My phone buzzes, and I look to see it’s him.

God, that’s the third time today.

Can’t a guy take a hint?

Reluctantly, I answer. “Hi, Chris. Uh-huh, yeah. I had a nice time, too. No, I’m busy tonight. Sure, maybe another time. Okay, bye.”

I am so sick of dating.

At least three times a week, I’m going out with a different guy, and yeah, you might think I should be happy about it, the interest and everything, but the truth is it’s getting pretty dull.

Christopher stood out as a particularly bad date. He was conceited and just…blasé about everything. He’s a lawyer, and really, that kind of talk gets boring quickly.

I don’t care who he’s suing or for how much money.

Ugh.

When did the city and the dating landscape become so predictable?

I throw my Chanel purse onto the new industrial-chic chair I just bought and sink down into my soft leather couch. What a day.

As a stylist, I go out with a lot of industry people. And can I just tell you a little secret?

Guys in the fashion world…not so rugged.

I find myself dating a lot of models. Some of them are cool, but for the most part, they’re self-obsessed, skinny, and egocentric.

I mean, when your date is calorie-counting more than you are, that’s a bad sign.

Maybe this is just me feeling weary. It’s been a year since my last relationship. His name was Derek, and I’ve never gotten over him—nor do I want to.

My heart still aches for him every single night.

And so this revolving door of men has been my way of coping with the past. You see, the relationship ended on bad terms.

He cheated on me. I never thought that would happen to me in my entire life. I thought we had trust.

And yet I found myself coming home to find him banging a mutual friend in our bed.

I’ve been jaded ever since. You would be too if you saw that sight—her legs wrapped tightly around him. He was pumping into her hard, and I walked right in just as she was tearing her nails down my man’s back and screaming his name.

Fuck, the image of it never gets any easier.

I drag myself up off the couch to pour myself a glass of Pinot Noir. Something to take the edge off a long day.

I’m exhausted.

I mean, it was a long day but a good day. I feel constantly inspired by the models, the photographers, and most especially the editors who fuse their eye for design with my clothing creations.

I live in a fast-paced world, and I’m one of the best stylists around—which accounts for my growing bank account and this beautiful apartment.

I moved here after the aforementioned split with Derek. He and I had shared a place downtown, and once we split, he moved in with the dirty tramp, and I’ve never looked back.

Living at The Bradford has made me feel like I’m finally home. After years of running from my problems and dating bad men, I’m finally in a safe place, a strong place.

My interior designer friend, Layla, helped decorate my little space in The Bradford, and she made it romantic with a touch of industrial design.

I take the bottle of red from my little wine fridge and pop the cork. Then I do something devious, something I’ve been prone to do as of late.

I walk to my window that’s a stone’s throw away from the building next door where a handsome new mystery man has moved in.

Talk about rugged.

It may or may not have become a nightly ritual of mine to see what he’s up to.

Yes, I know it’s weird to be spying on a neighbor, but if you saw him, you’d be doing the same exact thing.

He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. And his apartment! Though I don’t have a great view of it, well, I can tell that it’s modern, luxe, dark…and big. The guy practically owns the entire floor.

I’ve seen him looking at me, too. We have a kind of love/hate relationship going on. He sees me, and I see him, but neither of us will admit to it.

Not that I’ve actually met the guy. I’ve seen him coming and going in a limousine. He’s seen me getting in and out of Ubers.

That’s about the extent of it.

That and the couple times I’ve seen him walking around his place with no shirt on.

The man has abs—rippling, sculpted abs. And that’s all I’m checking on tonight, to see if he’s home and if he happens to be getting out of the shower or home from a workout.

Before you judge me, let’s just remember that this is New York City. People live on top of each other here, and it’s virtually impossible to look out my window or to be on my little balcony without seeing a straight shot into his apartment.

It’s unavoidable.

He’s unavoidable.

He penetrates my thoughts, and I don’t even know the guy.

Fuck, I’m getting myself into something deep. I can feel it, and once I’m in, I know it’ll be hard to get out.

I look through my blinds and sip my wine, but he’s not there.

Damn.

It’s better this way, I guess. I need to not have my desire fueled by this neighborly obsession.

I take my drink to the tub where I draw out a long and relaxing bath for a day well done.

That’s the thing about living at The Bradford…there’s never a dull moment.