The Billionaire's Gamble

Chapter 1

The train brakeshard and the paper cup of water I’m carrying jolts forward in my hands.

I try desperately to correct it and succeed. Unfortunately, success here means that instead of dumping water across the lap of the gray-haired businessman glaring up at me, I instead dump it all over the front of my blouse.

Fantastic.

Less than fifteen minutes into my grand New York City adventure and I’m already soaking wet and catching the ire of the people surrounding me in the train car.

“I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” Trying not to shrink in embarrassment, I hustle toward the bathrooms. They’re full, and the line is three deep. I consider waiting, but my rolling suitcase is blocking most of the tiny aisle. I haven’t gotten a chance to store it because I haven’t even gotten to my seat yet.

One thing at a time, Evie… Step One: find seat. Step Two: sit in seat. Step Three: listen to some Taylor and get back into that “grand adventure” mindset, which was so strong on the platform and is now precarious at best.

And I suppose “Step Four” is wait for my shirt to dry.

I sling my luggage onto an empty rack. Then I dig my (thankfully) dry ticket out of my jeans pocket, note my seat number, and trudge down the aisle, eyes scanning the numbers on the rows.

23… 24… There! 25B!

My heart sinks when I see another gray-haired businessman, practically indistinguishable from the first, sitting in my seat. Are old people the only ones who take the train these days? Did I miss this memo? Maybe it was only released in Reader’s Digest.

“Excuse me, sir,” I say, waving a hand in his peripheral. The man looks distrustfully up over the cover of The Economist.

“I think this is my seat,” I say, showing him the ticket.

He glances at it and, without a word, reaches into the inside of his suit jacket and pulls out his ticket. His ticket that reads 25B in evil little black letters.

I stand there awkwardly as the man goes back to his magazine. Then, almost as an afterthought, he glances back at my soaking wet shirt.

I look down. Yep, you can definitely see my bra. Fuck.

Then the train brakes again and I’m thrown back down the aisle as if the very hand of God is wiping me aside.

Could a trip possibly get off to a worse start? I suppose maybe if killer bees were released into the car or if a rabid possum dropped onto my head or if I ran into someone I knew in middle school. I glance around fearfully. You know what? Maybe I shouldn’t list worst case scenarios lest I give the universe any bright ideas.

This trip is going bad enough as it is, and if this is just the first hour then I’m not sure what that’s implying about how the rest of the week is going to go. My optimistic side wants to believe that maybe I’m just getting all of my bad luck out of the way now. Her pessimistic twin opines that this bad luck actually started last month and is showing no signs of slowing down.

I don’t have the energy to argue with either of them. Instead I abandon all hope of sitting in my seat and head to the bar.

See, maybe I’m too much of a hopeless romantic, or maybe I’ve just seen way too many movies, but when I found out I needed to travel down from Boston to New York to pitch an advertising campaign to Madison Enterprises, I jumped at the chance to take the train. I pictured landscape rushing by as I worked on my pitch, stopping every so often to look thoughtfully out the window. At the very least I assumed I’d have a bit more leg room than on an airplane.

Nipply blouses and old men were not on my Bingo card, and the thought of another three hours of this is not looking good for my slowly developing migraine.

Unfortunately, the “bar” car is apparently also something Agatha Christie has planted in my head, Inception-style. It is not a wood-paneled scene of class and luxury. It is a snack counter with scuffed diner tables bolted to the floor. Most horrifyingly of all, there’s no liquor in sight.

“Do you serve alcohol?” I ask the attendant. He’s busy shoving bags of chips across the grimy counter toward a pack of screaming children. “And napkins,” I add.

“Alcohol is in first class only,” he replies. “As for napkins, that’ll be five dollars.”

“You’re charging for napkins?”

He ignores me as one of the unruly children chucks a bag of sour cream and onion at his head shrieking about wanting Doritos instead. It’s obvious that I’m not a priority, and the children are not helping my migraine.

I weigh my options. One — stand in line for the postage-stamp bathroom and hope there’s paper towel inside but probably ultimately have to dry off using toilet paper. Conclusion: unideal, bordering on unhygienic. Two — pay five dollars for the one thing that is free literally everywhere except on trains apparently. Conclusion: refusal on spite and principle.

Is there an option three? It doesn’t appear so.

What a nightmare. The one positive about all of this is that I’m alone and none of this will ever get back to Brent and Cheryl. Because I know for a fact that they’d both piss themselves laughing at this scene. I guess hooray for small miracles.

