noname_jup
TEMPT ME
At some point during her going away party, people Nina had never met began arriving. Which was fine, since she hadn’t been in New York long enough to acquire a roomful of friends. Even the people she did know were more Stacy’s friends than hers. But it was sweet of Stacy to throw the party just the same.
Nina was standing by the iPod dock in the corner, fooling around with the music, when Stacy walked over, a wicked grin on her face.
“Nina, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” she said, turning halfway around to smile at a man who’d followed her across the room. “Ian Sinclair, meet the woman of honor, Nina Valentine.”
Stacy winked at Nina and disappeared back into the group of people standing around the drinks table.
Six foot something of gorgeous manliness stood before her in perfectly tailored suit pants, crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned at the throat, and a loosened lavender tie at his neck. Early-thirties, dark wavy hair and Paul Newman eyes, not to mention the lean body of an athlete.
Were men like him even allowed into BYOB parties at rundown sixth floor walk-ups in the East Village? She only hoped he wasn’t some Wall Street guy. Corporate types left her cold.
“Nice tie,” she said, then immediately worried her attempt at sassiness would be taken as sarcasm.
“You think?” he asked, looking down at the article in question. “I wasn’t sure about it at first, but in the end I decided to subvert the usual masculine color paradigm.”
TEMPT ME
At some point during her going away party, people Nina had never met began arriving. Which was fine, since she hadn’t been in New York long enough to acquire a roomful of friends. Even the people she did know were more Stacy’s friends than hers. But it was sweet of Stacy to throw the party just the same.
Nina was standing by the iPod dock in the corner, fooling around with the music, when Stacy walked over, a wicked grin on her face.
“Nina, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” she said, turning halfway around to smile at a man who’d followed her across the room. “Ian Sinclair, meet the woman of honor, Nina Valentine.”
Stacy winked at Nina and disappeared back into the group of people standing around the drinks table.
Six foot something of gorgeous manliness stood before her in perfectly tailored suit pants, crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned at the throat, and a loosened lavender tie at his neck. Early-thirties, dark wavy hair and Paul Newman eyes, not to mention the lean body of an athlete.
Were men like him even allowed into BYOB parties at rundown sixth floor walk-ups in the East Village? She only hoped he wasn’t some Wall Street guy. Corporate types left her cold.
“Nice tie,” she said, then immediately worried her attempt at sassiness would be taken as sarcasm.
“You think?” he asked, looking down at the article in question. “I wasn’t sure about it at first, but in the end I decided to subvert the usual masculine color paradigm.”