Page 16 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

It used to drive me crazy how Daphne would text. Every line of thought is a new message, like her thumbs are too eager to let her mind finish a full sentence. Now, it’s one of my favorite things about her. The rapid ping, ping, ping, ping is her signature ringtone, as distinctive as a fingerprint.

Me:

Sounds great. Can’t wait!

Fuck . My response is so phony it makes me cringe, the words dripping with artificial enthusiasm like syrup on a stale pancake.

I debate whether or not to tell Daphne what I did.

The problem is she’s going to want to know why I would choose to punish myself by reading every hateful, mean thing written about me and my work on the internet.

Truth is, I don’t have an answer. For some sick reason, when I’m feeling low, I seek to get lower.

Maybe in a way I think that if I can survive all the abuse, then I can make it. I can endure anything.

Except I couldn’t take it.

I melted into a puddle of heaving tears in the middle of Manhattan’s most sophisticated wedding.

I’ve never felt more like a loser, especially here, surrounded by all these rich people who found their success, their laughter and clinks of champagne glasses a constant reminder of what I haven’t achieved. And maybe never will.

What if…

What if I just let the haters win? I’m so tired of trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. What if I take Mom up on that entry-level bank job?

Life would be simpler.

More than anything, I just want a break from feeling this hopeless.

I sink onto the bathroom floor in my ruined dress, not caring that I’m one sneeze away from my nipples popping free.

I rip open the top of my gummy bear package, trying to focus on the good parts of today.

I pop a gummy treat for every blessing I have in my life.

A red bear. I have an incredible best friend who is always on my side.

A green bear. My parents love me. An orange and a blue bear.

I have my health and a roof over my head.

I pop a handful more of the colorful assortment, convinced there are more things to be grateful for that simply don’t come to mind at the moment.

Running my tongue over the roof of my mouth, I feel an odd film, slick and slightly bitter.

These bears have a weird twang to them. Daphne is knee-deep in her homeopathic-organic-grass-fed phase.

I bet these bears are made of dead sea algae or something harvested by moon-dancing shamans.

I should’ve swiped the sweet-and-sour Scandinavian gummy skulls from my birthday basket, but the gummy bear package was small and nestled perfectly in my clutch, like it was meant to tag along tonight.

Knock, knock.

There’s a firm thud on the bathroom door, the sound reverberating through the tiled space. I flick my eyes along the stalls, one by one, as if the person on the other side of the door can see my bewilderment. “Uh, it’s open.” Who knocks on a public bathroom door?

“Cookie girl? Are you in there?” he bellows through the heavy wooden door, his voice deep and unmistakable.

Huh? I clamber to my feet, then clickety-clack in my black kitten heels over to the door, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through my arches.

I pull open the door to see his stupid, handsome face.

He’s cleanly shaven, showing off his masculine, cut jaw, the kind that could slice through bread and break through hearts with equal efficiency.

“ Cookie girl ? Are you looking for a stripper?” I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

He smiles when he sees me, a grin that unfurls slowly across his face.

Then, his eyes slip for a fraction of a second to my chest, the torn fabric leaving little to the imagination.

He recovers quickly, finding my gaze and flashing me that million-dollar smile.

Actually, considering who he’s dating, maybe it’s a billion-dollar grin.

“I’m looking for you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” he confesses, his voice softer now.

“And I don’t know yours… So why are you looking for me?” I hold out my arms, letting him assess the wreckage he made of my dress. “Are you back to finish the job?”

“No, of course not. I’m Forrest.” He holds up a small, clear container that’s encapsulating a needle and a colorful array of threads. “I thought maybe I could help.”

I blink at him, slow and deliberate. “Do you think just because I’m a woman, I know how to sew?”

His eyes pop into startled circles, widening like a cartoon character who’s just stepped on a rake. “I wasn’t implying?—”

“Because unless you’re packing super glue or duct tape, I don’t think you can help me. Also, this is the ladies’ room, so…” I wouldn’t say I slam the door on him, I simply let go of the handle. Gravity is out of my control, folks. The laws of physics are not my responsibility.

But it’s no use anyway. His cat-like “reflexes” kick in again, and he stretches out his arm, catching the door with his flattened palm.

He’s able to hold it wide open with his large wingspan, like a magnificent tux-wearing eagle.

“Is there anyone else in here?” Forrest asks, his gaze scanning the space beyond me.

“Obviously,” I sass, stretching each syllable like taffy. “A whole crew of us. We’re prepping for the grand finale flash mob. So, if you wouldn’t mind, we need a little privacy.”