I leave the snack counter and head down the car as far away from the kids as possible, sink into a rather sticky booth, and pull out my phone. It’s a compulsion, one the thought of Brent brings on like a scratch that needs to be itched.

I promised myself on the platform (back when spirits were high) that I was going to stay off Instagram, at least as long as I’m in New York, maybe forever. And if I ever did go back on, the first thing I’d do is block and unfollow Brent.

My finger hovers over the app and then my fragile spirit caves. I just won’t look at Brent’s profile. I’m looking for photos of dogs and babies and sunsets. Just to cheer me up. Yeah. That’s it.

Denial gets hard to maintain as a new photo from Brent doesn’t immediately pop up. Friends from college posting pictures of their new houses… Old coworkers getting married… Random acquaintances having children in their new houses shortly after getting married…

Is everything on this app just tailor-made to make me feel bad?

Before I can debase myself fully by surrendering to the urge and going onto Brent’s profile, suddenly there he is. A blond-haired muscular guy with a cleft chin and dreamy eyes.

My heart wrenches at the sight of him. His face brings all the horrible memories of the past month rushing up to the surface.

Because Brent isn’t alone in the photo. Cheryl is with him. He’s smiling exactly the same way he had when he asked for my hand. And Cheryl is wearing the same grin she’d flashed when I’d asked her to be my Maid of Honor.

Little did I know that her joy was because I’d given her an easy excuse to spend more quality time with the groom.

Sadness at their betrayal clouds through me, momentarily distracting me from my headache. Then I see the location tag and I’m right back to anger. San Juan, Puerto Rico. The location I picked. The hotel I booked.

What kind of assholes go on someone else’s honeymoon?

Oh yeah, the kind of assholes who hook up behind the back of their best friend/girlfriend for two years. The kind of assholes who make their affair known three weeks before the wedding. The kind of assholes who told me that I was “overreacting” when I stabbed his flat screen with one of his ski poles.

Yeah, that last one wasn’t my best moment, but betrayal apparently makes a girl do some pretty unhinged things. Sue me. I suddenly didn’t have a best friend to talk me out of insanity.

The ski pole affair was regrettable, but it was better than my other plan which was to set his truck on fire. At least there common sense had won in the end. Because my ultimate payback had to be sneakier, but more devastating. I had to hurt them back just as — if not more — badly.

Of course, after moping around my parents’ house (because yes, he kept the apartment) for a few weeks, no greater plan materialized. I had to come to accept that I had just gotten screwed over by the two people I thought I loved the most in the world, and that there was nothing I could do about it.

And now they’re in Puerto Rico sitting on a stupid beach together and I’m… I’m…

I’m not going to stand for this shit.

I get up and stash my phone away. I’m picking option three.

If this is the commoner’s car, then the fancy bar car from my dreams has to be somewhere in first class.

I walk through eight cars before reaching a door that a uniformed attendant is standing next to. He’s on his phone and not paying much attention. I hang back and study him.

Okay, my shirt is mostly dry at this point at least. I’m dressed nicely, blonde hair loose and curled, makeup on point. I’d thought I was on a train ride to luxury, after all. Maybe I look first class. Maybe he won’t say anything to me if I walk in confidently.

I straighten my shoulders and stride purposefully toward the door like I’m on a catwalk — something made a bit harder by the amount of kids playing in the aisle.

Is this train just solely old men and children?

Regardless, I get to the door relatively unscathed. I reach for the handle and have pulled the door halfway open before the attendant notices me.

“Wait a minute,” he says. “I need to see a first class ticket.”

Shit. “I…” I consider lying, realize that won’t get me far, and instead admit, “I don’t have one.”

The attendant doesn’t even blink. “Would you like to upgrade?” he asks.

My answer is immediate. “Yes. Yes I would.”

He takes out a device and plugs in my order. I dutifully hand him my credit card and hope to god that it’s not bank breaking. I’ve been saving a lot of money living at home, but I’m also still making payments on a goddamn wedding dress. (A dress that was, in fact, set on fire in my parents’ backyard after a night of too much Instagram and Jack Daniels. It seems I have some dormant pyro tendencies.)

“Enjoy the rest of your trip,” the attendant says.

“Thank you,” I say as evenly as I can muster and then slip through the door before anything else can stop me.

It’s like stepping into a different universe. Gone are the tacky hotel-carpet-green shades. Gone are the suspiciously stained seats. There isn’t a child in sight.

