Chapter 6
Lior
The bespeckled guy from the park was standing on the other side of the appetizer table from me. Only I now realized with horror that he wasn’t just any guy. He was Graham Forrester, author of my favorite novels… and that article in the Brooklyn Tribune. The one that painted me as a crazy person.
It’s Mr. Meet-Poop himself.
The article had started off as sweet, lulling the reader in with descriptions of our little neighborhood, Prospect Park, his dog Bronte…
before it quickly moved on, describing our encounter, with me taking a starring role as the childish woman who threw a tantrum over a little fecal matter before stomp/scuffing away.
I mean, I was used to starring roles, but for Prada – not poop.
It had been embarrassing to read. And he’d absolutely blown my reaction out of proportion.
Yes, I’d been mad. Yes, I’d yelled. But there were signs all over the park and the neighborhood about picking up after your pets.
I’d noticed the dipshit hadn’t said much about his part in the whole thing.
Hadn’t offered any explanation for letting his dog crap on the pavement and walking away.
Mr. Author Man had turned all the attention on me, making himself out to be cute.
Innocent. The victim. And as if he’d done no wrong.
And now here he was, standing on the other side of the table from me, looking annoyingly sexy with his glasses, whiskers, wavy, dark hair, and Armani t-shirt.
Dick.
He held my gaze as he exaggeratedly reached out and took a fourth mac-n-cheese bite.
“There are other people here, you know,” I said, the amusement now gone from my voice. But if he was embarrassed by taking more than his fair share of food, he didn’t show it.
“I didn’t realize you policed other things besides poo,” he said, moving to grab two caprese skewers and then pausing to make sure I was watching as he grabbed a third.
My chest rose as I inhaled, preparing to set this guy straight once and for all.
“Hey!”
I deflated a little as I turned to see the woman of the hour grinning from ear-to-ear behind me, her cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. I threw a smile on my face and gave her a giant hug.
“Congratulations!” I said. “You happy, tipsy, or a lot of both?”
“Both, of course!” she said. “I’m so glad you could make it.
I wasn’t sure. I know you’re not often in town—” Her gaze strayed to the other side of the table.
“Graham!” She let go of me and hurried to him, throwing her arms around him and nearly making him drop his plate of food, much to my annoyance. “You came!”
“Of course I came,” he said. “I’d never hear the end of it if you came to Brooklyn and I didn’t make your event.”
She extricated herself and then looked from Graham to me.
“Do you two know each other?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” Graham said.
“No,” I said at the same time.
“Oh my gosh! How have two of my favorite people in the world never crossed paths?”
“We got lucky?” I muttered.
Jessa didn’t hear me, but Graham certainly heard something, his pale eyes flashing towards me as he smiled and popped the entirety of a mac-and-cheese bite in his mouth.
“Graham Forrester,” Jessa said. “New York Times bestselling author seven times over, meet Lior Flynn, world renowned fashion model and icon.” She turned to me.
“Graham and I met when our first books debuted and we’ve been rooting for each other ever since.
” She turned to Graham. “Lior and I met at the University of Washington when she and I and her best friend Addie shared a dorm room. Until Addie decided she wanted to be a veterinarian and Lior was discovered and moved to New York. She’s actually an amazing wri—”
“Jessa,” I interrupted, pointing behind her. “I believe they’re looking for you.”
She turned to see two women putting stacks of her new book on a table. “Shoot. I have to go sign. Are you guys going to stay a while? We should hang out. Get drinks afterwards?”
I looked to Graham. There was no way I was sitting and drinking with this man who one, clearly hated me, and two, had written a horrifyingly embarrassing article about me and poop. I couldn’t imagine he had any interest in spending time with me either.
“I have an early shoot,” I said, easily selling the oft told lie. “I should really get home soon. But only after you sign a book or two for me.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Graham?”
“I wouldn’t miss having drinks with you.”
The way he said it made it sound like I obviously was the worse friend for not staying. I kept myself from rolling my eyes. Suck up.
As Jessa hurried away, I didn’t even look at Graham when I said, “The gentlemanly thing to do would’ve been to bow out.”
“The friendly thing to do would’ve been to not lie and go have a drink with your friend.”
He looked pleased by his retort, giving me a smug little smile.
I turned and walked slowly around the table, stopping inches from him. He looked startled and started to back away but then held his ground, as if trying to prove he was undaunted.
I lowered my lashes and inhaled so that my breasts rose and fell, nearly touching him. I could feel the heat from his body and for a moment I forgot what I was doing. He smelled amazing and, fuck me, he was even hotter up close. But then I eyed his plate of food. Smiling softly, I looked up at him.
“You’re probably right,” I said. “But at least I know proper party etiquette.”
With that, I took one of the mac-and-cheese bites from his plate, peeled the paper off, and took a slow bite, my eyes watching his as he stared at my mouth. I turned on my heel then and walked away, satisfied when I saw him staring after me in the reflection of the bar’s window.
