Jared had already found good, steady commercial success with his fiction, but, as Brayden and I had discussed, Jared was one of those people who would never be satisfied with his success, no matter how big. He would chase it relentlessly.
"I'm sure it's inevitable I'll run into him," I said.
"Maybe sooner than you think," Brayden murmured, then handed me an invite. Thick-papered and important-looking.
To Jared's book launch party.
"He invited me?"
"There's a handwritten note," he told me. "I was trying to decide if I should give it to you or burn it. But this shit…" He pointed to the magazine. "Synchronicity at its best."
Reluctantly, I pulled the creamy cardstock all the way out of the envelope and saw Jared's writing, elegant and practiced as always.
R yn , I'd love to see you there.
-J
S uch a comfortable note , as though we'd ended on good terms. Knowing his level of interpretational skills, he probably thought we did. I glanced up at Brayden. "Talk to me."
"I'd never make you go to this."
"But?"
He sighed. "It's a huge event. Good coverage. Good, trendy and diverse crowd who buys and commissions art, and who'd be interested in a crazy artist who starts fights at her own shows and dates Lucas Caine."
"Christ." I rubbed my temples and protested, "I thought I was rehabilitated."
Brayden snorted. "It'd be helpful to get the haute and hot set on your side. Or some of them, at least."
Maybe seeing Jared at a big party was the best way. We were both successful. I was over him, moved on. It was time to break the ice. "When is it?"
"Tomorrow night."
"So I'm a last-minute invite."
"All invites went out last minute to maintain the integrity of the project," Brayden read from the invite. "This was hand-delivered to the doorman."
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth.
"I can't go with you though," Brayden said.
"Bray!"
"I figured you'd want Lucas."
"I don't know if we're doing that," I said truthfully.
He shrugged. "As good a time as any to find out."
* * *
I was stressed at the thought of the book party, so much so that I threw myself into my work and didn't come out until the following morning. I slept for a while and then I decided I needed to run to get rid of the excess nervous energy.
I still hadn't heard from Lucas. Hadn't called him either. Because what if he couldn't go with me tonight?
What if you'd just asked him yesterday as soon as Brayden told you?
Because I was the queen of procrastination, dammit. And I needed some time to be alone, to process the fact that I'd be seeing the one man I'd thought I loved so much that I revealed my past—or lack of—to.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I dressed and put my headphones on, plugged my iPod in. Rap and classic rock alternately blasted through the Beats as my feet hit the pavement first on the way to the park, and then the soft dirt of the trails, in rhythm to the songs.
I sang the lyrics in my head as the pleasant burn in my muscles kicked in. I left everything behind—everything and everyone—letting it fall away from my shoulders. I started singing silently along with the lyrics. No one would give me a second glance in New York doing this. Everyone seemed to be talking to themselves.
But after a time I became aware of an echo on the ground, another heavy set of feet running behind me. I turned down my music and yes, I heard the footsteps.
But Central Park, mid-afternoon, jogging… hello .
And still, something in my gut didn't sit right. Not at all. I kept my pace as I ran up, right behind a group of women. Safety in numbers.
When they stopped, I stopped. Looked around under the pretense of stretching and saw nothing beyond other joggers, walkers. Moms with strollers. People rollerblading. And unless they were together, no one was giving anyone a second look.
Alone in a crowd.
I wasn't usually paranoid. Not like this. Maybe the thought of the party was making me crazy, but I couldn't deny that my skin crawled. I fought off the panic
"I'm sure it's inevitable I'll run into him," I said.
"Maybe sooner than you think," Brayden murmured, then handed me an invite. Thick-papered and important-looking.
To Jared's book launch party.
"He invited me?"
"There's a handwritten note," he told me. "I was trying to decide if I should give it to you or burn it. But this shit…" He pointed to the magazine. "Synchronicity at its best."
Reluctantly, I pulled the creamy cardstock all the way out of the envelope and saw Jared's writing, elegant and practiced as always.
R yn , I'd love to see you there.
-J
S uch a comfortable note , as though we'd ended on good terms. Knowing his level of interpretational skills, he probably thought we did. I glanced up at Brayden. "Talk to me."
"I'd never make you go to this."
"But?"
He sighed. "It's a huge event. Good coverage. Good, trendy and diverse crowd who buys and commissions art, and who'd be interested in a crazy artist who starts fights at her own shows and dates Lucas Caine."
"Christ." I rubbed my temples and protested, "I thought I was rehabilitated."
Brayden snorted. "It'd be helpful to get the haute and hot set on your side. Or some of them, at least."
Maybe seeing Jared at a big party was the best way. We were both successful. I was over him, moved on. It was time to break the ice. "When is it?"
"Tomorrow night."
"So I'm a last-minute invite."
"All invites went out last minute to maintain the integrity of the project," Brayden read from the invite. "This was hand-delivered to the doorman."
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth.
"I can't go with you though," Brayden said.
"Bray!"
"I figured you'd want Lucas."
"I don't know if we're doing that," I said truthfully.
He shrugged. "As good a time as any to find out."
* * *
I was stressed at the thought of the book party, so much so that I threw myself into my work and didn't come out until the following morning. I slept for a while and then I decided I needed to run to get rid of the excess nervous energy.
I still hadn't heard from Lucas. Hadn't called him either. Because what if he couldn't go with me tonight?
What if you'd just asked him yesterday as soon as Brayden told you?
Because I was the queen of procrastination, dammit. And I needed some time to be alone, to process the fact that I'd be seeing the one man I'd thought I loved so much that I revealed my past—or lack of—to.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I dressed and put my headphones on, plugged my iPod in. Rap and classic rock alternately blasted through the Beats as my feet hit the pavement first on the way to the park, and then the soft dirt of the trails, in rhythm to the songs.
I sang the lyrics in my head as the pleasant burn in my muscles kicked in. I left everything behind—everything and everyone—letting it fall away from my shoulders. I started singing silently along with the lyrics. No one would give me a second glance in New York doing this. Everyone seemed to be talking to themselves.
But after a time I became aware of an echo on the ground, another heavy set of feet running behind me. I turned down my music and yes, I heard the footsteps.
But Central Park, mid-afternoon, jogging… hello .
And still, something in my gut didn't sit right. Not at all. I kept my pace as I ran up, right behind a group of women. Safety in numbers.
When they stopped, I stopped. Looked around under the pretense of stretching and saw nothing beyond other joggers, walkers. Moms with strollers. People rollerblading. And unless they were together, no one was giving anyone a second look.
Alone in a crowd.
I wasn't usually paranoid. Not like this. Maybe the thought of the party was making me crazy, but I couldn't deny that my skin crawled. I fought off the panic
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