Bound to You: Volume 1

by Vanessa Booke

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks, staring down at me.

  His question makes me uneasy. Not because it’s too personal, but because what I’m thinking about involves him undressing me. He’s a stranger. Someone I’ll never see again, and right now I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. Maybe part of moving on means doing things you wouldn’t normally do. Like hooking up with handsome strangers 40,000 feet in the air, or maybe I’m just trying to numb my pain. It’s time to stop living in a fantasy.

  “It was nice meeting you, but I do need to get back to my seat,” I whisper, unwinding myself from him.

  “If you insist,” he says with a polite smile. I want to tell him thank you, but telling him thank you for the kiss sounds way too awkward in my head. I can only imagine what it would sound like if I actually said it.

  “I hope to see you around,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  I’ll never see him again, and while I really wish I could spend the rest of the plane ride with him up here, it would be a mistake. It’s been less than a month since Miles. I don’t need to go chasing someone else. I just need to be alone. I don’t want to be one of those girls who always need a guy on her arm to feel complete. I don’t want prince charming to come save me and fix everything. I want to save myself.

  I leave without asking for his number and he doesn’t stop me to ask for mine. Disappointment creeps into the back of my mind. I’m not sure what I was hoping for. This isn’t some romantic comedy where the gorgeous playboy falls in love with the shy curvy girl. My grandmother used to have a saying. What’s yours, no one else can take. I guess if it’s meant to be maybe I’ll meet him again one day, but for now I’m happy with the calmness that he’s enveloped me in. I hold onto it as I make my way back to my seat and fall asleep for the rest of the trip.

  I don’t wake again until I hear the sound of the captain announcing that we will be landing at the JFK airport in less than 15 minutes. After flying over 3,000 miles in a cramped, overbooked airplane, I’m more than anxious to be on the ground again. Four hours of flying is exhausting and I am definitely mentally drained. I keep reminding myself that it’s all worth it. Soon I’ll be in the big city and thus begins my journey of trying to land a job at StoneHaven Publishing. With a little luck, by this time next month, I’ll be working and living in my own apartment. New York, here I come.

  The airport is buzzing as I make my way over to the baggage claim area. I’m glad I didn’t listen to my mom when she suggested that I take a later flight. With the unpredictable East Coast weather, I’ve already lost more than a day stuck at the Dallas airport in Texas. To my dismay, I did not see Mr. Tall, Blonde, and Sexy as I exited the plane, but that’s actually probably a good thing.

  “Rebecca!”

  I spot Carol standing near the drop-off section just outside of the JFK airport. Her short, blonde pixie cut from college is replaced with long strands of brown hair pulled into a perfectly set bun. I smile as she pushes up her stylish glasses and heads my way. I have to admit she looks stunning. She makes wearing a bun look like fashion chic. I think I’ve always been jealous of the way confidence just seems to ooze out of her. I peek down at my raggedy jeans, Chuck Taylors, and my $10 T-shirt, slightly embarrassed at just how plain I look.

  Finding fancy clothes is difficult with my size. I hate the term “plus size”, yet that’s what the world insists on labeling me as. If I’ve gained weight since college, Carol doesn’t mention it. I grab my suitcase and haul it across the sidewalk trying my best not to get run over as I make my way toward Carol. “Oh, my god. Becca, it’s so amazing to see you!” She hugs me, and the memories of our late night study sessions, frat parties, and college heartaches come rushing back to me. I didn’t even realize how much I’ve really missed her until right now. Carol is like the sister I never had. Sometimes being an only child sucks. Not to mention I don’t have any younger or older sisters for my mother to marry off.

  “You look great, Carol. New York has done you good.”

  “Thanks, girly, it’s a crazy world over here, but you’re going to love it! I can’t wait to get back to my apartment. I have so many plans for tonight!”

  “I’m excited to be here. Thanks for letting me crash with you.” Excited wasn’t even close to how I really felt. Scared. Anxious. Ecstatic. Pumped. I feel invincible – ready to take on the world.

