged, to prove I had the right to be there, the eloquence to not stick out like a sore thumb, and the privileged upbringing to never need to explain myself. Busting my ass like a first-rate bimbo wasn’t exactly sending that message.
“We still haven’t been fully introduced.”
Head down, I licked my lips as the door gave way. Without saliva, my mouth stayed ash dry. Swallowing uncomfortably, I forced myself to face him head on.
“I’m Avery. Avery Johansson.” Despite my riled hormones, I kept my stare neutral—not too strong and not too passive.
“It’s nice to meet you, Avery Johansson. I hope to see you around.”
With a tight nod, I backed into my apartment and shoved the door shut. My hand gripped the knob as my fingers slackened around my shoes, sending them clattering to the hardwood floor. I panted quietly.
Shutting my eyes, I rested my clammy palm on my chest where my heart beat like a tribal drum. My head fell back, and I sighed.
Some people were too damn perfect—especially him. I couldn’t embarrass myself like that again. And I certainly couldn’t afford to get near him again. He affected me differently than any other man I’d met since moving to Philadelphia. I didn’t like it.
Sagging against the wood, I groaned. Why did he seem so different?
“God, he’s pretty.” A total distraction and I was an idiot for teasing him, never once thinking he’d remain my neighbor and the joke might be on me.
I blew out a breath. “I might have to move even if I don’t fuck him.”
4
Avery
As the manicurist applied a second coat to my nails, my phone flashed, notifying me of an email. Careful not to smudge the fresh polish, I swiped the pad of my finger across the screen and navigated to my inbox. Micah. Short and sweet in true Micah style.
* * *
Tonight. 6:00. Black tie formal. Can you make it? ~M.
* * *
I quickly responded, letting him know I’d be ready and waiting. The message sent and my phone pinged seconds later with his reply.
* * *
Good girl. Money’s in your account for attire and jewelry. I’m picturing you in something red. See you in a few hours. ~M.
* * *
Moving to the dryer, I glanced at the time. Five hours. I could make that work. “Is it possible to fit me in for a wax?”
The manicurist checked the appointment book, and within ten minutes, I was gritting my teeth through a Brazilian. I hated being waxed, but I loved the ability to afford such indulgent spa treatments. And held myself to a certain high standard, that of a woman of means and strict beauty rituals. These were the differences between the girl I was and the woman I aimed to be. I opted to have my eyebrows threaded since I had a date in a few hours. There wasn’t time for puffiness.
Buffed and polished, I scheduled a return appointment for hair and makeup at four. Two hours to find a dress, shoes, and all the accessories necessary for a black tie affair.
A notification came directly to my phone that funds had been electronically deposited. Nice. If anything, Micah, my most generous client and most important Daddy, took great care of me. Twelve hundred dollars of make myself pretty money. More than enough.
First stop, a consignment boutique in Society Hill that carried only name brand