The first class car is populated by men and women dressed nicely, sitting in comfortable leather chairs. The train even seems to be moving more smoothly. My headache, before pounding a beat on my brain like a monkey on a conga drum, disappears. Now this is more like it.

I consider sitting in my seat (which is unoccupied!) and working on my pitch, but I change my mind and head toward the bar car, this time in celebration rather than to seek a numbing agent.

The bar car is right out of my most decadent fantasies. Wood-paneled walls, brass lighting fixtures, shiny glass bottles in neat, level rows. Stools run the length of the bar and there’s only a single man sitting there. He’s wearing a suit and has his face buried in a magazine, a glass of dark liquid sitting in front of him.

The bartender is wearing a vest and bow tie, and he greets me with a smile. “What would you like?” he asks.

I’ve slipped and fallen into the lap of luxury. Ha! Take that Brent.

“Can I have a cranberry—” I pause and consider if I want a recurrence of earlier, only this time with a bright red liquid. “Actually, no. I’ll take a vodka martini.”

The bartender nods and leaves to make it. I relax onto my stool, put a foot on the rail, and smile for the first time since boarding. Okay, now this is the tone I want starting off this trip. I’m racking up all kinds of good energy that’s hopefully going to buoy me through my pitch meeting tomorrow. Madison Enterprises has a reputation for being a demanding client and they’ve already fired three different agencies for the promotion of their new cruise liner, the Seafarer, a nine-hundred-foot behemoth that’s currently docked at the Manhattan cruise terminal and has been, by all accounts, a nightmare of a project.

Is it just self-flagellation that’s prompted me to volunteer to try to snag this account for my firm? I suppose so. We’re a small but prosperous advertising agency in Boston, massively different from the high-powered firms that Madison Enterprises has hired in the past. I hope that’s a positive. It’s at least been enough to get me in the room with the CEO himself.

I’m confident in my pitch. I’ve worked hard on it, and honestly it’s been the one thing that’s provided adequate distraction from the dumpster-fire that’s been my life over the past month.

The bartender sets a gorgeous-looking martini in front of me and nods. I smile back and take a little sip.

The hairs on the back of my arms stand up. A shiver runs up my spine. My heart rate surges. But it’s not from the drink. It’s because, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I’ve noticed a man. A drop-dead gorgeous man who looks like he stepped straight out of a cologne commercial. A man who’s staring directly at me.

The martini catches in my throat and it’s all I can do to not sputter. I hope I look as calm and collected on the outside as I absolutely do not feel on the inside.

The man is the one who was sitting there when I came in, only now the magazine is not obscuring his face. He has slicked-back brown hair, cut well, and a clean-shaven face. His eyebrows are thick and masculine. His lips are as deliciously curved as his cheekbones. He’s a goddamn smoke show, and great now I’m gawking at him.

Of course, he started it.

“Hello,” I say at last, just to break the tension. It fails spectacularly. He’s still looking at me the way a panther looks at a deer, deciding whether or not he’s hungry enough to give chase.

Finally, after several long, agonizing seconds, the man stands, practically unfolding from the barstool. He’s tall, easily six foot four. The suit he’s wearing is fitted perfectly to every powerful inch of him. He walks down the length of the bar, pulls out the barstool next to mine, and sits. Up close he smells like cinnamon and whiskey, which typically brings to mind Fireball and frat houses to me, but he’s totally making it work.

“Nick,” he says.

“Evelyn,” I reply and then cringe at my own formality. “But everyone calls me Evie.”

He offers a hand and I take it. His grip is firm, his skin warm.

“I suppose you get this a lot,” he says. Those deep brown eyes are serious, contemplative.

“Get…?”

“Attention,” he says. “You’re quite striking.”

Wow. I feel myself blush. I’m not that good-looking, not enough to warrant a line like that.

“Is that your go-to?” I ask, deflecting in my awkwardness. “I’m a little disappointed, I’ll be honest.”

Now it’s his turn to be thrown. A dark eyebrow quirks. “My go-to?”

“Pickup line,” I say.

“You were expecting better?” he says. “Maybe something that starts with ‘hey girl’?”

“Exactly,” I say. “And I’m a sucker for some word play.”

“Word play?”

“Yeah, like if you’d said, ‘Hey girl. Are you good at bowling? ‘Cause you’re striking’? Now that would get you a lot further with me.”

“Is that so?” he asks. He still has a rather grave countenance about him, but a smile is finally starting to play at the corners of his mouth. “Then I’d like a second chance.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I say. “You can’t have a second chance at a first impression.”

