Sleet Kitten: Chapter 1

“What did you say?”

I glance over to see an older gentleman standing beside me, critically eyeing the chicken skewer in his hand.

“Oh, um…” I quickly scoop up the heel that just broke off my favorite pair of shoes and hold it up between us. “Just cursing out my footwear.”

The man narrows his eyes before giving me a nod. “Ah, well, nothin’ a bit of crazy glue and a well-placed nail can’t fix.”

I resist a shudder at the idea of putting my foot anywhere near a shoe held together with a nail.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I give the man a small smile and hobble past him before I can get sucked into yet another long-winded conversation I couldn’t be less interested in.

I promised my mom I’d come here tonight, and I’ve fulfilled that promise. But I am officially over this party. And honestly, to call this a party is an insult to all fun parties everywhere. This is more of a rubbing elbows, gaining voters, and pocketing fundraiser checks event. Not a party.

Sure, I’m proud of my cousin Daniel for announcing his run for Minneapolis City Council. And if I lived within the city limits, I’d gladly vote for him. But I don’t. And I’m not loaded enough to be a donor. I’m strictly here for support as the sole family representative. Alex, my brother, is an asshat… so I’m not surprised he bailed. Everyone else is either out of town, lives out of town, or knew about this with enough of a heads-up that they were able to make up excuses to get out of attending. Me? I didn’t know about any of this until yesterday afternoon. My aunt called asking me to please attend since, like the cold-weather-pansy that she is, she’s already down in Florida for the winter. So, long story short, she guilted me into making an appearance.

I doubt Daniel would’ve even noticed if I didn’t show up. This condo we’re in has got to be around 5,000 square feet, and it’s nearing standing-room-only. I don’t know where my cousin got the guest list. These are not his typical beer-swilling friends I’ve met before. I think I heard something about this place belonging to a professional athlete. My guess is that Mr. Athlete played a role with the invitations, because the crowd is definitely highbrow. Much like the penthouse itself.

I’d showed up late enough that the socializing was in full swing when I walked through the front door, and instantly felt like I’d stepped into a photo shoot half made up of gorgeous twenty-and-thirty-somethings, polished and plucked within an inch of their lives. I bet any one of them could enter a crime scene and not leave a piece of hair, DNA, or lint behind. Even with all the fancy drinks being consumed, there isn’t an extra ounce of body fat to be seen. I almost want to strip them down just to see if they’re real. In a scientific way, not a sexy way. Because the thought of actually having sex with one of these male specimens is downright horrifying. No way would I ever allow one of them to see me naked.  Plus, anyone that into themselves is probably not a put her pleasure above your own -type.

The second half of the crowd is comprised of your dad’s boardroom buddies. Much like the chicken skewer guy. Old, white, suit-wearing, drinking brown liquor in low-ball glasses with comb overs that aren’t fooling anyone. I’m assuming a handful of them are also City Council Members, and – for this reason alone – I hope my cousin gets the votes he needs. He can young-en things up a bit by adding some non- cholesterol-medicated blood into the veins of the city.

Even with the clashing demographics, everyone is mingling and small talking and munching on the catered food. And then there’s me.

I put a decent amount of effort into getting ready. I dusted off the Little Black Dress from the back of my closet. It’s classic and safe. The skirt flares out a bit and comes nearly to my knees, making sure I don’t look like a street walker. Some people don’t realize that when you have an ass, like – a giant handful of an ass – it makes a short dress even shorter. It takes fabric to cover up this behind, and those minidresses do not have enough material for my dimensions. I need to be able to lean over without flashing the cheeks and lady bits to everyone. I’m not like the rest of these waif-thin, waxed-to-perfection creatures, so my hourglass curves stand out a bit more than I prefer. 

I’d paired the dress with my now deceased shiny black pumps, some dangly earrings, and a teal clutch, and left my light brown hair in loose waves.

