Pair a bow tie with pressed jeans?
Order an elderflower martini?
I think it’s safe to say that Logan Brantley’s opinion of the men of Manhattan, at least the ones I’ve gone out with lately, is sinking faster than the Titanic.
I pull out my phone, anticipation zinging through me. That anticipation dies a quick death when the name on the screen isn’t Logan’s. Instead it’s the guy I met on the sidewalk outside my office while waiting for my car service to pull up. No cashmere scarf, bow tie, or pressed jeans. So maybe he’s a better bet?
I swipe and read the text.
BRANDONSIDEWALK: How about we grab a drink at 8? My friend’s new bar is opening tomorrow, and he’s having a preview tonight.
My fingers are poised over the keyboard to say no. All I want right now is an amazing orgasm, and I already know I’m not going to get it from Brandon of the Sidewalk. I have a sense for these things.
But ... maybe I could get my martini fix there. I am a sucker for the extra dirty.
BANNER: Where?
BRANDONSIDEWALK: 8th and 43rd. The bar is called Olivesque.
I pull up Google and do some quick searching. There are a few articles about Olivesque’s impending opening and lots of good things to say about it. Apparently Brandon Sidewalk has some fancy friends, because it’s predicted that Olivesque will be impossible to get into for at least three or four months after it opens.
As a born-and-bred New Yorker with a taste for the exclusive, I can’t say no.
I’m only going for the martini,I tell myself.
BANNER: I’ll meet you there at 8.
BRANDONSIDEWALK: Great! Looking forward to it.
Chapter 2
Banner
I’m thankful the smell of smoke doesn’t cling to my clothes as I let myself into my apartment. Oh, and that I escaped from overly friendly Brandon without letting him shove his hand up my skirt. I didn’t see that coming. I figured he’d be overly polite, but instead he was pretty much a dick. Par for the Manhattan course, I suppose.
With the buzz of good vodka thrumming along with indignation through my veins, I pull out my phone.
BANNER: Would a real man try to feel up a woman in a bar when it’s clear she’s not interested and tells him to keep his hands to himself? Asking for a friend.
I make a beeline for my bathroom and turn on the shower and the tub. First, I need to wash the film of grossness off me, and then I’m going to soak for an hour and take care of business. And by business, I mean I’m going to get that killer orgasm I’ve been dying for all day.
I’m already over halfway through my shower routine when my phone vibrates on the counter. If it’s Brandon Sidewalk asking me to go out again, my reply will be epic.
I rinse the conditioner out of my hair and end my shower early. I tell myself it’s only because I’m worried that the tub will run over if I don’t check on the water level.
Riiight. It has nothing to do with the text waiting on my phone, and me hoping it’s Logan. Nothing.
Hopping out, I don’t bother toweling dry before I grab my phone off the counter.
LOGANREALMANBRANTLEY: Who do I need to kill?
Should that alpha-caveman response send shivers through all the best parts of me? No, because we’re justfriends.But that doesn’t change the fact that my nipples are hard and goose bumps rise along my arms.
BANNER: I’ll check with my friend.
LOGANREALMANBRANTLEY: Cut the shit,BANNER. No real man touches a woman when she says no.
BANNER: A real man would have her begging him instead, right? I know you would.