Page 8 of Misadventures with a Duke

Why didn’t I see what he needed?

Why wasn’t I enough?

Why am I never enough?

I shove it all aside as Allie pushes the button to enact the video connection with the building’s lobby. Quinn looks like she always does, all polished business with her slicked-back blond pixie and tailored suit. Though she smiles—well, her version of a smile—she also lifts her wrists into the frame and impatiently taps her watch.

“No time for clicking more links, kids. You on your way down?”

Before Allie can answer, Max re-enters with a dance-shimmy step that he must’ve borrowed from one of the Central Park ducks. “Party over; oops out of time!” His attempt at singing is worse, earning Allie my gratitude as she cups a hand over his mouth.

“If you try ‘Let’s Go Crazy’ in the elevator, I’ll tell Quinn to push you out of the car at the bridge.”

“Wrong album anyway.” I hope the quip helps with getting me out of the friend-who-turned-the-bathroom-to-puke-smell territory. I’m pretty sure neither of them notices, as Max dips in for another sloppy snuggle to Allie’s neck. Too late. She’s gasp-giggling again.

“Oh my God,” I groan. “Would you two just get out of here?” Before I really do vomit again—for very different reasons?

Allie breaks from her lusty languor to quickly eyeball me. “Hey. Promise me you’ll get out of here a few times. I swear, if we get home and the streaming queue is nothing but checkmarks…”

“And you think I’d be silly enough to use your account?”

“You have to get out and live a little, okay?” she urges. “There’s a new waffle sandwich place up on 48th. And the sake bar just switched up its menu. They added udon!”

“Ugh! Go!” I laugh all of it out, but by the time they obey all the way, I’m sliding to the floor in a puddle of tears. The temptation worsens as soon as I hear them boarding the elevator with moaning kisses and nonstop gropes.

Envy, in its worst form, sweeps over my heart. Just like that, my self-loathing party is back in full swing.

Maybe ugh is right.

I love Alessandra Fine. I will love her until the day I die. So why do my cheeks burn with tears of resentment toward her? Why can’t I separate my joy about her happiness from my misery about my heartbreak?

And why is it so hard for me to admit that Justin “Genesis” Jones was the worst choice to waste so much of my time and heart on?

Unless that’s what I’m doing now.

Oh, yeah. That must be it.

I repeat it out loud while plodding into Allie’s sleek kitchen. After gathering everything for a big bowl of ice water and then dunking my face in it, I contemplate more constructive steps toward the goal.

It’s still early, considering I’m in the heart of New York City on a Saturday night, but it’s much too late to call Drue. The third member of our tight friendship trio has been on lighting and production design for a film crew in town, but the hours are long and brutal. Tonight is one of her few stretches to catch up on sleep. Couch-surfing and movie bingeing is also out. I’d likely gravitate toward one of my favorite angsty romances. Totally not what I need right now.

Guess I’m catching up on work tonight.

I’m pleasantly surprised when a smile crosses my lips. For the first time in a while, I’m zinged to be diving into a new project. Good thing, since new isn’t just essential in the personal styling business. It’s everything.

I go to the bedroom, open my suitcase, and pull out the wrapped item on top: a beautifully preserved corset from the late eighteenth century. Less than a week ago, the pretty pink undergarment was given to me during a consultation with actress Sylver Savoy, arguably my hugest client to date. She explained that it’s a treasured family heirloom and must be a part of her red carpet look for Emmy Awards Night.

Good news? The Emmys aren’t for six months, corsets are hotter than ever, and everything from the Enlightenment Era feels like perfect inspiration for me.

And the bad?

I’ve been in a massive creative slide ever since puking in my best friend’s toilet.

No. That ends right now.

Allie and Drue have found their pieces of professional happiness. It’s damn time I grabbed that golden ring too.

“Focus, damn it,” I order myself, accenting with a clucking tongue as I hold up the corset for a closer examination.