Julia

After realizing I couldn’t even practice greeting Bastian Rich without making a fool of myself, I postpone trying to call or see him. Instead, I finish the rest of my shift, then meet up with Kevin. I quickly fill him in about Bastian and my failed attempt to return his wallet, then when Kevin finally stops laughing, I try to talk him into seeing a movie after he’s off. Unfortunately, even though Kev’s decided to forgive me for blowing him off (his words, not mine), he has a hot date immediately after work. I grab his hands and jump up and down with him when he tells me he finally worked up the nerve to ask out the guy at the gym he’s been crushing on, then we promise to get together the next day for drinks.

“You have the perfect excuse to see Big Sexy and make your move, Julia!”

“What move?” I say with a shaky laugh.

“Any move that will end with you cupping that fine ass of his instead of just ogling it. Wait, forget his ass. Check out that fabulous package first. No wait, his ass. Ugh, I can’t decide.”

I just smile weakly, not telling him I’d already checked out Bastian’s package online. For some reason, I want to keep that knowledge to myself. For some reason, the idea of my best friend pulling up Bastian’s dick pics?

Uh-uh. No way. Guess I’m not that good a friend. Sorry, Kev!

After work, I end up going home alone and trying to watch TV, but of course Bastian keeps entering my thoughts. All joking aside, I really am beginning to wonder if my obsession with him is all kinds of unhealthy. Finally, in a desperate attempt to stop thinking about him and his wallet for even a short amount of time, I do something that shocks me.

I grab a box from the back of my closet, a box I haven’t opened in years, and pull out stacks of paper, unfinished songs I’d worked on before The Incident. As soon as I do, it’s as though I’m transported back in time. Somehow, I manage not to obsess about the magnitude of my past mistakes and instead wholly focus on the crisp feel of the paper, the beauty of the patterns—bars, notes, staffs, and bridges—inked on it, and the melodies that instantly begin playing in my head.

I’d always loved composing music almost as much as performing, and an hour later, I’m fully immersed in chord progression and riffs. Two hours later, I’m scribbling down lyrics. Four hours later, I realize it’s past ten and I’m starving because I’d forgotten to eat. But more than that…I’m happy. My heart is beating with excitement and I feel recharged. Refreshed. Inspired.

Until I don’t.

Until my lyrics become less uplifting and more about mistakes and regret and being stuck in the past, and I’m once again haunted by memories, overwhelmed with guilt for what I’d done.

And for what I hadn’t done.

For a few hours, I’d forgotten what had happened. And I couldn’t forget.

I didn’t deserve to forget.

I throw everything into the box and shove it back into my closet.

After I climb into bed, sleep eludes me. I stare up at the ceiling, wanting to stop my mind from circling over the events of that last night of college. I want a distraction so bad that I eagerly reach for thoughts of Bastian. I deliberately try conjuring sexy images of him, but oddly enough, those images keep morphing into ones of him lying on the floor with his head in my lap. Or of him smiling and talking to me for the first time.

Asking for coconut curry wings of all things.

And with those images, I feel my anxiety fade away and an odd peacefulness settle over me until I’m finally able to fall asleep.

The next morning, I wake up determined to go to Bastian’s house and hand him his wallet in person, but while I’m getting ready, I lose my nerve. Again.

I can’t just show up unannounced like some creeper after two days. Plus, what if he really does invite me inside for coffee or something? All I’ll be able to think about is I’m inside his house. Where he sleeps. Showers. Jerks off and fucks and…

So no. In the interest of maintaining my cool and not coming off as a total idiot (or doing anything idiotic, like grabbing his hand, searching for his bedroom, and asking him for my reward for returning his wallet), I decide to drop by his office. He’ll probably be at home recuperating, so I can leave the wallet with his secretary and get on with my life. He never has to know the type of snooping and fantasizing I’ve been engaging in for the past two days.

I’ll just be some random good Samaritan and I’ll forget about him and how thoughts of him filled me with a sense of peace last night when I’d really needed it.

I’ll also forget about potential rewards and how he needs XL-sized condoms.

Yep, I’ll completely and totally forget about him and his XL dick.

First, however, I stuff two $50 bills into the wallet to make up for stealing that $100 for the taxi. I really can’t afford it—I needed that money for, well, food—but it was my own fault for giving myself a loan without thinking about the consequences. I bet Bastian could lose $100 and just shrug, but not me. Never me, perpetually broke Julia.

After hopping into my car, I drive to Bastian’s work building, circle the block for several minutes trying to find a parking spot, then finally pull into the passenger loading zone, figuring I’ll only be a few minutes anyway. When I get inside, I look at the directory. He’s on the tenth floor. I almost roll my eyes. Of course he’s on the top floor. He probably insisted on it when he signed the agreement with whoever owns this place. Either that or he owns the whole damn building.

