When a struggling Broadway talent agent reluctantly agrees to represent a male stripper, she finds out there's more to her new client than oiled abs.
Season 1 of Strip in the City
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Today might be the worst day of my life. I just lost my biggest c...
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Attack by flying monkeys would have been preferable to this complicated tangle of feelings knotting inside me.
Was I angry? Sure.
Frustrated? Absolutely.
Humiliated beyond belief? You bet.
But there was something else beneath all my anger and frustration that burned even hotter, and the worst part was I didn't have a name for it. It wasn't embarrassment or disappointment.
It was something else.
Was I a fool for believing West respected me? When I set up a professional boundary between us—before I ended up kissing him on the street or hooking up with him at his apartment—I thought he'd respect me more. Talented, hot men never respected a woman who gave in to their sexual advances.
I could almost hear my mother's icy tone as I recalled one of her lectures on business.
"If your clients believe their looks have sway over you, you'll never be respected in this industry. Next thing you know, they're canceling meetings and telling you they need favors late at night. These men do not respond to kindness. They respond to firm boundaries. Never forget that, Maren."
I didn't want my mother to be right. I thought West cared about me more than his ego.
I'd been wrong because I never received a phone call or text message—not even a damn email telling me he couldn't make it.
The fury swimming in my veins pushed the hurt away. I pounded on West's apartment door. "West, if you're in there, you better open this fucking door!"
There was no answer, only an angry echo.
When I gave up hope that West was home, I slumped against the wall. "How could I have been so stupid?" I chastised myself as tears rose in my throat.
This was the problem with acknowledging that I liked West. I got my stupid hopes up that he was different, only to discover he was like every other man in Manhattan. Selfish and cold. I'd considered him an exception to the rules, but there were no exceptions.
You either got responsible and boring, or hot and unpredictable.
I might like West, but what did I really know about him?
Nothing.
My face fell into my hands. West was probably in a sex fog somewhere, sleeping off a foursome with those perky girls we met at the ice cream shop.
The thought that he was with another girl—or three—made me so angry I wanted to punch a hole straight through his door.
My feelings for West were too confusing and complicated for our working relationship.
Instead of punching a hole or sitting in front of his door until he came home, I decided to call West one more time. If he picked up and had a reasonable explanation for missing the audition, I'd listen to it.
