Chapter 6
PIP
The sun streams onto my face, forcing my eyes open.
For a moment, I’m disoriented—this isn’t my cramped bedroom with its vintage fashion posters.
Instead, floor-to-ceiling windows showcase Manhattan’s glittering skyline, sunlight bouncing off endless glass towers.
The low hum of a coffee grinder drifts in from somewhere nearby.
I push myself up on my forearms, the silk sheets sliding against bare skin.
Fragments of last night flood back…
Zaza dragging me to that club.
Some creep getting handsy.
The gorgeous DJ who rescued me and then made incredible love to me.
A shadow fills the doorway, and there he is.
Snickers.
Devastatingly handsome in low-slung pajama pants, carrying a silver breakfast tray.
“Coffee, madam?” His voice carries that hint of amusement I remember from last night.
“Yes, please,” I manage, tugging the sheet higher over my naked body as he approaches.
He places the tray on a stand beside the bed. On it rests a silver carafe of coffee, orange juice, and what looks like the perfect croissant.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me how active I was last night.
“I didn’t clutter the tray with cream. Only sugar. Both white and brown Turbinado for my adorable little sugar freak," he says, pouring black coffee into a delicate cup for me.
“You remembered...”
His smile is slow, intimate. “I learned a lot about you last night, Miss Pip.”
“Who’s Pip? My name is Pollyanna."
“Pip suits you better.” He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I catch his clean, expensive scent. “Small but fierce.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Pip! The name sounds like that projectile in badminton. What’s it called—a birdie?”
“Shuttlecock,” he corrects.
We both laugh at the absurdity of discussing badminton while I’m naked in his bed.
“How does an international DJ know about badminton?” I ask, eyes raised over the rim of my coffee cup.
“I know about a lot of things.”
His fingers brush my shoulder, sending a delicious volt of electricity through my skin.
“Including how magnificent last night was.”
I catch his fingers, stilling them.
I’m not used to this. One-night stands with celebrity DJs aren’t exactly my style.
But last night felt like so much more. I swear we had a genuine connection.
The unspoken question hovers between us—what happens now?
Instead, I ask, “So what’s your day look like? You must have rehearsals... or whatever you music people call them.”
He shrugs, all casual grace. “I’m between gigs. I bounce between Ibiza and Saint-Tropez in summer, Berlin and Madrid in winter. I go with the flow.”
I push down the twinge of disappointment. Was last night just an instance of his ‘going with the flow?’ Had I read more into our liaison than he intended?
“Are you from New York originally?” I force myself to ask to fill the silence.
“I have roots here,” he says vaguely. “You?”
“Lower East Side girl. Grew up with my aunt—she’s an amazing artist.” Pride creeps into my voice. “I’m in the city now, sharing a place with an NYU student.”
“But you’re not studying?”
I shake my head. “Vintage fashion is my life. No degree could teach me what I learn by hunting through thrift stores.”
His phone buzzes. “Man, who the hell is calling me so early?"
Taking out his phone, he grimaces at the caller ID.
"Would you mind if I take it? My pal's been super depressed lately. I don't want him to feel that I'm blowing him off. And I'll be quick, I promise."
"Okay, sure."
He gives me a thumbs up as he walks out of the bedroom.
As soon as he’s gone, I check my phone. I find a flood of texts from Zaza studded with flame emojis.
OMG girl, did DJ Hotness make you forget your own name? Need ALL the details!
Smiling, I shoot back a 'thumbs up' emoji response.
Then I move from the bed to freshen myself in the bathroom down the hall.
But en route, I pass by what must be Snickers’ home office. The door is closed, but I can hear him speak.
I feel a twinge of guilt to eavesdrop, but I can't resist hearing what he might say about me.
That's what guys do, right? Boast about their conquests.
Snickers has the kind of booming voice that matches his larger-than-life personality.
It's immediately clear he's talking about me when he tells his pal how he saved me. There's a short gap while his friend responds, but then I hear Snickers’ booming voice again.
"No, no, you're wrong. It was a fun night, that's all. She's a great girl. But I'm not breaking off from my vow."
Vow? What vow? This apartment has 'bachelor pad' written all over it. Snickers can’t be married. Or could he?
I dress quickly. I must vanish before he gets off his call and charms me into staying.
No way will I be another pin on his global party map.
As I rush through the living room, my gaze catches on a gleaming silver frame.
Inside is a professional photograph of a beautiful dark-haired woman. Moving closer, I read the inscription:
Eternally yours, Kellie.
My stomach twists.
Who's Kellie? Groupie, girlfriend, or wife?
I don't even cast a glance back as I slip out, leaving the memory of last night untarnished.
Sometimes magic is best kept to just one perfect night.