When I get upstairs, the elevator opens into a suite that is definitely not cheap. Luxurious carpets cover the floor, while furniture that’s probably worth more than my whole apartment takes up the waiting room. A hot guy sits at the front desk, which surprises me—and then makes me feel ashamed for being so sexist—but he’s on the phone, so he smiles and waves at me to take a seat. I sit and study him. His blond hair perfectly tousled across his forehead, he looks like he’d be at home by the ocean, surfing waves and catching a tan.

“As I said, Mr. Rich is currently in a meeting, but I’d be happy to take a message. Or I can transfer you to his voicemail. I’m sorry, I can’t interrupt him. No, I really can’t.” The guy rolls his blue eyes, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “You’ll just send him an email? That sounds great. Okay, have a nice day.” He hangs up and says to me, “Why do people call in the first place and then just end up sending an email?”

I shrug. “To be as annoying as possible?”

He laughs. “Probably. Are you here to see Mr. Rich? He’s in a meeting, if you couldn’t tell.”

“No, I actually have something to drop off—”

I’m cut off when the phone rings at the same time yet another hot guy comes down the hallway. He immediately throws himself into a chair not far from me and lets out a sigh like his dog just died. A woman follows after him, dressed in a classy suit.

“Mr. Masters, Mr. Rich asked if you’d like to reschedule your next appointment,” she says. Her hair is in a tight bun, and she’s wearing hipster glasses that make her seem professional instead of kitschy.

Mr. Masters waves a hand. “Sure, Holly, whatever. I just needed to get out of there.”

Mr. Masters seems familiar, causing me to look more intently at him. I barely stifle a gasp. Mr. Masters is Ryland Masters, an up-and-coming musician and rock star. I’d recently downloaded his EP and couldn’t stop listening to it. He mixes an edgy sound with plaintive lyrics, and he plays the guitar like a fiend. What is he doing here of all places?

He glances at me, and then he smiles. He holds out a hand. “Ryland Masters. You are?”

Heat burns my cheeks. I’ve never been a huge fangirl, but suddenly I’m about to burst into tears like some Justin Bieber acolyte.

I take his hand, and my entire body tingles. “Julia Rominger. I know who you are. I love your music.”

He visibly perks up. “A fan? Excellent! What’s your favorite track?”

In my peripheral vision, I notice the woman in the suit walk up to the receptionist. When I glance at her, she smiles, as if telling me to go ahead and talk to Ryland while I can.

“Um…‘Anywhere, Everywhere,’ ” I reply without even having to think about it. “I can’t stop listening to it. My cat probably hates me by now because I have it on repeat.”

Ryland laughs. “That’s awesome. Not the annoying your cat part. I’ve heard cats can be jackasses when they’re annoyed. I had one as a kid and he liked to pee on my backpack if I left it in the hallway. Although sometimes I think my mom put him up to it.”

I laugh, and for several minutes we chat about his music and his upcoming projects and tour. I have to give him props: he’s charming and asks questions, appearing to be fascinated when I tell him I hand out samples for a living.

“What are you here for? Are you one of Mr. Rich’s clients?”

He huffs. “Yeah, but I’m rethinking that.”

“Really? How come?”

“He’s my financial advisor—important shit and all that—and I want to invest in my friend’s start-up. It’s risky, sure, but Rich doesn’t understand that my whole life revolves around taking risks.”

“So he’s advising against the investment?”

“Yes, but…it’s not that so much. He’s just doing his job. It’s more that he doesn’t get me, and that worries me. I don’t think he even knows what kind of music I play, you know.”

I’m a little surprised that he told me all of this, but my curiosity is sparked despite myself. It’s none of my business, but hey, nothing wrong with getting a little intel now and then.

“Have you held back telling him any of this? How important this investment is to you? Or argued your case for why it’d be a good investment in the first place?” Ryland doesn’t strike me as shy, but I can see how someone could be intimidated by a guy like Sebastian Rich and his fancy setup here. Although what do I know about investments and money? The only thing I’ve ever invested in is my ass on my couch watching Netflix.

“On paper, it’s not a good investment. But my gut tells me different.” Ryland glances at his phone and stands up. “Hey, I gotta run, but what’s your number? Maybe we can meet up again.”

I blink, stunned that a legit rock star wants to keep in touch. I stutter out the number, and after putting it into his phone, Ryland grins and leaves.

He’s definitely gorgeous, I think to myself. But although I was starstruck by him, I wasn’t particularly interested in him as a man. He didn’t affect me the way Bastian has. Even thinking about Bastian now makes me shiver, and it reminds me why I came and why I need to get out of here before he shows up and I make a fool of myself.

I get up and approach the front desk. Hot guy is on the phone again. The woman in the suit—Holly, Ryland had called her—turns my way, then looks over my shoulder. She groans. “Great,” she mumbles.

“I’m sorry?”

