All the Frogs in Manhattan
Carrie Aarons
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Carrie Aarons
Copyright © 2017 by Carrie Aarons
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing done by Proofing Style.
Cover designed by Okay Creations.
To all of the jerks who broke our hearts and gave us hilarious material, this one is for you.
Author’s Note
I know that some of the New York City events in this novel won’t be factually correct, or fall on the historically accurate date in which they typically fall on. For the purposes of this story, I needed to change the timing on certain happenings or occasions. I hope that doesn’t detract from your reading and following Gemma and Oliver’s journey.
And if it does, I’ll buy you an ice cream.
Chapter One
Gemma
Did you know that it takes three times the effort to wear high heels on any given day?
I do. I've calculated it down to a science. And there are three factors as to why these goddamn death contraptions make us the weaker sex by simply sliding a toe into them.
First of all, you must navigate in high heels. I swear, they design cities with footwear land mines installed purely to torture women. Curbs, subway grates, cellar doors. And cobblestones? Fucking forget it.
Then we have to worry about weather. Going out in rain? Wear a pair of stilettos with traction on the bottom, or you'll slide face first into the pavement, giving the big old Apple a flash of ass.
Third, the time added to a journey to account for said foot destroyers. When I wear the fuckers, I have to plan to leave my apartment exactly thirteen and a half minutes early to arrive at work at a still acceptably late fifteen minutes. Mind you, I arrive there after my twenty-seven minute walk with aching feet, a possibly amputated pinky toe and a begrudging attitude.
But here I am, Gemma Morgan, strolling into work exactly twenty-one minutes late, in my five-inch crocodile Steve Maddens that I splurged way too much money on.
"You're lucky that Medusa isn't in yet, or your flat ass would be toast."
Dani Julian points a neon green coffin-shaped fingernail at me and clicks her tongue before spinning around to her metallic silver desk. The same one I have, placed exactly diagonally to hers.
She's right though, I think to myself as I set my Prada knockoff on the desk and turn my laptop on. My boss, Lauren McCraig, or Medusa as we warmly refer to her as, would rip my throat out for breakfast if she saw me huffing it into Femme's headquarters this late.
"Did you see the new eyelash samples Katya got in this morning? I'm dying to try them." Dani gossips over our half wall as I check my lipstick in the compact I pull out of my desk drawer.
"Do you remember what happened when you got the eyelash extension in the summer? You couldn't attend a happy hour for a month,” I jab back, annoyed at my work frenemy for pointing out my tardiness.
But in my defense, I was doing her a favor. Half her eyelashes had fallen out and she'd looked half-dead for weeks.
That's just how it was here at Femme. Your tongue was your biggest weapon, second to your smile. Use of a good cat eye was third.
Femme was one of the biggest female lifestyle magazines in the country, if not the biggest on the only plot of land that mattered. Manhattan, of course. We dictated what was hot in fashion, home, beauty, sex, dating. You name it, Femme had an opinion on it. And typically, the senior heads here thought their opinion was fact.
I worked in the beauty department, or what was referred to as the Lipstick Level. We dominated the entire fifteenth floor of a skyscraper that looked over Bryant Park, and every single person's desk was overflowing with tiny samples of the most expensive beauty products in the world. On one hand, I had to protect my back from numerous knives a day, but my mascara cost over a hundred dollars and I didn't pay a thing for it.
Getting to work, and ignoring the comments Dani made to two other entry level beauty associates who came in later than I did, I comb through the piece I'm trying to submit to Medusa for consideration. I've gotten three pieces on our website so far, and only a small paragraph in a sidebar of the magazine on the use of toothpaste to cure tiny whiteheads. I was gunning for my first full piece, at least half a page, in Femme's next issue. I had compiled so much data and testimony on new "green" sustainable leave-in-conditioners that Medusa had to put this article in print.
Not that I would do anything about it if she didn't. I'd gunned my whole life for a job like this, for a job here. I'd brown-nosed in college, emailing thousands of editors on LinkedIn before scoring an internship at Femme last summer. I'd basically been a grunt, running coffee orders and answering phones, but I must have done something right. Because when I inquired, more like harassed Human Resources for all nine months of my senior year at Columbia, they said I could apply and would have preferential treatment for a position in the beauty department. And now I was here, and a million girls, the same carbon copy ones as me, were gunning for the target on my back.
The rest of the day passes at a snail's pace. And it only does that because it's a Friday, and every single person in their lowly cubicle wants to go out and take advantage of half-price cocktails. They still cost eight bucks though, because this is New York City.
"I'm gonna head to the Liptalk promo party. I heard they're serving sushi on naked male models. And there is bound to be some new starlet there willing to share her drugs."
