 by Lisa Renee Jones.jpg)
Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Everyone knows Damion West.
Just not like I do.
But that's another story better left untold.
It’s hard sometimes to remember that I’m no slouch myself. Confidence isn't exactly my forte but I fake it well. I’ve worked with my parents’ real estate firm catering to the rich and famous for years and I'm now one of the top agents in the country. Blue Enterprises is the name of our firm, which is also my name. Blue. Alana Blue. And now I'm on TV, the star of Selling in New York.
But every family has secrets. Damion's does and mine does as well.
That's why I have the TV show I didn't really want.
Nothing is real.
Except him. Damion. He's real. So is my past with him. But it's the past.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Alana
“The only bad thing about burning your bridges behind you is that the world is round.”
― Anonymous
A sunny day in New York City has the same impact as sunshine splaying across the waterfront.
It blinds you.
I step off the crowded sidewalk and into the street only to be halted by a firm hand on my arm. “Stop! Stop now!”
A truck flies past me rather than over the top of me.
I gasp and my fist balls over my racing heart before I pant out several heavy breaths and realize that I’m still teetering precariously on the edge of the curb. I almost stepped in front of a truck. It was so close. Too close. The light had turned, I argue in my head. There was no one coming and yet they were, and whoever has my arm just saved my life.
This is when you might think the meet-cute comes, when I look left, and some tall, dark, and handsome guy in a six-thousand-dollar suit pulls me to the sidewalk and a little too close to him.
But nope. That’s not my life.
My gaze swings left where I find an elderly lady holding onto me with a steely grip that defies her wrinkled skin and gray hair. “Honey, that could have been bad for you. And me. I think I’d have croaked right here if you croaked. You must be new to the city. These streets are not to be reckoned with. Get your feet back on the sidewalk.”
It’s as if my mother has jumped inside this woman’s body to lecture me. I don’t even defend my long-standing familiarity with New York City. I step backward and fortunately do not get rolled over by a crowd of people. It’s five o’clock. New Yorkers just want to go home, or to their second job they need to pay for an apartment the size of a closet.
“Thank you,” I say, offering the woman a nod. I’d shake her hand but she’s still holding my arm with a vise grip.
She studies me a moment, as if to confirm my understanding, only to press her lips together in disapproval. Her hand falls away. “You didn’t hear a word I said.”
I could explain that I’m from the city, that no one was coming—the truck ran a red light—but there really is no point. She saved my life. I have nothing but gratitude. I touch her arm. “I hear you and thank you.”
The impact is as I’d hoped. Her expression softens. “Take care of yourself, honey. It’s a dangerous city.”
“I will,” I promise, turning away from her just as a city bus with my face pulls up beside us. Okay, not just my face. It’s me sitting on a throne, that is really just a fancy chair. My legs are crossed, and I’m wearing this luxurious Gucci dress and heels, my long brunette hair draped over my shoulders. How very Sex and the City of me, only it has nothing to do with Sex and the City. As the words above the photo read, “Selling in the City, a new TV show featuring Alana Blue, debuted last week!”
The new TV show is all about real estate. And money. And people with money buying real estate from my family. A TV show I never wanted to do, but just finished filming despite my resistance to the spotlight. It’s about diversity for my family, and not having all of our eggs in one basket. And, of course, name recognition.
The old lady is beside me now, pointing at the bus. “Is that you?”
I glance at the photo of the hot woman in the chair, who looks and feels as fake as the TV show it’s advertising, and say, “She’s much prettier,” and I mean it. I’m just me, a simple girl who came straight here to the big city from not-so-little ol’ New Jersey, and did so traveling on the tailcoats of her parents. How they make me look like—a sexy, worldly woman—I do not know.
The woman glances between the woman on the bus and me and then settles her attention on my face. “No, you’re prettier.” She winks and turns away, disappearing into the crowd leaving me reeling with her statement.
I blink at the surprise compliment and eye the bus. I don’t know that I’m prettier than her, but I like this me, the real me, better than the woman in that chair, the one I had to become for reasons I can share with no one.
The light turns.
I hesitate, not so quick on the run this time. I look both ways as my mama taught me and start walking. My destination is the towering thirty-floor steel building just across the street, currently glistening in the sunshine. If only I were blind to what is going on inside. I shove aside the thought. I can do nothing about it, at least nothing more than what I’m already doing, and double step. My father would tell me I’m a worrywart, a type A who can’t just let things fall into place, and happen as nature would have them happen.