He tilts his head toward me and says, “I don’t believe in impossible.” Then he stands and walks back to his old seat before I can say another word. He picks up his magazine and returns to reading it.

I’m confused, thrown, and more than a bit disappointed. Is that it then? I guess I shouldn’t have insulted his pickup line.

But then he glances at me out of the corner of his eye and, seeing my bewilderment, nods emphatically at my martini.

I want to smack my forehead when I realize what I’m missing. He’s not ditching me. He’s merely resetting the scene. I try not to smile as I play along, affecting the same expression I’d worn before and taking another sip of my martini, looking lazily at the bar before suddenly making eye contact with him again.

We stare at each other for a beat, and then he gives another little prompting nod. Oh right, my line.

“Hello,” I say.

He stands again. He walks to me again. And once again that cinnamon smell envelops me. We shake hands and this time his touch lingers a bit longer.

He says, “Nick.”

I say, “Evie.”

And then he says, “Hey girl. Are you a beaver? ‘Cause damn.”

The corniness of it is too much. I burst out laughing. Mysteriously sexy stranger Nick finally smiles. It’s bright and wide and makes him look deviously sexy.

I’m so thankful that my shirt dried.

“Thank you,” he says when my laughter has died. “I’ve always felt like my game was missing something. Now I know what it is.”

I snort at the idea that this guy ever has trouble picking up women, but again play along anyway. “Yes. A good pun is ideal for picking up women.”

“Is that how you met your boyfriend?” Nick asks.

A flash of Brent’s face in Puerto Rico dances before my eyes. We’d met in college when he’d thrown up on my shoes at a party. Not the greatest opener, but I guess it had worked as we were together for six years afterward.

I hesitate before answering. This is the first time I’ve been single since I was twenty-one. I still haven’t gotten used to it, especially when it wasn’t so long ago that I’d expected to be committed for life.

“Recently single, actually,” I say.

Nick shakes his head. “I’d like to meet that unlucky idiot,” he says. “How’d he let you get away?”

I dodge the truth. I’m still not a hundred percent certain how to explain the topic to strangers. I definitely don’t want Nick to pity me. I’d rather keep up the old-world illusion that I’m trying to cultivate in this luxury train car. Katherine Hepburn didn’t get left at the altar. Rita Hayworth would have laughed in the face of Instagram jealousy if that concept had even existed in the ‘40s.

“You could call it a mutual realization that we had absolutely nothing in common,” I say. “I like salsa dancing. He liked getting blackout drunk. I like romance movies. He liked… getting blackout drunk.”

“I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to miss a moment with you,” Nick says.

The frank sincerity of his words makes me feel like I’m actually in one of those old movies. “Well, darling,” I drawl. “You don’t know me. I could be just plain awful. Maybe he was drinking to get away from me.”

“Possibly,” Nick says. He sips his own drink but his eyes never leave mine. “So is it true? Are you just plain awful?”

“I’m…” I’ve wondered this very question over the past month. Am I awful? Boring? Annoying? Bad at sex? I’ve yet to receive a real answer from Brent on why he decided to blow up our entire lives. Right now I’m just going on the assumption that Cheryl has a crack rock where most women have a pussy. It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t really.

“I’m me,” I say lamely, just to answer his question. “I think I’m nice. I try to see the good in other people.”

He chuckles softly. “Then it sounds like you’re a little too nice,” he says.

“What? You don’t believe that people are good?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not in the slightest.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not living in the climactic act of a Christmas movie,” he says. “And I’m in business. Which tends to show you the reality of human nature.”

“And that is…?”

“People are calculating, self-interested, and cruel,” he says matter-of-factly.

I scoff. “You don’t really think that,” I say.

He shrugs. “Just what I’ve seen,” he replies.

“Well I’m also in business,” I say, “and I’ve worked with a lot of really great, kind people.”

Nick’s smile is teasing. “I’m guessing you work in Boston then,” he says.

“I do.”

“New York is a different world.”

I roll my eyes. “You guys from Manhattan always say that. It’s just another city. Besides, I’ve also met plenty of difficult people, and I’ve worked with some complete assholes. Hasn’t changed my outlook that much.”

Nick examines me, taking his time with his response. Then he says, simply, “I hope that’s true. It’s always a shame to see someone get disillusioned.”

“Well maybe you’re the one who’s under the illusion,” I say, somewhat crossly. What’s this guy’s deal, making sweeping statements about my level of innocence? He doesn’t know me at all.

