Page 40 of When Glitter Meets Gold

Once on board and settled in one of the ten finely strung-leather armchairs, J sighs as he plucks his phonefrom the mahogany desk in front of him. His notifications are endless, his forwarded emails from his secretary unbearable. And thatsituationhe’s dealing with looks like it would soon need attention.

He groans internally as he prepares to take care of business, piqued that his daydreams of a strange woman wearing his favorite sweater are quickly evaporating into a cloud of smoke.

It's time to forget about his hike, and more importantly, time to forget about Sara.

“What’s this huge emergency?” J embraces Enrique with two firm slaps on the back of his maroon Dolce & Gabbana shirt. Their friendship had formed several years back while Enrique was working as a bartender and J had just moved to New York. He’d trudge into the dive bar most nights when business was slow, and he barely had enough money to eat. Enrique would lend a friendly ear and sneak him meals from the kitchen. At some point, it was no longer about the convenient location of the bar or the cheap food and liquor, but more about the company.

J would listen to Enrique’s dreams of running his own bar and stories of his irritating, yet wonderful, Mexican family who J had grown to know over the years.

J never forgot his kindness, which was why, all these years later, he invested in one of the most sought-after locations on the Upper East Side and decided to turn it into a chic late-night cocktail bar and drafted in Enrique to run the whole operation.

“Idiots delivered the wrong menus. Now nobody will return my calls to fix the fuckup.” Enrique slams down a flimsy menu folded in three parts which—lord have mercy—obviously doesn’t belong on his gleaming marble countertops. “These look like take-out menus. Tell me how I can charge forty dollars for a Negroni with these? My kid could’ve done a better job in third grade art class.” Enrique runs a frustrated hand over his gelled-back black hair.

J raises an eyebrow. There’s no denying the menus look like horse shit, but pulling him from a do-not-disturb trip for this? Even Burke had been instructed not to contact him under any circumstances unless it was life or death. How could Enrique think that menu aesthetics fall into the latter category?

“Okay, what else?” A taxing breath suggests the decision to give his friend the benefit of the doubt.

“The game this weekend,” Enrique says through almost gritted teeth. “Press would rather be there.”

“How many have we lost?” J asks, feeling nausea swell in the pit of his stomach, because yes, this is a problem.

“A dozen and counting.” Enrique thrusts a guest list into J’s hands.

The bar’s opening night is this coming Saturday, which just so happens to clash with an important late-night basketball game across town. It looks like most of the big reporters J had rounded up are heading to the game instead, leaving the bar with an unacceptable, paper-thin guest list. Losing this much media attention would be catastrophic.

“Alright,” J says after a few seconds of quick calculations, his phone already pressed to his ear. “I’ll make a call about the menus. I need you to call PR, tell them to contact any reputable food bloggers and critics you haven’t already. Maybe we could try some apps too.” He pauses while he considers. “You know what, I want apps. Tell PR to get in touch with the five best performing apps in the city inrelation to cuisine and beverages.” J taps the bar as he prepares to leave. “I gotta go, but you got this, right?”

Enrique is already marching off into the back when he shoots J a nod of agreement.

“Hey, Enrique,” J calls over his shoulder. “Get those things out of here.” He smirks, pointing to the menus.

“Believe me, I can’t wait to blowtorch the shit out of them,” Enrique crows as he flips off the abominations.

J considers staying a few minutes longer to catch up with his friend, but a flash assessment of his schedule tells him it’s time he doesn’t have. Being back in the city means every second is precious.

He’d have to personally contact some of the journalists, convince them that his event was the one worth attending.

Everything needed to be perfect for the opening. Perfect like all his other projects. There hadn’t been a single thing J had touched over the years that hadn’t turned to gold.

A Midas touch.

It’s the reason every developer, entrepreneur, and business mogul in a five-hundred-mile radius wants to cut deals and thrust contracts at him. He never misses the mark.

He smirks when he leaves the bar, glancing up at the freshly polished, black plaque with gold engraving:Midas.

His list of journalists is long; he decides to make the calls personally, confident they’ll accept his requests if he speaks to them directly. He’ll do so on his journey to his next stop, his tailor. The perfect evening calls for the perfect suit.

Nothing would catch him off guard. Not a shitty, inadequate menu, or a sold-out basketball game. Nothing would happen on his opening night that he hadn’t already seen coming.

17

SARA

There is no greater relief than coming home and locking out the world behind you. Even if said home has only one bedroom, lacks adequate daylight and has mice scurrying inside the walls.

It’s the place where I walk around freely in mismatched underwear and curl up to embarrassingly cheesy movies while devouring as much takeout as I desire. Speaking of which, I’m starving.

I order a banquet of Chinese food to keep me going throughout the afternoon and rest of the evening. Then, I take a hot shower, apply collagen eye patches—the expensive ones reserved for emergencies—tug on the softest loungewear I own, and dial Amber as I leap onto the sofa.

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