Whitney, a tall, Asian girl who was slimmer than my left pinky, curled one eyelash and then schlacked it with mascara. She was a second year beauty associate, and acted like she wasn't still living paycheck to paycheck like the rest of us.
"The naked sushi trend? Isn't that so 2015? Promo parties are getting really desperate these days. As if Liptalk is going to do anything to rival those matte lip glosses the reality TV princess has been hocking." Dani wrinkles her nose and then powders it, making sure to contour just right.
I, like everyone on a Friday at five p.m. at Femme, am putting on my face to go out.
"Want to come to Le Loc with me? I bet we can get some banker to buy our drinks, Gem." Dani leans over, her cleavage nearly in my face.
I shrug. "Can't, I have a date."
"Oh, w
ho's the guy? Show me!" Dani acts all supportive, but really I know she just wants to size him up, make a comment about being able to land him too.
I take out my phone anyway, because my date is fucking hot, and bring up Bradley Holden's Ember profile.
"Ew, you met him on Ember? He's totally going to try to one and done you." Whitney peers over my shoulder, but by her body language, I can tell she thinks he's hot.
"We've been talking for a week, and he seems really sweet. And you know what, if I don’t like him, at least I get a free dinner. Or an orgasm.”
I check my teeth one more time before shutting my computer down and putting up my nonchalant front. There was nothing more important than appearing as “cool girl” as I could. Especially with these label whores. They weren’t real friends, therefore I couldn’t divulge how nervous I really was for this date. I had to remain calm and collected in their presence; as if I couldn’t care less whether this guy was really the one, or if he just wanted to bang me in a public bathroom stall.
“Well, if he ends up being a total dick, come to Le Loc. You can drown your single sorrows in a big ole glass of tequila.” Dani and Whitney clack out, their heels sliding on the smooth white tile.
I wouldn’t go to Le Loc. If this date bombed, which I totally wasn’t planning for because I’d worn a matching bra and underwear, I’d just go home and binge watch Grey’s Anatomy with my baby blanket wrapped around me.
Being single is totally fucking overrated.
Chapter Two
Gemma
"You're a sorority girl, aren't you?"
Bradley, or Hot Guy as I've been referring to him in my head, swirls his glass of top-shelf scotch and winks at me.
Actually winks at me.
I try to hold back my bile and grin in a just-so way, even though I want to end this horrific date right here and now.
He's been downing glasses of Oban like it's water, when any guy who was seriously trying to get to know me would probably have nursed one beer all night. This isn't the first time he's winked, a gesture that looks way too feminine on his pretty features. I hadn't noticed just how too-perfect his looks were from his Ember pictures, and I was beginning to realize that I wasn't even attracted to him.
Worst of all? He kept doing that thing schmucks did to try and flirt with a woman. He'd throw out a statement that sounded like an insult, or made me sound like a slut, and back it up with a laugh or a suggestive raise of the shoulder. Like this sorority girl comment? He was trying to stereotype me into being that easy, fun-time college girl who liked to drink a lot and sleep around. He was making some suggestion about me as a person simply because I'd told him I lived in the Psi house at school.
And if he were a real man, and weren't just trying to get me on my back, he would just get to know me, instead of trying to insult me like we were first graders on the playground.
"Of course I was! Psi all the way!" I flutter my eyelashes and chew on the straw in my second rum and Coke.
Because that's what you do when you're a twenty-five-year-old single girl living in Manhattan. You try to make it work with these dickhead assholes who aren't even really worth your time because pickings are slim and your biological clock is chiming in your ear.
The rest of dinner, at an overpriced and understaffed Midtown Italian steakhouse, drags by. Bradley is cocky and loud in all of the wrong ways, and my alcohol buzz leads to a pounding in my temple by the time the check comes.
"So, you want to split?" Bradley hesitates as he pulls out his wallet.
Great, going Dutch. The tackiest thing a man could ask in the history of first dates.
I smile tightly and remove my slim white wallet from my purse. I already want to get out of here from the sheer embarrassment licking up my neck, but I have to wait the obligatory five minutes to get the check back. By the time he walks me out to the busy New York sidewalk, I want to bolt.
"So, how about you come over to my place for a drink?" His eyes roam over my curves, landing in between my admittedly nice cleavage.
Seriously? This cheapskate is going to try and fuck me now? Hell no.
"Sorry. I have my period." I don't even smile when I say it, just blank stare as his face goes white.
There is nothing funnier than watching a total schmuck get completely turned off by a little talk of menstrual blood.
"Uh, eh ... all right. Well I guess I'll see you around." He waves and doesn't even wait for me to respond before walking off.