“Mk, so you’re alone,” he says, shrugging one shoulder, the fabric of his tuxedo shifting smoothly across his frame.

“Yes.”

His smile widens, creases forming at the corners of his eyes. “I knew you were sassy, but I didn’t realize you were feral.”

I curtsy with a shit-eating grin plastered on my face.

I realize after, due to my torn dress, the gesture is both ridiculous and slightly obscene.

“I’m Sora. Jokes aside, it’s nice to officially meet you, Forrest.” I raise my eyebrows so high, they’ve surely disappeared into my hairline, perhaps never to return.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” I ask accusingly.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he replies, his expression remaining neutral save for a slight wrinkling of his forehead.

I roll my eyes with finesse that would impress even the most insolent of preteens. “Don’t be a pig.”

“Excuse me?” His jaw slackens and his eyes narrow, like shutters closing on windows.

I can’t tell if we’re still bantering or if I’ve truly offended him.

Whatever. It’s owed after his little prank at the coffeehouse.

And it’s my birthday. I’m allowed to be a brat…

and cry…and unapologetically eat too much sugar.

“I clearly saw you with your girl—woman, I mean. And even if I didn’t, you guys were the talk of the wedding. Everyone knows you’re an item, so you’re not slick, you’re just sleazy. I don’t think she’d appreciate you flirting with me in the ladies’ room,” I declare, my chin jutting out defiantly.

He wiggles the little sewing kit between his fingers, ignoring my accusations. “Believe it or not, I’m a whiz with a needle and thread. I grew up humble, working on a ranch. I had to learn to patch my Levi’s.”

“A ranch?” I balk, my interest piqued despite my best efforts to remain aloof. Damn my curiosity, always getting the better of my righteous indignation. “But you seem so… Manhattan .”

“And you seem like someone who jumps to conclusions,” he counters, with a smirk. He gestures behind me, his movement smooth and controlled. “I’ll explain, but I need the door closed first.”

I eye him suspiciously, ignoring the butterflies bouncing off the walls of my stomach like they’re in a freaking pinball machine. “Your girlfriend won’t be upset?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my client.” His voice drops to a whisper, the words barely audible over the hum of the ventilation system. “I was working tonight.”

Working? It’s the way he says it, like it’s a dirty little secret wrapped in expensive paper. Oh. My. Fuck. It can’t be…can it? But I saw his young daughter. There’s no way. Maybe his date has a medical situation and he’s a caretaker?

“Are you a nurse?” I inquire, my brow furrowing with confusion.

He squints his eyes, befuddled, his forehead deeply creasing. “Why does everyone assume I’m in the medical field? Am I giving off a vibe?”

We’re getting closer and closer to the prior conclusion I jumped to, my mind racing around like the last lap of a relay. “So what do you mean you were working tonight?”

“Not another word until you let me in, Sora,” he answers, dead serious. He locks his eyes on mine and I hold my breath, a haze of his allure holding me in place and slowing down my movements, like I’m suddenly swimming through honey.

I step backward, giving him room to enter the women’s bathroom. He advances, then softly shuts the door behind him, the click of the latch oddly unsettling. “I need you to make me two promises before I explain further.”

“Okay.” I audibly gulp when he turns the lock, the sound of metal sliding into place making my heart race.

I ignore the wild thoughts galloping through my mind.

Let’s be honest, this situation is the preamble to a steamy scene right out of one of my books.

But even if my fantasy were to leap right off the page, I’d never be as bold as any of my heroines.

Not to mention I look like a wet raccoon with my eye makeup in total anarchy.

Forrest holds up one long finger. “First, you can’t tell a soul what I’m about to tell you. I’m going out on a limb here by trusting you.” He holds up another. “Second, you have to try not to judge me. Are we clear on the terms?”

I wordlessly nod. My eyes are so wide, they’ve gone a bit dry in my state of shocked anticipation. Now, I’m getting worried he’s not a prostitute. I’m getting hitman energy from the laser-focused stare he’s giving me.

“Good.” He makes his way past me to the vanity.

His movements precise, he neatly scoots my items to the side and sets down the sewing kit.

After unwedging the needle, and collecting the small spool of black thread, he licks the tip of his finger.

“I’m an escort. I was hired to attend this wedding with Celeste.

” He casually threads the needle, twisting the thread and securing a knot.

I breathe out in relief, the tension leaving my body in a rush. “Okay, so you’re just paid arm candy. You don’t actually sleep with women for money.”

“No, I do.” He finds my stunned expression in the mirror and dishes out a cocky smile paired with a wink. “For the right price.”