by Lara Adrian
Table of Contents
Title Page
FOR 100 DAYS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
FOR 100 DAYS
A 100 Series Novel
Book 1
LARA ADRIAN
© 2016 Lara Adrian, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (v1)
Mature audience.
* * * * *
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FOR 100 DAYS
Pleasure has a price . . .
Struggling artist Avery Ross is barely scraping by. Bartending at a trendy New York City restaurant for an overbearing boss and two weeks away from losing her apartment to a condo developer, she's desperate for a break. So when she's offered a temporary house sitting job, she takes it.
Living at one of the poshest addresses in Manhattan is like entering a new world—one that catapults her into the orbit of billionaire Dominic Baine, the darkly handsome, arrogantly alpha resident of the building's penthouse. What begins as a powerful attraction soon explodes into a white-hot passion neither can deny.
Yet as scorching as their need for each other is, Avery doesn't expect Nick's interest in her to last. Nor does she dare to dream that the desire she feels for this scarred, emotionally remote man could deepen into something real. For Avery has secrets of her own—and a past that could destroy her . . . and shatter everything she and Nick share.
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For 100 Days is the first novel in a passionate new contemporary romance trilogy from New York Times and #1 international bestselling author Lara Adrian.
Coming soon: For 100 Nights and For 100 Reasons
Chapter 1
Cold afternoon rain needles my cheeks as I emerge from Grand Central Station with the rest of the crowd fresh off the subway. I wince and tug the hood of my jacket a little farther over my face as I push forward in the drizzle and try to ignore the chilly, late April gust that sweeps through the city’s skyscraper canyons on a low, banshee howl.
I swear, it seems like New York has been trying to spit me out and blow me back home to Pennsylvania almost since the day I arrived.
By now, I should be used to sudden shitty turns in the weather, and I curse myself for not taking the time to zip the winter liner back into my jacket before I left my apartment in Brooklyn. I’d been too preoccupied and anxious as I got ready for work, feelings I’m still carrying with me now as I head away from the station.
The restaurant where I tend bar six nights a week is up on Madison Avenue, several blocks away. Shivering as the rain starts to soak me, I walk briskly toward my destination, eyeing the other people around me with envy as they huddle under the shelter of their umbrellas. I should have brought mine too. Maybe I would have if half of its spines weren’t mangled from battling other storms. Maybe someday I’ll get around to replacing it.
Right. I practically snort at the idea. Considering the nasty-gram my landlord left taped to my door earlier this week, broken umbrellas are the least of my worries.
Unprepared and underfunded. The definition of my entire existence lately.
More than once in the past year and a half, I’ve been tempted to lie down and let this damn city win.
But not today.
Today, I have something I haven’t had in a long time.
Hope.
It surges through me, sharp and bright and warm, as I reach the smoked-glass double doors of Vendange and my phone rings in my jacket pocket. I’ve been waiting for this call all day—ever since I got the voicemail from my friend, Margot, that she had news for me and didn’t want to leave the details in a message.
Patience has never been my strong suit. Especially not when everything I have is riding on the outcome. I’d called Margot back immediately, but her assistant informed me she was tied up in gallery meetings at Dominion and couldn’t be interrupted.
That was hours ago.
In the time since, I’d gone back and played her message at least a dozen times, trying to read clues in her voice, but there was only measured control and professionalism in her tone. And why not? She and I are friends, but I’m also her client—albeit, not a very profitable one. I can only wish that’s about to change tonight. Hell, I’m praying for it.
I can hardly breathe from anticipation as I slip into the restaurant to get out of the wet and cold, my heart racing, chilled fingers fumbling inside my pocket to retrieve my ringing phone.
Although it’s early in the evening, Vendange is packed with corporate and creative types from the surrounding area. Dark suits mingle with high fashion and Boho chic at the tight clusters of tables in the dining area. At the long, sleek bar, one of my coworkers, Tasha Lopez, is pouring drinks and flirting shamelessly with a group of male patrons who have no idea the curvy spitfire is a happily married woman with a young family at home.
Tasha spots me coming in the door and sends me a nod in greeting as I bypass the new girl at the hostess stand and the line of customers that’s already starting to form at the front of the house. I’ve got a few minutes before I have to clock in for my shift, so I hurry for the employee coatroom to answer the call.
When I finally have my phone in hand, my heart sinks. On the display, the area code reads 570, not 212. Pennsylvania, not New York.
“Shit.” The word leaks out of me on a quiet sigh.
This isn’t the call I’m waiting for, and even though conversations with my mom never last more than fifteen minutes, I tell myself I can’t afford to tie up the line even that long as I mute the ringer and decline her call.
