by Monroe, Max
In an effort to avoid getting sucked into a steaming crater of pity and despair, I decide it’s best not to tell her just how accurate she is and focus on complaining instead.
“Why do I have to go to New York for an interview for a job in New Orleans anyway?”
“Because your potential boss is a busy guy, and that’s where he’s going to be. I used my connections to get you this thing for a reason. Turner Properties is the real deal. A Vanderturn hotel in New Orleans is a big deal, especially if you get to design it,” she says with a little smile, but that quickly vanishes when she continues her train of thought. “And have to? You act like you’re going to war. It’s New Year’s Eve in New York, for shit’s sake. You should be excited!”
“You’re right. New York does sound amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m just—”
“I know.” Her eyes turn soft and understanding. “I know what’s riding on this, and I know it’s weighing you down a bit.”
Weighing me down a bit? If the stress of my financial situation gets any heavier, I might actually become my own gravitational force.
“If this doesn’t go well,” I say on a near whisper, “I’m not really sure what I’m going to do.”
Because I don’t. If this job interview isn’t a success, I honestly have no idea what my next move will be. And that is terrifying.
“It’s going to go well! You’re the right person for the job. There’s no way he won’t see that.”
I chew my lip.
“As long as you bring sweet Greer and leave the bitch at home…”
I feign a gasp.
Emory’s lips crest up into a smile. “Oh, come on, put a smile on that pretty face. This is going to be the best trip of your life! Everything is about to come up roses! I can feel it!”
I just stare at her.
“Smile, Greer.”
I half-ass an attempt at a smile, but it’s brittle and forced and probably looks like Chandler Bing’s engagement photos.
“Repeat after me,” she says. “I am a brilliant designer.”
I furrow my brow, and Emory nudges my arm with one of her pointy fucking elbows.
“Ow.” I rub at my arm, but she ignores her assault completely.
“Say it, Greer. Say, I am a brilliant designer.”
“I am a brilliant designer.” The words come out monotone and unconvinced, but my newfound motivational speaker isn’t deterred.
“Say, I am going to nail this interview.”
“I am going to nail this interview.”
“But before I go to said interview, I’m going to remove this resting bitch face and put on my strong, confident woman face.”
I can’t not smirk at that. “That is incredibly specific.”
“Just say it.”
I oblige and silently pray that Tony Robbins will leave my best friend’s body so I can attempt to enjoy this first-class trip to New York.
“Who’s the best interior designer in New Orleans?”
I stare at her, but she threatens to dig one of her pointy elbows into my skin again.
My eyes roll heavenward. “Me.”
“Who’s the best woman for this job?”
“Me.”
“Who is going to flaunt her perfect tits around New York and land herself a kick-ass job and nail a hot guy all in one weekend?”
“Me…wait…what?”
“Don’t you worry, sweet cheeks, no one at Turner Properties will be able to resist you.” Emory winks. “Now, let’s go catch our flight to your future success!”
Minus the nailing a hot guy part, I hope she’s right.
Because, fuck, I need this job.
Greer
After two-and-a-half hours on a plane, an hour-long slog in a death taxi—without mention of horses, mind you—a long line to check in at the Vanderturn Manhattan hotel, and eleventy-billion interview pep talks from Emory, I’m on the very brink of insanity.
My skin feels tight, my hair hurts, and my eyeballs seem to be operating independently from each other.
Apparently, I’m not the only one to notice.
When the bellman leaves to head up to our rooms with our luggage, Emory gets bossy and points in my face.
“Go work out. You need some Elle Woods thinking in your life. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t murder their husbands.”
I scoff and tilt my head to escape the virtual laser beam shooting out of her finger. “Grumpy people without husbands don’t murder their husbands either.”
“You’re going to have one someday, I’m telling you. So, you should start training now.”
“Training? To be happy?” I frown. “Isn’t that the sort of thing that should come naturally?”
“For you?” She snorts. “Probably not. You have a nasty habit of being a miserable shrew, and habits are hard to break.”
My sigh is heavy as I grab the tops of her slender arms and squeeze affectionately. “You really say the nicest things.”
She ignores me and shoves me in the shoulder.
“Go. Change out of last night’s clothes—”
I grin contemptuously.
“And sweat out all of that toxic energy you’re carrying around. I’m going to need you to be in a better mood when I introduce you to Quincy.”
“Ah, the boyfriend,” I hum. “You’re finally done hiding him?”
My best friend has been dating the illustrious Quincy for a few months, and this is the first time she’s even mentioned introducing us. The guy also lives in New Orleans, yet she’s waited until we’re in New York for the big meet-and-greet. It’s like she’s afraid I’m going to do something crazy and doesn’t want me on my home turf or something.
“I haven’t been hiding him,” she corrects. “Just making sure he’s good and hooked before you scare him off.”
I plaster a sugary-sweet smile onto my lips. “I resent your insinuation that I’m anything but pleasant and easy to get along with.”