  “It’s not a problem, really. I would’ve been terribly offended if you hadn’t have asked.”

  She hooks her arm through mine as she tugs me toward a sleek, black Lexus. It’s like we’re teenagers again, off on an adventure. Taxicabs flood the airport, pulling in and out every few seconds. It’s a miracle anyone can get out of here. My attention is drawn to a handsome older man stepping out of Carol’s car.

  “Ms. Gellar,” he says, quickly bending down to grab my suitcase. His movements are so swift that my suitcase is settled into the trunk of the car in what seems like a blur. He walks over and opens the back passenger side of the Lexus. If he didn’t look at least 20 years my senior, I would say he’s pretty sexy.

  “Oh, I almost forgot, this is my driver, Steven,” Carol says, grinning. Whoa, she has a chauffeur?

  “He’s fantastic, if you need anything – he’ll get it. Even tampons and stuff.” The thought of Stephen, who coincidentally reminds me of Liam Neeson from Taken, picking up tampons for me makes my cheeks burn.

  “That’s okay, I’ll be good.”

  Steven chuckles, obviously amused at my shyness. “It would be my pleasure picking up anything you may require, Ms. Gellar.”

  “Please, call me Rebecca.” The only people who call me by my last name are my professors and the occasional telemarketer. Gosh, I hate telemarketers. I always feel bad when they call because you know half the time they're just as miserable as you.

  “Steven, on our way home let’s stop by Cheri’s place.” Carol’s PR business must be skyrocketing if she can afford her own butler. I can only wish to have half the success Carol’s had.

  “Who’s Cheri?” I ask.

  “She’s one of my clients. She runs her own fashion line, Retro Thrift. She does a lot of affordable pinup styles and some great formal dresses that look like they’re from the 30s,” Carol says, digging through her black leather purse and pulling out her phone. “Here, check it out.” Carol pulls up Cheri’s online web store. It’s like looking at old photographs. The dresses on Cheri’s site are absolutely gorgeous. I have no idea how she’s managed to make them affordable. Unless thrift is a new word for overpriced vintage clothes.

  “Wow, I wish I could wear all of them.” I’m such a nerd for vintage fashion. My mother is always rolling her eyes at me when I find vintage outfits at the Salvation Army. She can’t understand why people want to dress like they’re from the past.

  “Yeah, I just need to pick up a few outfits for a photo shoot we’re doing tomorrow,” Carol says, throwing her phone back inside her purse. A loud buzzing sound draws her attention back to her phone as she scoops it out of her bag. Carol bursts into laughter, shoving her cell in my hands.

  Carol,

  Take care of Becca. Please.

  Love,

  Mrs. G

  I am mortified that my mother has Carol’s cellphone. I didn’t give it to her, which means she probably copied it out of my phone contacts. She’s too sneaky for her own good.

  “Becca, I have to warn you, this isn’t the first time your mom has called me. She called before I came to pick you up.” I turn to Carol, covering the red blazing on my cheeks. “And she called again about an hour ago.”

  “Oh, god.” It was like I was back in freshmen year of college spending my first night away from home. I can still remember the way the other college girls in our dorm stared at me when my RA came in, saying that my mother had called to ask if I was doing all right on my first night away from home. Can you say utterly embarrassing? Yup. That’s her.

  “She said she’s worried about you.” Caro
l eyes me with curiosity. Yeah, she would be, but I actually think she’s more concerned that I’ve totally blown it with Miles.

  Not that I would count that as a bad thing.

  “I think she’s worried that I might’ve ruined her shot at grandbabies.”

  “What?” Carol laughs, playfully shoving me. “Are you pregnant?”

  “Gosh, no!” That would be a serious problem. Not just because I’m totally not ready for babies, but if I was, Miles would definitely be the wrong guy.

  “Miles came to see me before I left,” I admit, avoiding Carol’s stare. She can see through anything. It’s like she has x-ray vision of the mind.

