Page 25 of Boyfriend of the Hour
I steppedout of the elevator while staring at three of the dozen or so messages my sisters had sent last night and through the morning to the group chat called Hellcats after I’d stormed out of the house.
It was nearly one in the afternoon, which meant I’d been AWOL for almost fifteen hours and had skipped Sunday Mass too. After which we were all supposed to be finishing up with the final clean-out of the house and taking Nonna to the airport.
Somehow, the idea felt worse than my hangover.
Sunday afternoons weren’t for mopping floors and staring at empty rooms. They were for drinks on the porch, and Nonna’s osso buco, and chatting with whatever neighbors, cousins, aunties, or uncles who wanted to stop in from the neighborhood.
All things that would never happen again.
I paused in the lobby to let them know I wasn’t dead.
Got stuck downtown. Stayed the night. Be there in about an hour.
Their replies were instantaneous.
Lea: Are you KIDDING me? We need you here NOW! WTF have you even been doing??
Kate: Do we really want the answer to that question?
Lea: Gross. No.
Frankie: Xavier and Mike are unloading everything at the storage unit now. Nonna took all the kids so we could clean for her. Please come ASAP.
Kate: We have your stuff to take to the shop.
Frankie: I grabbed a change of clothes for you.
Lea: And soap to disinfect your cooch.
“Oh my God, disinfect your own freaking cooch,” I said a little too loudly, ignoring the suspicious-looking doorman and pausing in front of the exit to message them back that I really was on my way.
“Excuse me, miss—Joni?”
I jumped at the sound of a familiar voice. A deliciously deep, velvety smooth, come-hither voice a girl dreams about saying all manner of dirty things to her in the dark.
Please, God, no. Not this man. Not now. Not when I look like a squirrel who just got run over by a semi.
Unfortunately, my bad luck just seemed to keep flowing like the freaking Hudson River.
I swallowed and found myself looking up at a pair of glasses-framed eyes the color of the darkest espresso I would have sold my soul to sip on right now.
Right before I disappeared out of pure mortification.
First, the doctor’s office.
And now, the walk of shame.
Apparently, the universe really wanted to teach me some humility when it came to Dr. Nathan Hunt.
Fuck my life. For real.
“You havegotto be kidding me,” I muttered.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t look so…smart. So capable. And so very sexy in that way only men who don’t know it can be.
Even now, wearing probably the most boring outfit possible, Hunt looked more edible than any so-called “bad boy” I’d ever met—and Belmont was full with them. Who needed tattoos, Jordans, and a cigarette addiction when you could have sleek jeans, a blue button-up, and a North Face jacket?
I stole a quick glance at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors lining the lobby. Okay, I didn’t lookquitethe horror show I imagined. Braless and rumpled, sure, but my clothes—a pair of painted-on black jeans, a red T-shirt, black sweater, and my thrifted leather jacket—held up all right. I still had shadows of mascara smeared under my eyes, and my dark hair was tied up into a knot of glorious bedhead, but maybe I was pulling off a “devil-may-care” attitude. The beaded fringe earrings that almost touched my collarbone finished off the look.