“If by resent you mean accept and acknowledge its validity, okay.”
“Hmm…” I pause and tap my chin pointedly. “Webster’s must have come out with a new version I’m unaware of, but I’ll go with it for your sake.”
She subtly applies a sheer shade of imaginary lipstick with her middle finger.
“Quince and I will meet you at the party at nine.”
Son of a bitch. The New Year’s Eve “Mask-erade.” Obviously, I’d blocked out the fact that this trip includes a social engagement where an actual grown-ass human decided it would be a good time to take a traditional masquerade-themed party and sleaze it up by making the masks be made out of rubber and celebrity likenesses instead of exquisite lace and beading. But Emory’s reminder ensures I can’t ignore it now.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to dive into a long-winded, snarky rant about it.
But I suck it up and remind myself of the silver lining.
A New Year’s Eve party equals alcohol, Greer.
“Be on time, please,” Emory adds, but the please completely contradicts the stern, motherlike tone in which she delivers it.
“As if I’m ever anything else.”
Her responding scoff echoes around us.
“Just enjoy yourself,” she says. “Have a positive attitude for once. If you do, I guarantee it’ll be great.”
“You got it, Mom.”
“Hey,” she says, and her eyes turn soft as she steps forward to wrap me up in a hug. “You’re my best friend, and all I want is for you to be happy. I know I’m pushy, but it’s only because I love you.”
I hug her back. “Love you too, E. Even when you sound like you’re gearing up for a career in direct sales.”
She snorts and lets me go with amusement shining in her eyes.
“Working out before a party gets results, people! Four out of five farm animals can’t be wrong!” I use a far too high-pitched voice to mimic hers. “Happy people m
ake happy choices, and this tea is the answer to happiness at least once a day! Your tits will be perky and your energy rejuvenated! Try the gel pads under your eyes for a fresh day feel!” I finish off my little act with a set of a jazz hands and a cheeky grin.
“I feel like you might have exaggerated a bit there…”
“Nah.” I grin and shake my head. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.”
Emory rolls her eyes and laughs at the same time. “I’ll see you tonight at the party.”
She departs without another word—probably in an effort to avoid another smartass comeback or impromptu jazz hands—and leaves me to my own devices.
Once she’s gone, the interior designer in me kicks in, and my surroundings become my companion.
And let me tell you, she’s a real bitch.
The lobby is ostentatious in its design, and I’m practically offended by the maroon and green color scheme. Honestly, even Santa Claus would be offended, and that jolly mothershucker is all about the green and red.
The décor is more pretentious confusion than anything else. And if I have to come face-to-face with one more gilded sailboat painting or ornate statue, I swear on everything, I might puke.
Jesus. These people are never going to want me to do the design work for their New Orleans hotel. We have completely different tastes.
My style is what the design world would call comfortable minimalism. Not minimalism like Kim and Kanye’s morgue-like mansion, but warm light, rich textures, and clean lines. My designs revolve around making a space feel light and airy yet so warm and cozy you feel like you’re cocooned inside of a womb.
A space you not only want to look at, but you want to live in, be in, thrive in, too.
But this? This flashy and ostentatious gilded-clutter of a design scheme is giving me a headache.
If this space is a womb, I’m smack-dab in the center of Satan’s uterus.
Discouraged again, I head for the elevator, intent on ordering a hamburger the size of my face and devouring it like the classy lady I am—wearing nothing but a bathrobe while lounging in bed, mind you—when I get to my room.
When the elevator door opens, I step inside and turn around, only to realize I’ve been followed in by what must be a supermodel convention.
The five women are tall, slender, and artfully put together. Sexy heels. Sexy dresses. Perfect hair. Perfect nails. Perfect lashes and lips. They are ready to do it up New Year’s Eve-style in New York City.
And standing beside them is me—a woman wearing wrinkled clothes, who stinks of airplanes and bad news.
I’m basically the cover model for pathetic right now.
And it’s that bleak thought that sparks something inside of me.
Emory’s right.
If I have any chance of going into that interview in two days with an attitude even slightly better than the Grim Reaper, I need to shake it up.
Make different choices. Get some endorphins or whatever shit Elle Woods has, and give myself a chance to turn it around.
I have tonight and all day tomorrow to get myself in order. Get my mind right. Get my confidence up.
In terms of time, it’s not a lot.
You better get your ass in gear, girlfriend.
The elevator slows to a stop and announces its arrival at the twentieth floor, and I move past the flawless women, out of the cart, and toward my hotel room without looking back.
This isn’t a time to dwell; it’s a time to take action.
And my first New York action? Throw on some workout gear, figure out where in the hell the hotel gym is located, and get some damn endorphins all up in my bloodstream.
You got this, Greer.
It only takes five minutes inside the hotel gym to realize why my original plan was to eat a hamburger in bed.
I do not got this.
I’m not good at working out, I’ve never been good at working out, and I’ll never be good at working out.
I don’t know what to do with the equipment, and it doesn’t know what to do with me.