She shakes her head and smiles. “Nothing. Have you been helped?”

“Yes—I mean, no.” I dig around in my bag for the wallet, and of course, I can’t find it right away. How can something that large disappear in the depths of my bag? I really need to get a smaller purse. Or maybe keep less trash in it. “I have something…”

I look up when I hear footsteps. And then my breath catches.

It’s him. Bastian Rich. Wearing a suit that screams it’s tailor-made. His dark hair and golden eyes are undeniably gorgeous, and he looks so yummy I could seriously nibble on him like a box of chocolates.

He doesn’t see me at first, though. Instead, he asks Holly in an irritated voice, “Did you get my next appointment confirmed with Ryland?”

She pushes her glasses up her dainty nose. “Um—well, he said he wanted to reschedule, but—”

“But what? Is it really that hard to make an appointment with a client?” Bastian snaps, then runs an agitated hand through his hair, disheveling it.

Holly doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s miffed. I’m miffed on her behalf. It’s not her fault Ryland walked out before she could talk to him again!

Then Bastian glances at me. His eyes widen, and before I know it, he’s looking like a thundercloud come to rain down hailstones on my head. “What are you doing here?”

Damn, who pissed in his Cheerios this morning? Suddenly, all thoughts of him being a good man shatter like glass. Stupid, Julia. You’re so stupid.

I finally find his wallet and, hand shaking, hold it out. “This is yours. Obviously. Well, um, I needed to look for ID and then in the confusion didn’t get the wallet back to you. But now I’m here. Giving you the wallet. Because it’s yours.”

I bite my tongue. Why am I so awkward and weird?

Bastian stares at me. I stare at him. I wonder if we signed up for some staring contest that I was unaware of.

Then he takes the wallet and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket. “You could’ve just called. Yesterday would have been good.”

I almost say he could’ve called yesterday, too—to thank me for calling 911 and possibly saving his ass. But instead I say, “Yeah, well, I…figured it would be safer to just return it in person. So here I am.”

“Here you are.”

The words are dripping in sarcasm, and I have to restrain myself from giving him the finger. I haven’t done anything to warrant being treated like some idiot. I didn’t even have to give the wallet back! Any asshole would’ve pocketed the cash, maxed out the credit cards, and then tossed the rest. But not only did I return it, I repaid him the $100 that I couldn’t afford to repay.

Hands on my hips, I hear the words come from my mouth before I realize I’m saying them. “Look, I know we barely know each other, but you should really rethink the whole suit-and-tie ensemble if it’s going to make you act like an asshole. Frankly, I liked you better when you were passed out cold on a grocery store floor. Your last name is Rich, not Lord of All He Surveys. Plus, I’m not the one about to lose an important client because I’m a judgmental dickwad.”

Silence. A flush creeps up my face as I realize what I’ve said, and I can almost hear Holly and the receptionist staring at me. I glance at them out of the corner of my eye, and they look so astonished that I desperately wish I could sink into the floor right then and there.

But Bastian doesn’t seem mad. He seems…intrigued. “What did Ryland say to you?”

I don’t think Ryland wanted me to tell Bastian what he told me, but Bastian doesn’t look like he’ll take no for an answer. “Just that you don’t understand he’s a guy who takes risks and you should take that into account with this potential investment.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I also think—” I stop, mostly because I’ve already said too much already.

“Don’t stop now on my account,” Bastian says smoothly. “What do you think?”

“Well, that maybe you should listen to his music. Get to know him. I know it sounds kind of silly, but his music is really complex. Interesting. And I think it might help you see how important it is to Ryland that he not play things safe.”

I feel like I’m babbling nonsense and not getting my point across, but Bastian is just looking at me, like he’s trying to figure me out.

I heft my bag onto my shoulder and turn to go. “I guess, have a nice day.”

He doesn’t stop me. I’m glad. I need to get out of here. But after I enter the elevator, I see him gazing at me as the doors are closing. It’s a gaze like a predator’s: watchful, intent. I shiver just as the doors close and he disappears from view.

I barely stop myself from hitting my head on the elevator wall in frustration.

Well, I’d wanted Bastian to notice me, and boy, did he ever. Now he knows I’m a mouthy weirdo who thinks she knows all about financial advising.

Just as I step out of the elevator, I get a text from Kevin.

Did you see Big Sexy?

I type back a quick reply: Yeah and he was a dick. I gave him his wallet back, though. I hope he chokes on it.

Ooooh, girl. Give me the deets!

At least I have Kevin in my life to bitch to. Smiling, I text him everything, and as per usual, he replies in 75 percent emoji as the story unfolds. By the end, he’s just texting me the skull emoji over and over again. I burst out laughing.

When I finally step outside, I’m feeling better.

Then I swear when I see the red piece of paper that is a parking ticket stuffed under my windshield.

Absolutely freaking perfect.