Nick laughs in the face of my irritation. It’s a low, deep chuckle and it’s surprisingly nice to hear. It eats away at my annoyance.

“Calm down, tiger,” he says. “We’ll agree to disagree. How long are you in the city for?”

“Minimum a week, longer if I get the contract I’m pitching for,” I say.

Nick twists so that his muscular body leans against the bar. He sips at his drink. There’s a barely constrained energy that pulses from him, like a cat moments before it pounces.

“I hope you don’t get that contract then,” he says. “Because if you spend too long in this city, you might end up jaded like me.”

“Something tells me you’d be jaded if you lived in Honolulu,” I say.

His handsome face twists. “Don’t get me started on tourists.”

“And all that sun,” I add. “How would you ever brood?”

Nick tries to look offended. “Who says I brood?” he demands.

“I guarantee at least two hours a week are devoted to staring out a window while sipping a glass of Scotch,” I challenge.

His chin lifts. “Completely wrong.” A pause. “It’s actually bourbon,” he admits.

“Ha!” I say. “I knew it.”

“Okay you got me,” he says. Then his face relaxes back into contemplation as he studies me. “But now it’s my turn,” he says.

I’m suddenly nervous. This guy is unpredictable. I have no idea what he’s going to do next, but I’m not exactly complaining.

“Your turn for what?” I ask.

“For me to read you,” he says.

I giggle. “I already know myself though. Any chance I can get my fortune?”

He considers this and then grins. “I’m never tried but I suppose I can make something work. I like to believe that the spirits have always looked favorably on me.”

I can see why.

I use my olive skewer to stir the remains of my martini. “Should I pick a card?” I try.

He bites the edge of one of those perfect lips. “No, I’d rather you give me your hand.”

My stomach clenches in anticipation, and I offer him my right hand. The left still bears a slight tan from my engagement ring.

He takes it in both of his. My fingers look like matchsticks next to his; my palm like a seashell he’s happened upon. He turns it over and uses one of those thick fingers to stroke the length of my palm, tracing my lifeline top to bottom.

Oh lord, is this really happening?

“So,” he says, “what would you like to know?”

Will the handsome stranger I just met have one of those fingers inside me within the hour?I’m definitely not ballsy enough to say that though.

So instead I chicken out and ask, “Will my pitch go well on Monday?”

He considers, applying pressure with the tips of his fingers. “I’m getting… surprise.”

“Good surprise or bad surprise?”

“The spirits aren’t elaborating,” he says.

“Wait, are spirits communicating with you or is it in my palm?”

He leans closer, close enough so that his lips are mere inches from my ear. “I wouldn’t look for logic in any of this,” he breathes.

Then Nick leans back, letting go of my hand, much to my disappointment (though I do seem to be able to breathe a little better now that we aren’t connected).

“How confident are you in your pitch?” he asks.

“Eh,” I say. “I mean, I am from Boston so who can say for sure? How will I hold up in the face of real businesspeople? I might just break down weeping in the face of their cruelty.”

Nick laughs. “I won’t go back on what I said, but I suppose I shouldn’t drop my pessimistic philosophy on a complete stranger, even if it’s true. I just came from a rather unfortunate meeting, and it’s affected my mood somewhat.”

“Ah a meeting. So you admit that some business is done in Boston.”

“Nope. This wasn’t for work. My younger brother goes to a boarding school in the city. I was meeting with the headmaster.”

I pull a face. “That sounds… unpleasant.”

“Welcome to my world. Jack has been kicked out of pretty much every decent school in New York. I thought that maybe sending him out of the city would help things, but he’s up to the same bullshit in Boston.” He shakes his head.

“How old is he?”

“About to turn eighteen.”

“Rough age,” I say.

“They all are,” he says. “Though it is a relief that he doesn’t have shit on me when I was that age.”

The conversation has moved from flirty banter to a more serious tone. But still my martini is pleasantly affecting my state of mind and just looking at Nick is a mood booster, like being in the same room as a particularly impressive work of art. I cross my legs and risk a glance at his while he takes a sip. His thighs are thick in his dark gray suit pants. I’ll bet he never skips leg day.

“Lemme guess,” I say, ripping my attention away from unsuitable places and back to the conversation. “Prep school bully?”

He shakes his head. “Guess again.”

“Football player with a chip on his shoulder?”

“Closer,” he says. “The chip on the shoulder was definitely there. But no organized sports for me. I couldn’t stand anyone telling me what to do.”