Clearly, it’s been designed for people with half a foot more height and fifty percent more muscle, and even on the lowest of settings, I fumble my way through biceps curls like an uncoordinated inchworm.
I can barely reach the handles, so I have to kind of stoop to get in position, but the newly formed curve of my spine makes me have to arch and wiggle to complete the curl. If it weren’t for my kick-ass Metallica T-shirt, I might start to worry that I look foolish.
The ten-pound weight clanks as I drop it the inch and a half I managed to lift it in the first place, and I stand up to find a different machine. Surely there’s something in here I can operate without having a special license.
I find some kind of seated thing with weights on one end and a padded face rest on the other. I sit, lay my face down, and attempt to slide my legs underneath the weighted bar. But it’s completely awkward and uncomfortable, and I start questioning what in the fuck this thing is even supposed to do.
Just before I give up completely, a throat clears deeply beside me, and I look up to see a far too muscular man staring down at me in confusion. “Uh…wow…I didn’t realize you could use it that way…”
Huh?
I nearly ask him what he’s talking about, but his actions answer any and all questions I might have.
He sits down on the machine beside mine—an identical machine to mine—and it’s then I realize the face rest is not a face rest.
It’s a seat. For asses.
A seat for sweaty, workout asses.
Jesus Christ. I shudder and disentangle myself from the machine.
“You okay?” Arnold Schwarzenegger’s long-lost brother asks, but I just nod off his question and put some much-needed distance between us.
Also, I scrub my face with the hand towel I brought down from my room like it’s a fucking Brillo pad capable of removing the ball sweat that’s probably found itself a home in my pores.
Note to self: take one thousand scalding-hot showers tonight.
With a deep inhale, I try to regain some of the pride I lost back there to Mr. Muscles and peruse the room until I find a machine that’s labeled with instructional pictures to boot.
Hip. Abduction.
Do I need aliens to use this thing?
Against my better judgment, I study the pictures and peptalk myself into sitting down on the seat and swing my legs over to the inside of the knee pads.
No face-to-butt-sweat mistakes happening here, folks!
The weight is set on one hundred and fifty pounds from the person before me, and it makes me wonder if Thor is staying at this hideous hotel too.
I pull out the pin and put it on forty instead.
After a quick test push with my legs, the setting seems doable, so I take out my phone and start scrolling through it to set up some music to accompany me.
Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I need. Some workout jams.
Of course, once I’m on it, I get distracted by Instagram, and five minutes go by before I realize I’m sitting on a machine, not a couch, and the purpose here is to do something other than lounge.
I glance up from my phone and scan the room, wondering slightly if anyone knows how long I’ve been sitting here. Mr. Muscles has moved on to a new machine, but a different guy across the room makes eye contact and smirks.
Busted.
Normal human decency dictates he should let me off the hook and go about his day, but this fit, Adonis-looking, sweat-covered, brown-haired, green-eyed—good God, he’s attractive—man apparently has no manners.
Shit.
His sleeveless white T-shirt clings to his tanned body as he strides my way, and his athletic shorts conform to a muscular set of thighs and ass.
I look everywhere but at him, fiddling with the machine as though I’m doing something productive, but he still doesn’t get the hint.
Raspy and firm, the clearing of his throat sounds right next to me.
I
look up as innocently as I can manage and pull out my earbuds as though I had music playing.
“Um, hi,” I say with a cute little manufactured laugh. “I’ll be done in just a second.”
He laughs too, but his seems genuine and undeniably directed at me. “If you keep up your current pace, I think it’s going to be a little longer.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on,” he says good-naturedly—the prick. “You’re just pretending to work out.”
Oh no, he did not just say that….
“I’m not pretending to work out,” I deny. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
He nods knowingly.
“And setting up my music,” I continue.
He hums.
“I’m just about to catch my stride.”
“Sure you are.” He calls bullshit with his smug, green-as-fuck eyes, and for the briefest of moments, they glance down at my chest and my legs before meeting my gaze again. “But there are people who would like to really use it, so if you’re done…”
What. The. Fuck.
Who does this guy think he is?
“Are you always this rude?” I question, and his green eyes lighten a bit.
“All right, you’re right. I’m really not trying to be a dick,” he says and runs a hand through his hair.
Should it really take that much effort not to be a dick?
“Let’s start over…” He pauses and pushes a small smile to his full, kissable lips. “How are you enjoying the hotel?”
Start over? How about let’s never have started at all?
Still annoyed, I don’t censor my answer. “It’s…swell.”
He laughs at first, but when I raise an eyebrow in contention, he frowns. “You don’t like it?”
“Maybe ugly décor and a whole buttload of pretention are good for some people, but not for me.”
“Ugly décor? Really?”
How can he be shocked by this? Anyone with eyes could see the design flaws here.
“Are you kidding? I feel like I’m in my ninety-year-old grandmother’s living room, except it’s a waking nightmare and I’m about to be eaten alive by the curtains.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s timeless.”