  “What? Seriously?”

  “Yeah, he wants to get back together.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “You know, you never really explained what he did to mess up. You promised to explain it to me in person. Are you ready to tell me now?”

  Somehow when I really think about it, Miles’ betrayal feels partly my fault. Maybe I wasn’t a good enough girlfriend. Maybe I made him stray. Our physical relationship seemed a lot more important to him than anything else. It’s not that I’m a prude about sex, it’s the fact that Miles made me feel incompetent on the subject. He has a nasty habit of trying to tell me what he wanted by bringing up what old girlfriends used to do. From there the chemistry between us sort of flickered out. I wanted to work on “us,” but unfortunately, Miles didn’t seem to share the same sentiment. I guess it was easier to go fuck someone else.

  “He cheated on me with his co-star.”

  “Ew, you mean the blonde in Future Outlaw?”

  “Yeah, she’s the one who plays his love interest on the show.”

  “Lovely,” Carol huffs. “The little slut.”

  “She is lovely. She has legs for miles and she’s thin. According to the latest gossip, Miles had dumped his no-name girlfriend, me, for his thinner, with an emphasis on thinner, girlfriend. What’s worse is I just found out through STARS magazine that they’re engaged.”

  “What. A. Douche. He doesn’t deserve you.” Carol grabs my hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “He really doesn’t. And please don’t listen to the stupid TV or any of those gossip magazines. You’re beautiful. Who wouldn’t want you? I mean, I do and I’m not even into girls,” she says.

  “Thanks, girly.”

  Carol playfully nudges me with her shoulder. “I know you’ll be okay, but is there anything that I can do? I mean I do know some people,” she says, giving me a knowing look.

  I miss having someone to talk to, at least someone other than my mother. It feels great knowing that Carol has my back. It makes this trip out here a little easier. I hope the transition is just as smooth.

  “I’m okay, a little shaky, but okay,” I smile.

  “Well fuck him.”

  “I just wish I could forget we were ever together.”

  “Cheri has just the thing for that!” Carol says, excitement coursing through her. “C’mon, let’s pick up the outfits I need from her, an extra something for you, and get back to my pad. We have to get ready for your date tonight,” Carol says, winking.

  “Date? How the hell do I have a date?” I really hope Carol doesn’t plan on hooking me up with a friend of hers. I hate blind dates.

  “It’s complicated. In short, I’m meeting Tristan Knight, another client of mine at a club opening. It’s tonight. He wants to talk over some plans for getting publicity for the new art gallery he’s thinking of opening. I only agreed to meet tonight because he said he didn’t mind if I brought a friend along who just moved here. He actually said that he would bring a friend too.”

  “Oh gosh, Carol. I’m really not up to meeting anyone tonight. I need to catch up on sleep. I have jetlag.” I think I’ve filled my quota for meeting beautiful men today. After Nicholas, I don’t think I can handle another. It’s like sensory overload waiting to happen.

  “Sweetheart, nobody gets jetlag from California to New York. It’s only four hours, tops.”

  Part of me wants to whine and complain that I don’t want meet some rich, stuffy guy, but Carol is definitely what I would consider wealthy, and she isn’t stuffy. Not one bit.

  Carol’s apartment is on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I remember reading about the area online. Or rather drooling about it. The neighborhood is known for its history of artistic workers and its wealthy community. I’m not surprised that she wanted to live in an artsy neighborhood. Even when we were living in Los Angeles, Carol always talked about moving near the art center of Los Angeles. But I have to say, LA doesn’t have anything on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

  The inside of Carol’s apartment is just as extravagant as the outside. Wood flooring leads to a kitchen with marble floors and granite countertops. The kitchen is probably as big Gordon Ramsay’s Hell's Kitchen. I wonder if she has a pantry with every ingredient you could ever think of too? This must be what heaven looks like for foodies, aka food lovers.