I'd be insulted if I wasn't clued in to how big of a weasel he was. Defeated and wanting to get naked alone under my covers, I turned to hail a cab. Except one goddamn crocodile-skin heel gets stuck in a crack, twisting and sending my body spinning.
My tasteful but sexy black skater skirt flies up, I'm sure giving the crowd on the pavement a nice view of my SoulCycle-sculpted ass. I clutch my fake Prada to the low cut white blouse I donned for tonight's date, not wanting it to scuff when I eventually hit the ground.
My auburn hair clouds my vision, making it impossible to place when I'll fall or how hard. I just brace, gritting my teeth and preparing for insane embarrassment. Serves me right for using the period excuse to get out of sex.
Just as I feel my body tip over, I smack into something solid, and my motion stops. Great, I probably just assaulted a homeless guy with my falling limbs.
"Do you think it was the period that made you lose your balance?"
A deep voice rumbles in my ear, and I snap my head up, thinking I've mistaken what that voice just said to me.
"Huh?" I ungracefully wipe hair and spit off my face, trying to right myself.
Hands steady me as I regain full use of my extremities, even though my face is burning red from having a bunch of people just witness me trip.
"Your period? Time of the month? Menstrual cycle? Maybe that caused you to almost fall flat on your face."
My attention focuses away from the chaos of a Friday night Big Apple sidewalk, and onto the stranger who just kept me from cracking my face in half.
The very tall, kind of hot stranger. Lifesaver has to be about a foot taller than my five six, and built but not in an obvious way. He's not Ken Doll hot, no chiseled jaw and symmetrical nose and sexy floppy hair. His skin is clear, though, and a nice shade of tan, and his hair may need a cut but the overgrown brown curls work on him. I can't make out the color of his eyes because they're shielded by sleek black-framed glasses. But overall, he's a nice looking stranger; not a Brad Pitt, but maybe an Adam Brody or Ashton Kutcher.
And then I remember what he just said as he stood me upright.
"You heard that?" I can't help but laugh, a sharp hyena-like sound.
Nerdy hunk shrugs as people sharply walk around our still forms on the curb. "Not the worst line I've heard a girl use to get out of going home with someone. Hey, it scared that guy off."
I can't help but chuckle again. And then feel supremely awkward because I don't even know this guy who I'm standing in the middle of pedestrian traffic with.
"So uh, thank you for saving my face from permanent damage. I'm going to call a cab and head home, as you can tell, my night has been a shit-show."
Cute stranger adjusts the leather shoulder bag hanging off his shoulder, his suit and tie wrinkled like he'd worked a long damn day.
"Here, why don't you take my cab?" He gestures to the bright yellow taxi that I'd yet to notice parked right next to us.
Saved me from eating pavement, and he's going to give me his cab on a Friday night in Midtown? He's definitely gay. Damn it, this always happens to me.
I resign myself to being single forever. "Thank you, that's too nice."
But I don't hesitate to climb in, because fuck if I'm going to pass up an already hailed taxi.
I breathe as I get in, the driver already shouting at me for a location over his blaring radio.
My gaze shifts up just in time to see Brody look-a-like close the door with a grin.
"Get home safe, Red."
Jesus. All of the good ones are either taken, assholes, or gay.
Chapter Three
Gemma
By the time I take my shoes off in the cab, a blister has formed on my left toe.
"Goddamn shoes." I rub at them while the driver's non-English radio program drones on in the background.
"Where you go?" he yells at me over the blaring Midtown traffic.
"The West Village please, West 10th." I lean my head against the window and stare at the blinking, glittering lights.
It's nights like these that I get sad. I put up the front nicely, the twenty-something single dream of living spontaneously and fucking strangers when I feel like it.
In reality, I want a man who's going to bring me guacamole in bed and scratch my back whenever I ask. Oh, and give me an orgasm without having to use my fingers to produce one.
The cabbie mutters to himself the whole way, and a stormy headache is forming in my right temple before he pulls up to my red brick-front building. I slide my card through the reader in the backseat, a convenient technology my mother loves to point out whenever she comes to visit.
Shutting the door and walking barefoot on the dirty Manhattan streets, I scale the crumbling cement stoop and shove my key in the front lock of my building. I jiggle it twice, shoving it with my shoulder. Next comes the five-floor walk up, which has sweat pooling between my boobs, my hair a frizzed mess and my lungs burning.
Next comes the triple lock and bolt on apartment 5C and finally I'm into Fort Knox. Or Fort Cocks, as my roommate and real best friend Samantha calls it.
"Do I need to put my headphones in?" Sam's raspy smoker voice hits me from somewhere inside the apartment. And by somewhere inside, I mean within the seven hundred square feet we pay two grand a month for. EACH.
"No. He was a total asshole." My jacket and bag get slung over a kitchen chair pushed into the table we never use.
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