DARING AND DANGEROUS

BRUNCH

I woke up to the sound of my alarm blaring like a damn foghorn at 9 A.M. sharp. Disgusting. I’m convinced mornings are a government conspiracy.

I groaned, dragging my body out of bed like it owed me money. My feet hit the ice-cold floor and I instantly regretted all of my life choices. Note to self: buy a damn rug.

I stumbled into the bathroom, grabbed my toothbrush, and stared at my own tired reflection. Pale skin. Blue eyes. A constellation of freckles. And that red-blonde hair that never quite cooperates. I turned slightly and caught a glimpse of the scars still scattered across my back. My involuntary souvenir collection from a childhood no one should have to survive.

I closed my eyes. Just breathe, Rory. That’s why we’re here. New city. New start. Maybe even a new version of me, one who doesn't panic every time a stranger looks too long.

Steam filled the bathroom as I stepped into the shower. I didn’t wash my hair—I mean, let’s not get crazy—but I let the hot water work its magic on my tension-filled shoulders. Ten out of ten, would live in this shower if rent wasn’t a thing.

After shaving and speed-scrubbing like a woman on a mission, I towel-dried, moisturized, and moved like a tornado into my walk-in closet. (Still can’t believe I have a walk-in closet. Insert rich-lady cackle.)

I threw on a maroon v-neck, my favorite Kancan jeans that hugged my hips like a clingy ex, and some cute dark cream wedges. Hair curled, mascara on, under-eye bags camouflaged—it was time to face Blair.

She lived three doors down, so I popped over and knocked. I swear I could hear her heels clacking their way toward the door like an approaching storm. It swung open, and there she was—tan, glowing, and dressed like a Barbie going on a brunch bender.

"You said casual," I said, raising an eyebrow and gesturing at her pink dress and silver heels.

Blair rolled her eyes and patted her comically large purse. "I packed sneakers. I'm not a rookie, Rory."

“Seriously, is your apartment in that bag?”

Click. Clack. She locked the door behind her as the elevator dinged right on time.

“Well look at that, the gods of punctuality shine down upon your shopping addiction,” I said, stepping in with her.

She grinned like the devil in Louboutin. “So where are we eating? I’m starving.”

I pulled out my phone and did a quick search. “Let’s hit Balthazar. I’ve been dying to try it.”

“Boujee brunch? Say less,” she said, and just like that we were out into the chaos of New York. Car horns. Hot dog carts. The smell of ambition and pretzels. I was finally getting used to this.

But naturally, nothing with Blair is ever just a walk. We were halfway through a crosswalk when I heard HONK HONK and yanked Blair back just in time to avoid becoming a hood ornament for a murdered-out Aston Martin flying through a red light.

“Jesus, did you see that?! "That asshole nearly flattened me!” she yelled.

I started laughing, mostly out of panic. “Cool. Pancakes are officially off the breakfast menu.”

We stepped into Balthazar’s, and bam—bacon, cedar, and fresh carbs hit me like a warm, delicious slap in the face. My stomach let out a growl so loud Blair side-eyed me like I’d just birthed a demon.

A waiter zoomed by with a stack of pancakes that looked like heaven itself. Blair stopped him mid-stride like a brunch-hungry linebacker.

“What kind of pancakes are those?!” she asked, zero chill.

“Cinnamon, ma’am. Have a great day,” he said with a polite smile.

“Mmm-mmm-mmm, cinnamon pancakes it is,” Blair declared like she was marrying them.

“Blair. You haven’t even looked at the menu.”

“I smelled the menu, thank you,” she said, flipping her hair like a damn Disney villain. I rolled my eyes as the hostess approached.

“Is it just the two of you today?” she asked.

“Yes, sir,” Blair answered, already putting on her flirt voice. “We are out to have a delicious brunch.”

His name tag said Chad. Of course it did. He looked like every ex-boyfriend that ghosted me but made it weird by watching all my i********: stories for six months after.

“Right this way.” He led us to the cutest little window seat, and I immediately gave myself a silent pep talk. Okay Rory, deep breaths. No panic. No darting eyes. You’re safe. This is brunch. Not war.

Just then, I saw it. The car.

The same blacked-out Aston Martin that nearly turned Blair into a cautionary tale was now parked outside the restaurant.

Oh.

Hell.

No.

A tall man stepped out of the driver’s side. Sharp suit. Built like he bench-presses weak men for fun. He didn’t look up, but I could already feel the Big Alpha Energy oozing off him. Then came the passenger: a tall, blonde, leggy goddess in a baby blue dress and heels so high I almost dislocated a hip just looking at them.

Snob alert, I thought. Blair was still yapping about pancakes when a tap on my arm snapped me back.

“Rory. Drinks?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah—mimosa, please.”

Blair was studying me. “What were you looking at?”

I motioned out the window. “That psycho from the crosswalk? Yeah, he’s here. And based on the resting b***h face of his date, they’re about to ruin someone’s morning.”

As if summoned by Satan himself, Chad walked by again… with the couple in tow. As they passed, Blondie griped, “I can’t believe we came to this crappy place for breakfast.”

I leaned over to Blair, still staring down at my menu. “Yup. That’s them. And she’s just as charming as I expected.”

Blair’s mouth dropped open. “HOLY. s**t. Rory! That is your boss’s brother! That’s JACE. JACE VAUGHN. THE CEO.”

My head whipped around so fast I almost dislocated my neck.

“Nooo… shut up. Shut UP!”

She nodded furiously.

I risked a glance—and of course, his steel-grey eyes were locked directly on me. Sharp. Intense. Murderously hot.

I turned back around, flustered. “Cool, okay. I guess we’ll just die now.”

“R.I.P. us,” Blair whispered.

The waitress came to take our order just as I was trying to will myself invisible.

Blair went first—cinnamon pancakes, obviously, with sausage and scrambled eggs. I got chocolate chip pancakes, over-easy eggs, and crispy bacon because I have taste, thank you.

We were just starting to relax when it happened.

A shrill, nasally voice cut through the cozy restaurant buzz:

“EWWW, WHAT IS THAT SMELL?!”

Every head in the room turned toward the chaos table.

Blondie, standing now, had her perfectly manicured claws pointed at our food.

“Is that... cinnamon?!” she screeched like someone had served her a plate of sin.

“Umm... yeah?” Blair said, unfazed, already cutting into her food.

“Well,” she said dramatically, “if you don’t throw that in the trash, we’re leaving. I hate cinnamon.”

Blair blinked. “Well, this is America and I ordered it, soooo…”

I nearly choked on my mimosa.

The entire restaurant was watching now. Jace looked done. Jaw clenched. Eyes murderous. Honestly? Hot.

Blondie threw a fit and stormed out like the spoiled brat she was. I watched Jace stare after her, clearly contemplating the life choices that led him to brunch with a banshee.

He stood up, pulled out his sleek black card, and handed it to our waitress.

“Put my meal and theirs on this. Leave yourself a $100 tip.”

Then—like some brooding billionaire wet dream—he turned to us.

“I apologize, ladies. My brother thinks it’s funny to set me up with women who don’t know how to behave in public.”

He gave me one last look. That heat. That edge. And then? He was gone.

Blair stared at me, stunned. “Sooo… he’s single, right?”

I burst out laughing. “Let’s go shopping, you damn menace. We’ve got furniture to buy and zero shame left.”