  Carol leads me into the bedroom where she sets the five outfits for tomorrow’s photo shoot down on the bed, plus one little black dress for me. Apparently, the wondrous fashion designer, Cheri Coy, has plenty of dresses in my size. I was afraid she only made supermodel sizes, but her line actually caters to curvy women. The dress she graciously lent me isn’t just any ordinary cocktail dress. It hugs my waist in just the right way, giving me an hourglass figure, instead of a muffin top. The back slits up, almost like a pencil skirt, and the front dips low in heart shapes on my breasts. If it weren’t for my $15 dress shoes, I’d say I could pass for someone in the VIP lounge.

  “Whoa, look at you!” Carol takes a turn around me to get the full effect of the dress. “You… look… amazing.”

  “Thank you,” I blush. It’s always been hard taking compliments. Being the center of attention usually isn’t my style, but tonight it is.

  “Seriously, you’d give Joan Holloway a run for her money,” she says, grinning. Carol knows exactly what to say to make me feel like a million bucks. Joan Holloway is my favorite character from the period drama Mad Men.

  “I think you should borrow some of my shoes. I have some great Mary Janes that would complete your look.” Carol walks over to her closet and pulls out a pair of sleek, black shoes with white accents. I stand in awe at the monstrosity she calls a closet. The thing is bigger than my bedroom back home.

  “You like that?” Carol asks, winking. “You should see my view.” She pulls me toward the living room just as Steven pulls back the curtains from the panoramic windows. My breath catches at sight of the New York City skyline. The best part about the apartment is definitely the view. I stare out the window at the beautiful chaos of the city below us. How the hell does anyone afford this?

  “Do you have a sugar daddy or something?” I blurt. Carol winces slightly.

  “Hey, I’m not someone’s baby girl,” she says.

  “Sorry, it’s just… I don’t know how people afford to live in extravagant apartments like this,” I confess.

  “The apartment is on loan to me,” Carol gushes. “One of my clients offered me the apartment in exchange for some help on a publicity campaign.”

  “Wow! That’s amazing. I’m sort of jealous,” I confess.

  “Well, you get to enjoy this AMAZING place with me,” she says, smiling. “Are you ready to live it up?”

  I laugh in spite of the nerves eating away at me. “So ready.”

  “Let’s get you looking drop dead gorgeous for tonight.”

  “So do you even know who your client’s friend is? He could be a creeper.”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s not a creeper. Mr. Knight is a reputable person, and knowing the people he keeps company with, I’m sure his friend is a big fish.”

  “I’m not looking to catch anyone,” I say, laughing.

  “You never know, maybe you’ll meet Mr. Right," Carol says, winking. Hah. I'm starting to think Mr. Right is either tra
pped in another dimension or he just doesn't exist; either way, I'm single for life.

  The memory of Nicholas’ kiss still sears my thoughts. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again?

  This weekend would’ve been hell if it weren’t for the redhead I met on the plane. My cock stirs at the thought of her round little ass pressed up against me. It doesn’t matter that she was wearing jeans. I knew she could feel me growing hard underneath her. It took all of my strength not to take her into one of the lavatories and fuck her until she begged me to stop. Her lips were a tease for something even more delicious. I bet she tastes like peaches.

  “Good morning, Mr. StoneHaven.” Mary, our building receptionist breaks me from my thoughts as she hands me a manila envelope. Mary Striver has been with our company for over thirty years. I feel strangely close to her, although she doesn’t usually say any more than hello or goodbye to me. I do have to admit, she has a quirky character. Sometimes I refer to her as Mona Lisa because she always seems like she’s hiding something funny.

  “Good morning, Mary. What’s this?”

  “It’s the folder of resumes your father wanted you to look over before Monday. He’s looking to hire a new personal assistant for you.”

  “This has to be the fifth assistant this year.” PAs don’t seem to last too long with me. It’s partly my fault. Most of them end up in my bed and they don’t stay there long, which means they don’t stay here long.

  “Yes, it is,” Mary says, half smiling to herself. “Your father is expecting you upstairs.”