Vanessa Booke: Bound to You

“I just wish I could forget we were ever together.”

“Cheri has just the thing for that!” Carol says, excitement coursing through her. “C’mon, let’s pick up the outfits I need from her, an extra something for you, and get back to my pad. We have to get ready for your date tonight,” Carol says, winking.

“Date? How the hell do I have a date?” I really hope Carol doesn’t plan on hooking me up with a friend of hers. I hate blind dates.

“It’s complicated. In short, I’m meeting Tristan Knight, another client of mine at a club opening. It’s tonight. He wants to talk over some plans for getting publicity for the new art gallery he’s thinking of opening. I only agreed to meet tonight because he said he didn’t mind if I brought a friend along who just moved here. He actually said that he would bring a friend too.”

“Oh gosh, Carol. I’m really not up to meeting anyone tonight. I need to catch up on sleep. I have jetlag.” I think I’ve filled my quota for meeting beautiful men today. After Nicholas, I don’t think I can handle another. It’s like sensory overload waiting to happen.

“Sweetheart, nobody gets jetlag from California to New York. It’s only four hours, tops.”

Part of me wants to whine and complain that I don’t want meet some rich, stuffy guy, but Carol is definitely what I would consider wealthy, and she isn’t stuffy. Not one bit.

Carol’s apartment is on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I remember reading about the area online. Or rather drooling about it. The neighborhood is known for its history of artistic workers and its wealthy community. I’m not surprised that she wanted to live in an artsy neighborhood. Even when we were living in Los Angeles, Carol always talked about moving near the art center of Los Angeles. But I have to say, LA doesn’t have anything on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

The inside of Carol’s apartment is just as extravagant as the outside. Wood flooring leads to a kitchen with marble floors and granite countertops. The kitchen is probably as big Gordon Ramsay’s Hell's Kitchen . I wonder if she has a pantry with every ingredient you could ever think of too? This must be what heaven looks like for foodies, aka food lovers.

Carol leads me into the bedroom where she sets the five outfits for tomorrow’s photo shoot down on the bed, plus one little black dress for me. Apparently, the wondrous fashion designer, Cheri Coy, has plenty of dresses in my size. I was afraid she only made supermodel sizes, but her line actually caters to curvy women. The dress she graciously lent me isn’t just any ordinary cocktail dress. It hugs my waist in just the right way, giving me an hourglass figure, instead of a muffin top. The back slits up, almost like a pencil skirt, and the front dips low in heart shapes on my breasts. If it weren’t for my $15 dress shoes, I’d say I could pass for someone in the VIP lounge.

“Whoa, look at you!” Carol takes a turn around me to get the full effect of the dress. “You… look… amazing.”

“Thank you,” I blush. It’s always been hard taking compliments. Being the center of attention usually isn’t my style, but tonight it is.

“Seriously, you’d give Joan Holloway a run for her money,” she says, grinning. Carol knows exactly what to say to make me feel like a million bucks. Joan Holloway is my favorite character from the period drama Mad Men .

“I think you should borrow some of my shoes. I have some great Mary Janes that would complete your look.” Carol walks over to her closet and pulls out a pair of sleek, black shoes with white accents. I stand in awe at the monstrosity she calls a closet. The thing is bigger than my bedroom back home.

“You like that?” Carol asks, winking. “You should see my view.” She pulls me toward the living room just as Steven pulls back the curtains from the panoramic windows. My breath catches at sight of the New York City skyline. The best part about the apartment is definitely the view. I stare out the window at the beautiful chaos of the city below us. How the hell does anyone afford this?

“Do you have a sugar daddy or something?” I blurt. Carol winces slightly.

“Hey, I’m not someone’s baby girl,” she says.

“Sorry, it’s just… I don’t know how people afford to live in extravagant apartments like this,” I confess.

“The apartment is on loan to me,” Carol gushes. “One of my clients offered me the apartment in exchange for some help on a publicity campaign.”

“Wow! That’s amazing. I’m sort of jealous,” I confess.

“Well, you get to enjoy this AMAZING place with me,” she says, smiling. “Are you ready to live it up?”

I laugh in spite of the nerves eating away at me. “So ready.”

“Let’s get you looking drop dead gorgeous for tonight.”

“So do you even know who your client’s friend is? He could be a creeper.”

“I’m not sure, but he’s not a creeper. Mr. Knight is a reputable person, and knowing the people he keeps company with, I’m sure his friend is a big fish.”

“I’m not looking to catch anyone,” I say, laughing.

“You never know, maybe you’ll meet Mr. Right," Carol says, winking. Hah. I'm starting to think Mr. Right is either trapped in another dimension or he just doesn't exist; either way, I'm single for life.

The memory of Nicholas’ kiss still sears my thoughts. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again?

This weekend would’ve been hell if it weren’t for the redhead I met on the plane. My cock stirs at the thought of her round little ass pressed up against me. It doesn’t matter that she was wearing jeans. I knew she could feel me growing hard underneath her. It took all of my strength not to take her into one of the lavatories and fuck her until she begged me to stop. Her lips were a tease for something even more delicious. I bet she tastes like peaches.

“Good morning, Mr. StoneHaven.” Mary, our building receptionist breaks me from my thoughts as she hands me a manila envelope. Mary Striver has been with our company for over thirty years. I feel strangely close to her, although she doesn’t usually say any more than hello or goodbye to me. I do have to admit, she has a quirky character. Sometimes I refer to her as Mona Lisa because she always seems like she’s hiding something funny.

“Good morning, Mary. What’s this?”

“It’s the folder of resumes your father wanted you to look over before Monday. He’s looking to hire a new personal assistant for you.”

“This has to be the fifth assistant this year.” PAs don’t seem to last too long with me. It’s partly my fault. Most of them end up in my bed and they don’t stay there long, which means they don’t stay here long.

“Yes, it is,” Mary says, half smiling to herself. “Your father is expecting you upstairs.”

“Thank you, Mary. Don’t go home too late.”

“Of course, sir. Goodnight.”

I swallow the irritation nipping at my heels as I make my way up the elevator to the thirtieth floor. The sight of the familiar marble flooring and gunmetal windows eases my nerves somewhat. I’m home . StoneHaven Publishing has been my home for as long as I can remember. It’s filled with countless memories of summers spent helping my father as he built this company piece by piece. Every summer I watched him labor over it for hours upon hours. I’m pretty sure this company is and will always be my father’s baby. No, I’m damn sure.

After a four-hour flight, and two hours spent trying to get through the city, I’m exhausted. This past week has been grueling. I thought Los Angeles would be a nice break from the hectic New York scenery, but LA was just one of my father’s distractions. He had me meeting with potential investors almost every day. I thought he was looking to expand and open up an office in California. I should’ve known better. He agreed too easily to send me to California. While I was working, he was planning an engagement.