Page 8 of Bad Love

I swallow, thick, as if it’s my own flesh that’s pierced. "I'm notprepared."

The pen’s held out to me, but I'm drawn back to those eyes, lightened to caramel in amusement, and the mocking curve of hislips.

"Then prepareyourself."

3

Certainty’salways come easy for me. I take bets I can win…at the poker table and inlife.

Now, in a pink meeting room with a jungle wall, staring down Kimmy Schmidt—who apparently holds the key to my salvation—I’m feeling less thansure.

This morning delivered me into the world with the kind of hangover that reminds you the night before was either the best or worst of yourlife.

Took me two minutes to remember the bet I made with Nellie. It was stupid, but I’ve never lost and I’m not about tostart.

Which is why it took another three minutes to get Daisy on thephone.

She’s not the only classmate from college who built a company, but she’s the only one whose company gets people to buy shit to feel moreconnected.

Daisy sold Kendall Sullivan as some kind of guru. But the woman who’s supposed to save my ass is a full head shorter than me. If it wasn’t for her resume, and the hazel eyes radiating intelligence and awareness, I would’ve sworn I had a decade onher.

Kendall’s not hard on the eyes, but she’s dressed as if fashion causes friction. The sweater and skirt ride that elusive line between conservatively stylish and unobjectionably plain. Her oval face is pale, but the few freckles across her cheeks and nose tell me she gets outside theoffice.

Her best feature might be her red hair that stops short of her breasts. It falls in slow, simple waves that make you want to sift your fingers throughthem.

Come to think of it, her breasts aren’t bad either. They look small enough to fit in my hands, high enough I bet she’d look better naked than in thatsweater.

None of which matters because I’m here to win a bet. Of the ten thousand women I need to get off in the next ninety days? Kendall Sullivan is not one ofthem.

I tell her I have a meeting in Midtown and she can ride with me, take the car back after. On the way downstairs, I study herlegs.

It takes balls not to wear heels in New York. I wonder whether she does it to be practical or as a “fuck you” to guys andconvention.

“So, what’s in the scouting report?” I ask as she shifts into the car, clutching her notebook, plus a sleek leather backpack she insisted on grabbing on the waydown.

Those eyes turn more brown than green in the car. “Scoutingreport?”

I settle in next to her. “What’d Daisy tell you about me?” I pull the sunglasses down my nose. “Let me guess. She said I’m contagious. The life of the party.” I lean in and flash the most charming smile I own. “She said I’mreckless.”

The woman lifts her chin, and I swear that intelligent gaze goes from assessing the situation to assessingme. It has me resisting the urge to shift in myseat.

“She said you were a friend. And I don’t believe in judging people based on their past. Every day is the chance to make a newdecision.”

The reply comes out of left field, and I frown. “Meaningwhat?”

“Meaning if you don’t want to be reckless, don’t act reckless.” For the first time, her voice is level. Confident. "Now let's talk about your marketinggoals."

The limo's back seat isn't small, but neither am I. Plus, she has her bag wedged between us like a shield, her phone and the notebook on herlap.

I shift to get comfortable, my legs stretching in front of me. "One goal. Ten thousand vibes. Ninetydays."

“Is this a new product? An upgrade to a bestseller? How does it fit with your corporatestrategy?"

The questions are rattled off one afteranother.

A hint of irritation makes my back itch. But that’s not what’s bugging me, I realize, as she sets down her pen with slimfingers.

I love strong women, but I’m beginning to feel as if I’m on trial. I huff out abreath.

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