The truth is, I can’t deal with talking to her right now. Not today. And not here, where I have to put on a cheerful smile, make conversation all night with strangers as I serve them overpriced cocktails and pretend the rest of my world isn’t the train wreck I know it to be.
None of that lessens the guilt that pricks me when I think of her disappointment on the other end. Keeping in touch is important to my mother, I know. It broke her heart when I moved so far away. She didn’t make a secret of that, but I think she understands that I had to do it. Finally, I had to do something for me.
With a frown and a deep exhalation I can’t hold back, I set my phone to vibrate mode and slide it into the back pocket of my black jeans. Employees aren’t supposed to carry their phones while they’re working, but I hope the hem of my untucked black shirt will hide it during my shift. It’s not like I’ll be able to concentrate on anything unless I keep it close tonight anyway.
“Hey, girl!” Tasha comes up behind me in the coat room as I’m hanging up my wet jacket and gives me a quick hug. “Thanks aga
in for taking my shift last night, Avery. You’re the best.”
“No problem,” I tell her. And it wasn’t. I needed the extra night’s tips, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have said no. I know Tasha would come in for me on her day off, too, if I ever asked the favor of her.
She watches me as I take off my flats and trade them for the black heels in my purse that complete my uniform for the bar. Tasha’s arms are crossed over her breasts, which are generously displayed in the low-cut V of her black top that’s very similar to mine—another part of the Vendange dress code that I despise. “I mean it, Avery. You’re a lifesaver. Joel said he was gonna dock me for a full day if I left without making sure the bar was covered.”
I roll my eyes at the mention of the restaurant’s oily manager. “Joel’s a dick. How’s Zoe doing today?”
“Much better. Just a passing stomach thing, but my mother-in-law panicked.” Tasha shakes her head, sending her soft brown spiral curls swaying against the coffee-and-cream smoothness of her cheeks. “It’s been a long time since Inez has taken care of a four-month-old and Zoe tends to fuss. But I know she’s in good hands. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Inez is free child care now that she’s living with us.”
I smile, hearing the relief in her voice. “I’m glad everything’s okay.”
“Yeah, me too. FYI, you’ve got paint on your chin.”
“I do? Dammit.” I rub my face, then fish for the compact mirror in my purse. The smudge of dark plum acrylic stains my chin like a fading bruise. “I’m almost finished with one of my pieces,” I tell her as I scrub the paint smear with the pad of my thumb. “It’s not perfect yet, but I’m working on it. I want to have it ready to show Margot soon.”
“Margot from the gallery?”
I nod, unable to hold back my grin. “She’s supposed to call me tonight with some news. Her voicemail this morning said she wanted to tell me personally.”
“Holy shit.” Tasha’s eyes widen. “Avery, that’s awesome. You must’ve sold another painting.”
She says it as if my art sells with some kind of regularity. It doesn’t. Aside from one painting that sold almost immediately after Margot got me placed at Dominion more than a year ago, it’s been a long, arid dry spell ever since.
Maybe that first sale was a fluke. I’ve often wondered. Dreaded it, really. People have told me I have talent. God knows, I love painting more than anything. It’s always been my outlet, my refuge. But maybe passion isn’t enough. Maybe I should’ve stayed in the hometown and saved my money to finish art school instead of running away to the biggest city I could think of as soon as I had the chance to break free and chase my dreams.
The truth is, I wanted to escape. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to become someone new. Someone different from me.
Someone better.
I wanted to live. For me, not for my mom or all the things she wants for me. Not even for my grandma, whom I’d looked after back home until her death from emphysema two years ago.
If I fail now, I’ll be letting everyone down.
Fuck, who am I kidding? I’m already failing, and unless Margot calls to tell me she’s sold my entire portfolio, the odds are I’ll be back on the bus to Scranton before the month is out.
I stow my purse in an employee locker, then start gathering my blond hair into a long ponytail at the back of my neck, finger-combing the damp tangles into some semblance of order.
“You better go,” I tell Tasha. “I have to clock in and you need to get behind the bar before Joel docks both of us.”
She makes a face. “Right. Meet you out there.” She starts to leave the coatroom, then swings back to point at me. “The second you hear from the gallery, I want to know. The very second, got me?”
“Yeah, of course.” I nod, and now my smile seems forced as doubt crowds in to diffuse the hope I’d been carrying with me most of the day. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She leaves and I can hear her greeting one of the customers on the floor outside with her bubbly, easygoing warmth. I lean against the lockers and take out my phone to type a text to Margot.
Please call as soon as you can. I’m dying here. I need to know what’s going on.
