Walk of Shame
Page 10

“I don’t have one. But I have a leftover red velvet cupcake from Sprinkles. Does that count as a substitution?”
“Why would that—You know what? Never mind,” he muttered as Ramon approached.
He and the other man exchanged a brief look and a nod of understanding as Ramon placed a hand beneath Georgiana’s elbow. “Careful now, Ms. Watkins. Let me just help you to the elevators. I’ll have someone clean up the water on the floor right away.”
The water wasn’t the problem, and he and Ramon both knew it, but Georgie seemed oblivious, linking her arm in Ramon’s like they were best friends and happily chatting about the bakery throwing a complimentary pumpkin spice old-fashioned into the donut box.
Andrew watched them a moment longer, making sure that Ramon’s grip was enough to prevent Georgiana from falling on her face. Once she made it to the elevator, Andrew started to turn away to get on with his day, but then he heard his name.
He glanced back and saw Georgiana waving at him happily, much as she had with the cab driver.
Don’t wave back. For the love of God, man, don’t—
Andrew lifted his hand, just briefly, in acknowledgment.
Damn. She really was the most ridiculous creature. He carefully hid his smile until he was back outside.
Georgie

MONDAY AFTERNOON Ugh.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hangover. And a long, long time since I’ve had a hangover this bad.
I shuffle into the kitchen and open the fridge, hoping for Gatorade to magically appear. Those electrolytes got me through sorority life.
Nope.
I settle for a San Pellegrino and a cupcake.
It’s red velvet with delicious vanilla frosting, but for some reason as I chew I keep thinking . . . banana?
Not because it tastes like banana, but because . . .
I groan as fuzzy memories creep forward.
Andrew freaking Mulroney.
The details are hazy, but I remember enough to lose my appetite. I toss the rest of the cupcake in the trash.
Crap. Now I owe the guy. Not because he was nice. I may not remember all the details, but I distinctly remember that he wasn’t nice.
But he was decent, and that’s . . . that’s . . .
Annoying.
I lean against the counter and sip the fizzy water, trying to figure out if my nausea is just from the excess booze or if it’s from the sense that I’m indebted to my worst enemy.
There’s probably a little self-loathing in there as well. Despite what you’re probably thinking right now, I am not that girl who goes out and gets drunk to erase her troubles. Sure, I like to party, but as I’ve said before, I’m pretty tame about it. A few cocktails here and there, but I space them out, I drink water, I don’t drink on an empty stomach.
Last night, though . . .
I groan as flashes of the evening come back to me. Marley wasn’t able to come out, which was my first mistake. Marley and I have gone drinking together enough times to develop a code word: spins. Translation: You’re one sip away from the spins, which means you’re already past the point of feeling like crap tomorrow.
But there was no Marley, no one to utter the code word, and so I drowned all my regrets about my parents and their unhappy marriage and my loneliness with Grey Goose citron.
Tacky, Georgie. Very, very tacky.
Somewhere around three-thirty A.M. I ran into Trevor and Brett, a couple at the top of the city’s gay elite, and kind souls. They took me to a twenty-four-hour diner and tried unsuccessfully to get me to eat a few bites of scrambled eggs and some coffee before loading me into a cab.
At least I’m pretty sure that’s how it happened. And I remember going to the donut shop—even tipsy, I don’t forget the important things in life.
And then I ran into . . . Andrew Mulroney, Esquire. Damn it.
Why was he so nice? I don’t like when he’s nice. It makes me feel . . . funny. And how am I supposed to act when I see him next?
At least I’ll have another day to figure it out. No way am I going out tonight, which means I’ll have no reason to be downstairs at five A.M. I could set my alarm and go down anyway, but that’s just pathetic.
So I have until Wednesday to figure out how to act when I see him.
For now, though . . . I take a hot shower, change into Lululemon pants and a comfy sweater, and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening catching up with my old friends Phoebe, Monica, Chandler, and the rest of the gang.
Somewhere around seven, I order in a sesame bagel and Gatorade from Seamless, a food delivery service that’s served many a kitchen-impaired New Yorker. At the last minute, I notice the bagel place has fruit as side items, and I order a banana.
With Ross and Rachel bickering in the background over whether or not they were on a break, I text with Marley and somehow find myself being talked into hosting a dinner party tomorrow.
I’ll have it catered, obviously, but my apartment building has a great community space with an awesome view. My crew hangs out there sometimes when we’re in the mood to chat with close friends rather than see and be seen. I leave Marley in charge of the guest list and start going through my mental list of food options for a group of ten people.
My mom calls somewhere around nine P.M.
I ignore it.
Georgie

TUESDAY EVENING “Georgie. I appreciate you inviting me.”
Ugh. Gross. I shove the corners of my mouth upward, hoping it resembles a smile, as the dark-haired charmer bends to kiss my cheek.
His lips land maybe just a little too close to mine.
Meet Brody Nash.
I know what you’re thinking: name sounds like he might be a player, right? Ding ding ding. Correct.
Brody Nash has a gift for making you think he gets you, that you’re special to him, maybe the one.
And it doesn’t hurt that all those soulful vibes come from a very attractive package. He’s gorgeous. Warm hazel eyes, short black hair, really good features.
Really good everything, honestly.
Now, I haven’t slept with Brody Nash.
But not too long ago . . . I’d wanted to.
We dated. Or at least, I thought we were dating.
He’d singled me out, or so I thought. Drinks, just the two of us, before meeting up with the group. Then it progressed to dinner. Brunch. Walks in the freaking park.
Then he’d invited me to his parents’ house in the Hamptons—just the two of us.