“And nothing much has changed,” I venture.

He grins that devilish grin. “Who knows,” he says. “Nobody dares to try anymore.” He cocks his head at me and says, “And I would venture to say that you were a student athlete.”

“Cheer,” I say. “And yes that’s a real sport.”

He raises his hands playfully in defense, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Wasn’t going to claim otherwise,” he says. “Though I would have thought a nice girl like you would have been more into yoga. Or maybe cross country.”

My mouth twists. “You say ‘nice’ so disdainfully,” I say. I feel my earlier annoyance returning. I’m not entirely sure why I’m lingering on this. Why not keep the banter going? But there’s a small part of me (helped along by the booze) that doesn’t care for this implication that I’m naive. Though maybe if I were more jaded I might not have been so blindsided by Brent and Cheryl’s betrayal.

“I won’t apologize,” he says mildly.

“Of course not,” I say. “I suppose you think apologies are weakness.”

“They are,” Nick says. “And just plain bad strategy. Apologies put the ball in the other guy’s court. You’re at their mercy while they decide whether or not to accept or reject it.”

“Whereas bullheadedness guarantees bad feelings,” I say.

“There are bad feelings either way,” he says. He cocks an eyebrow. “Remember the original point?”

“Ah yes, almost everyone is a secret jerk, and those of us who aren’t are stupid.”

“Not stupid, just naive.”

There’s that word. I’m not naive. Niceness isn’t weakness. And even a cynic like Nick wouldn’t have known if his fiancé was fucking his best friend.

Right?

I turn my body away from him, toward the bar, visions of Brent and Cheryl dancing in my head. The annoyance is fully back now, overwhelming the erotic feelings that arose from the palm reading. Nick is charming, funny, and hot, but god what a viewpoint.

“I’m sensing that I’m losing you,” he says. Most guys at this point would be getting defensive or wilting under my encroaching scorn. Nick looks just as relaxed as he had been when he’d first approached me.

“I just think that’d be a pretty crappy way to go through life,” I say. “Always expecting the worst.”

“It’s been justified,” he says.

Okay, now I’m hearing just the mildest hint of defensiveness.

I turn back toward him. “Look around you.”

Nick does. It’s exaggerated without being mocking.

“And what do you see?”

“A beautiful girl sitting at a bar,” he responds immediately.

Again that frank tone. He’s stating a fact as blasély as one would state the time. But there’s a teasing, knowing glint in his deep brown eyes. A suggestion, one that I’m invited to comment on with each statement of his apparent attraction to me.

I fight the heat rising to my cheeks and I do comment, but probably not in the way he wanted me to. “I meant the first class bar you’re sitting in,” I say. I nod at the mirror behind the bar. “Or how about that reflection? You’re hot, Nick. You look healthy. You’re obviously wealthy. How are you ‘justified’ that life is shit when you’ve hit the standard-of-living jackpot?”

The smile has dropped off Nick’s face. The teasing glint is gone. The initial attraction that pulsed between us is sucked up by a vacuum of irritation that is now coming from both sides.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Nick says. “You think you can just glance at my appearance and deduce all there is to know? Just because I don’t believe the world is all sunshine and daisies?”

“No, because you, Nick, have a bad attitude. And that’s going to set the mood for your life. Not the city of New York, not the business world, definitely not other people.”

I’m really going in on this guy. Maybe it’s the past month of having to smile and nod and pretend that everything is just perfectly lovely while my ex-fiancé fucks my best friend. Actually. No. It’s definitely that. I’m not naive, dammit. Just because my ex and this sexy, irritating stranger are assholes doesn’t mean everyone in the world is.

I will not fall into misery and pessimism just because every cell in my body wants to.

Nick stares at me hard for a moment, a muscle in his jaw working. I glare coolly back. He stands and at first I think he’s about to leave without another word, but then he pauses and turns back to me.

“Well, you’ve just confirmed my theory,” he states. He drains the rest of his drink, places it deliberately on the bar without breaking eye contact, and strides past me. I get a little satisfaction from the way he slams the train door shut.

So I guess flirty banter with a handsome stranger isn’t how I’m destined to ride into New York. No, destiny instead has fated me for an argument with a sexy stranger, culminating in bad feelings all around.

Oh well. Par for the course, I suppose. I push my irritation down and pull out my laptop. This week isn’t about one-night stands anyway. It’s about work. And I should get focused on that if I want to make a good impression on Monday.

After all, first impressions are incredibly important.