Chapter 1
1
Sloane
Networking is such a sexy word.
Not.
But that’s my goal for tonight. I arch a brow and consider my outfit in the mirror in my tiny apartment. It’s a simple black dress. The neckline isn’t too low, so I’d say this number qualifies as classy and sophisticated. It’ll do the job, which is—fingers crossed—to help me get a job.
“You look marvelous,” my roomie, Piper, declares, looking up from one of her collections of folders.
“Why, thank you. You look super hot too, poring over all your binders.”
She winks. “I won’t become the best event planner in the city if I don’t know everything about it inside out and upside down.”
Her binders contain photos of all the establishments in New York where anyone would ever want to get married or hold a party. Piper points at me. “And you won’t be a publicity superstar if you don’t get your cute butt in gear.”
I waggle my butt. “Damn, that is one fine rear,” I say, admiring my tush in the mirror.
Piper pumps a fist. “Body confidence. Own it.”
“Amen.” We smack palms.
“Also, take these.” Piper stands, scurries over to her purse that she left on the couch, and roots around in the Michael Kors knockoff. She tosses a sleeve of condoms at me.
I catch them and shoot her a you can’t be serious look. “I’m not going to need these tonight. This isn’t a pickup event. I’m going to network for job prospects.”
She shrugs. “You might go to the bone zone.”
I roll my eyes. “I won’t go to the bone zone.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist. I have faith in you. I’m betting on you going there. It’s been six months, hasn’t it?”
“Are you tracking my sex life in your planner? You’re such a pervert.”
Piper taps her temple. “It’s all up here. I track how mean you are to me each month, and it increases exponentially the longer it’s been since you’ve been laid.”
I lunge for her like I’m going to put her in a headlock. She darts away. “I am not mean. I am also not horny. I also don’t want to”—I stop and sketch air quotes—“ go to bone town . Or the bone zone. Also, why have you started saying things like bone zone ? We live in Hoboken, not a fraternity. Is this because of Axe? Or Jace? Or Dax?”
She wiggles her brows. “It’s Jax. And yes. He’s such a dude. Everything that comes out of his mouth is bro and babe . It’s great.”
I arch a brow. “Why is that great? I thought you loved precise language.”
“I do. I love it the same way I love lists and the Oxford comma.” Piper returns to her binders and flips a page. “But see, I don’t have to worry that Mr. Rugby will ever want anything more. Jax is married to the game, and he has amazing stamina.”
“Then, yo yo yo, I’m happy for you getting your brains banged out,” I say like a dude.
She chuckles as I dart into the bedroom to grab a pair of chandelier earrings. They’re sparkly, and I’m temporarily mesmerized by the prism of light they catch. “But some of us are not as sex-obsessed as you.” I return to the living room. “Sure, it’s been a while. But I’m not climbing trees or humping walls.”
Plus, when my last serious beau, Eddie, ended things unceremoniously because he suddenly decided to move to Los Angeles to hunt for work in the entertainment business, I was shocked. We’d had plans. We were an item.
I’m over him now, thank you very much. I certainly don’t miss him anymore, or long for what might have been. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to get back in the saddle. What I want—not tonight and not tomorrow, but someday—is romance. The real deal. Love.
I’m not on the hunt for it now, but I don’t need the bone zone either.
I’ll know when I’ve found the genuine article. When I meet a man so romantic I melt from his words, from his touch, from the way he listens and cares. That’s what gets me going, rather than the prospect of amazing stamina .
But honestly, I’d bet that’s what gets Piper going too. She’s so focused on work right now that she protects herself by dating guys who have zero interest in anything lasting.
Gathering my clutch purse and tucking a pink lipstick into it, I blow her a kiss. “Will you be here when I get home later?”
She looks up at the ceiling, pretending to think. “Hmm. Will I be here all by my lonesome, or will I be riding a?—”
“Okay, then!” I blurt over the details. “Go sow your wild oats, crazy girl.”
“You asked.”
“I did indeed.”
I head to the Luxe Hotel on Fifth Avenue, eager to make some work connections.
Once inside the swank ballroom, that’s exactly what I do: mingle with the crowd, chat up several executives at animal rescues, make small talk, and let them know I’m a recent graduate eager to work my way up and willing to prove myself. By the end of two hours, I have quite a stash of business cards in my purse.
My parents are both go-getters. They’re outgoing, confident types, and raised me, albeit separately, to be the same way, so I truly don’t mind this kind of networking. But after two solid hours of self-selling, I’m ready for a break, so I head to the bar to grab a drink.
Along the way, I survey the scene in the ballroom, taking in the classy guys and gals in suits and tuxes, in lovely frocks and gorgeous shift dresses, chatting and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres. Some are settling in to play table games like poker and blackjack. A karaoke contest has begun. News flash: someone already sang “Livin’ On A Prayer.”
As I tap my unpolished nails on the counter, considering the bar offerings, a voice floats over the chatter to capture me with a stunning pure tenor that croons, “Isn’t it romantic?”
Chills.
I have chills. His voice is straight from a black-and-white movie. He sings like an old-time crooner, and when I turn around, my breath catches, and yes, I nearly melt.