I’d felt amazing until about three seconds after walking through the door, when this landscape of manscape made my extra fifteen pounds feel like fifty. But I stuck it out. I’ve been here for nearly two hours. Now, it’s almost 10 p.m. and my pajamas are at home calling my name. My small-talk filter is wearing thin, and that second glass of wine did not help to rein me in. Then I take one magically cursed step toward some mini fruit tarts, and the heel snaps right off my shoe. If that’s not a sign to GTFO, I don’t know what is. So, I’m out.

Front door in sight, I start to plan the best route that’ll avoid any accidental conversation when my eyes lock onto a profile I – unfortunately – would recognize anywhere. My feet stop moving.

You have got to be kidding me!

Bradley. Bad Boyfriend Bradley. A literal FML moment. I just want to leave. I want to go home. And I want to do that without having to make eye contact, or voice contact, with mother-freaking Bradley.

Taking in all the angles, I try to see if there’s a way for me to Beautiful Mind my way past this situation. He’s standing a few feet away from the door, talking to a few of the young and the restless. Looking closer, I realize that the woman next to him is with him. Like with him, with him. Her arm’s snaked around his back, her hand playing with the collar of his dress shirt.

I take a few steps back as I try to decide what to do about Bradley and his new girl. A girl in a tight red dress, with an ass that does not nudge her obscenely short hemline into misdemeanor territory.

Nope. I’m not dealing with this. Not now, hopefully not ever. Bradley’s a tool. Our relationship was short; it was over six months ago. But when I tried to break it off, he got all nasty and he turned it into him dumping me. I hold no longing for him whatsoever, but the last thing I want to do is run into him, dateless, carrying my broken heel, leaving a party early.

So, I do what any normal woman would do in this situation. I search for a place to hide.

Turning away from the front door, I look around the great room. It really is a beautiful space. Dark wood floors, tall ceilings with big windows, and oversized leather furniture. Weaving my way through bodies, I find myself on the far edge of the room. I’m seriously considering hiding behind the drapes when an escape presents itself in the form of a staircase.

I bite my lip. No one else is paying any attention to the fact that there’s apparently a lower level. A glow at the bottom of the stairs beckons me closer. I cross my fingers, hoping there’s an extra living room down there, and not a sex dungeon. Or – if it is a pleasure room – hopefully it’s not in use. Either way, it’s worth the risk. I need to be somewhere else while I wait for Bradley The Ball Bag to vacate the doorway.

Not wanting to kill myself on the descent, I slip my shoes off and carry them silently down the steps.

Reaching the bottom, I happily find that the floor is covered in a plush carpet. Wiggling my aching toes in the soft goodness, I look around the room. Blinking my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, I grin. I’ve found something much better than a second living room. I’ve found a secret library. Or study. Or whatever rich people call it.

It’s beautiful, in a masculine way. There are two pairs of large wingback chairs on opposite sides of the room. Every chair has its own side table and lamp, but just one light has been left on. It gives the room a warm, nighttime feel. Three of the walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The fourth wall hosts the staircase I just came down and a closed door. Probably that damn sex room.

There are some little trinkets on the shelves; an old-fashioned set of opera glasses, a candy dish filled with little wrapped caramels… but mostly the shelves are filled with books. Lots and lots of books.

I was hoping for a hideaway space I could waste time in, but I ended up finding my real-life happy place. As a copy editor, books are literally my life. Mostly I work on romance novels and adult fiction, but I’m fascinated by all forms of the written word. I love books even more than I love snooping, so combining two of my favorite pastimes . . . Don’t mind if I do.

I start browsing next to the candy dish. Without thinking, I pick up one of the caramels and bring the waxy wrapper to my nose. My mouth instantly waters at the smell. Feeling only a little bad about stealing, I quickly release the candy from its papery cage and pop into my mouth. A groan immediately leaves my throat. These are homemade.

Stuffing the empty wrapper in my pocket, I steal another caramel before shifting focus to the book titles. The collection is eclectic, and arranged in a pattern I can’t quite figure out. The fingers of my right hand drag across the book spines as my left hand clutches the second caramel. I’m so caught up in reading titles that I don’t hear the footsteps approach behind me.

“Find what you’re looking for?”