I stayed for another hour, buying three books and standing in line to have them signed for me, Addie, and one for Katya, who wouldn’t read it, but would put it on her bookshelf and post it all over social media because she liked to look well-read.
While I mingled with some of the other guests I knew, I kept an eye on Graham, tracking his movements so we didn’t accidentally run into each other again.
I was curious about his friendship with Jessa, who was one of the most genuinely nice people I’d ever met, and had no idea how she could be friends with someone who was so full of himself.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before in some of the interviews I’d watched of him.
But after his attack on me in a public newspaper, it was as clear as day – and I for one was going to do everything possible to make sure we never crossed paths again.
The following morning I woke early and ambled down the stairs to the kitchen, leaning on the counter as I waited for the espresso machine to work its magic.
I then carefully carried my mug to the sofa where I sat and promptly spilled coffee on my new Calvin Klein pajama top that had arrived with a dozen other pieces from the designer two days before.
“Another one bites the dust,” I muttered, pulling off the top and taking it straight to the laundry room where I sprayed it with stain fighter and dropped it into the washing machine. When I was back on the couch I picked up my laptop to start my usual coffee and word game routine.
But my eyes kept wandering to Jessa’s new book perched on the corner of the coffee table, reminding me of my encounter with Graham Forrester the night before.
Graham. Forrester.
Graham-Let-My-Dog-Poo-All-Over-the-Park Forrester
What were the odds? And how had I never seen him as such a pompous ass that he couldn’t be deigned to pick up after his sweet dog?
I wonder if he even normally walked the dog like he sometimes claimed in his articles.
Around the neighborhood my ass. Probably half the mentions in the column hadn’t even happened.
I had been mildly horrified by my shouting in the park that morning while he’d just stood there staring at me with his old dog by his side, forlornly looking up at me with those big brown eyes.
I didn’t love making a spectacle of myself and, until I’d read his article, hadn’t remembered a word I’d said.
I’d barely been keeping it together in that moment, having just gotten the news about Addie’s accident.
The incident hadn’t even registered in my brain seconds after it had happened.
I’d just turned and – as appetizer-hog Graham had so kindly noted in his article – stomp/scuffed away.
Until I’d found myself suddenly running, tears streaming down my face.
I’d had to stop, breathless and blinded at the corner to wipe my eyes.
Someone had asked if I was okay. It wasn’t until I was on the plane to Seattle a few hours later that pieces of the morning came back to me.
Words like, “irresponsible dolt” and “elitist canine snob”.
“You don’t even deserve that beautiful dog! ” I’d shouted.
To read how I’d behaved was humiliating.
I felt ashamed. But also pissed. How convenient for him to take my misery and fear and splash it in the local paper for others to laugh at.
I could imagine the responses he’d gotten.
Probably even from some of my own neighbors, laughing and making fun of the “girl with the pearl colored…”
“Dammit,” I said, realization dawning as I looked across the room to where my now easily recognizable headphones were lying on the kitchen island. “Now I have to get new headphones.”
Goddamn his cleverness with words. It was why I’d always loved his writing.
Had devoured each and every one of his books, dissecting phrases, reading the books he’d used for references.
It was why I had savored his Sunday articles.
He had a way of seeing things and stating them that made you think of them in a whole new way.
“It’s like he can see into my soul,” I’d said to Addie over the phone last year after waxing poetic about an intricate paragraph in his last book.
I stared up at my bookshelves and found the line-up of his novels where they sat beside other long-loved favorites, a framed picture of Addie and me, and a small metal Space Needle I’d bought and taken with me before moving to New York.
Peering at his name lined up on my shelf, I gave him a one finger salute.
An hour later I was dressed in my usual baggy sweats ensemble, a baseball hat on my head, one of the numerous pairs of expensive headphones (in black) I’d been gifted from brands wanting me to be seen wearing their product.
Unable to wear my favorite beat-up sneakers, the one still marred with poo and sitting on my front porch, I grimaced as I slid my feet into one of the many pairs Nike had sent me over the years.
They were perfectly comfortable and incredibly cute with their seventy’s orange and powder blue color scheme; they just weren’t the beloved worn-in pair I’d had since leaving Seattle at nineteen.
I glared down at the pretty blue shoes, opened the door, and walked down the front steps.
At the sidewalk I stopped, an image of Graham at the book launch party appearing in my mind.
The way his blue eyes had flashed fire when he’d recognized me.
The way the short sleeves of his shirt that had stretched over biceps that clearly had weekly sessions with weights.
The slightly mussed hair… the Clark Kent glasses…
I clenched my fists, infuriated with my brain for having tracked anything attractive about the man. Taking in an angry breath, for the first time in the nine years I’d lived here, instead of taking a right and heading toward the park, I took a left.