I hit SEND before I can change my mind and delete the desperate sounding message. I hate appearing weak or out of control, and the realization that I am both right now puts a sick feeling in my stomach.
I push the feeling away and slide my phone back into my pocket.
Then I step outside to the bustling restaurant to begin my shift, my mask of confidence held rigidly in place.
Chapter 2
We’re so slammed at the bar that nearly an hour passes before I can even think about the fact that I still haven’t heard from Margot. I pour a glass of Pinot noir for a well-dressed strawberry-blonde at the far end of the bar and walk it over to her. Despite being model gorgeous, she’s seated alone and has been preoccupied with texting and making phone calls since she arrived fifteen minutes ago.
I place the red wine in front of her without comment. She glances up then and meets my gaze, her elegant brows pinched.
“Can I get you anything else right now?” I offer.
“No, thank you.” With a frustrated sounding sigh, she sets her cell on the bar and shakes her head. “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here before I have to leave to catch a flight.” She checks the sleek watch on her left wrist and frowns. “Evidently, she’s running late.”
“Okay. I’ll check back in a few minutes,” I tell her, even though I doubt she’s listening. Before the words are out of my mouth, she picks up her phone again and starts frantically tapping out another text.
I pivot away to take drink orders from a trio of thirty-something suits who’ve just swooped in to grab newly vacated seats at the other end of the bar. They request single malt Scotch, then make half-assed attempts to flirt with me as I retrieve the bottle and set up three neats of the twelve-year Macallan.
I know the game I’m supposed to play behind the bar to bolster my tips, but I can hardly pretend to be interested in faking a little playful banter right now. I’m still edgy and anxious, wondering how long Margot is going to keep me in suspense.
Just when I think I can’t take another second, my phone begins to vibrate in my back pocket. It’s all I can do not to drop the whisky bottle as I return it to the shelf in my hurry to get to my call. Heading toward the back of the bar area, I pull my phone out and covertly check the caller ID.
It’s her.
Finally.
“Cover me?” I mouth to Tasha when I see her glance my way from across the bar.
She nods and holds up crossed fingers. Taking a deep breath, I slip off to the ladies’ room with my phone in hand. “Hey, Margot. How’s it going?”
I’m amazed at how casual and calm I sound when I answer, considering my heart is pounding about a hundred miles an hour.
“Long day,” she says. “The gallery owner came in for meetings with me and the rest of the staff. I just got out about five minutes ago and saw your text.”
I cringe at the reminder of my moment of weakness. “Yeah, um, sorry I missed your call this morning. I was working on the new piece and I guess I didn’t hear the phone. Anyway, I can’t wait to show this one to you. I think you’re really going to like it.”
“I’m sure I will. You know I love your work,” she says. “And I’m the one who should apologize. I probably shouldn’t have left a message at all. I wouldn’t if I’d known how hectic things were going to be here today. I didn’t mean to keep you hanging like this all day.”
There is a hesitancy to her voice that makes my mouth go dry. I drift to the farthest empty stall and close myself inside for some privacy, and to try to muffle the noise. There is a steady flow of chattering restaurant patrons coming in and out of the restroom and music from outside in the main house vibrates the restroom walls.
Margot hasn’t said anything more, and I realize she’s not calling to give me good news.
She’s silent, then she sighs quietly. “I’m really sorry, Avery.”
Her apology hits me like a physical blow. For a moment, I’m just as stunned as if I’d been slapped. “No, it’s okay. I understand. You’ve got a lot of my work already. Maybe we can talk about it after another piece sells, or—”
“Avery,” she says, her tone going even gentler now. “Like I said, the owner was in today. We talked about implementing some changes in the gallery collections. We’re going to be freshening things up a bit, clearing space in a few of the current displays to make room for some promising new artists that the owner feels strongly about . . .”
And I’m not one of them.
I don’t make her say the words. There’s no need. I know this conversation can’t be easy for her. Hell, it’s not easy for me, either.
I sag against the brick wall of the toilet stall and close my eyes. “How soon before you need to remove my work?”
She blows out a short breath. “Shit, Avery. You know I hate this, right? I wish the decision was up to me, but—”
“It’s okay. I understand. You don’t have to say anything more.”
My words are clipped and quiet, but not from anger. Not at Margot, anyway. She’s the only reason my work made it into the gallery in the first place. Dominion is one of the smaller galleries in the city, but it’s got a reputation for quality and vision. It’s also known for a willingness to take risks when it comes to the artists they showcase in their small, but respected, Fifth Avenue location.
Margot Chan-Levine is both the manager and the principal curator for the gallery. I didn’t know that when we met for the first time a year and a half ago, nor could I have imagined that she would like my work enough to acquire some of it for sale at the gallery.