Don't wear combat boots in summer—even if you're hiding them under a green ball gown that's long enough to cover your feet. No bet is worth this torture. Seriously, why did I agree to such a ridiculous dare?

It's not about the money. Our bets with Olga are never about the money; they're about the humiliation. One drunken night, we thought it'd be funny if I wore these boots every day in August, and if I did, Olga would have to march through Times Square in nothing but the boots and a giant I LOST sign.

At the time, the idea of seeing her butt naked and miserable seemed hilarious. But now, I'm the one who's suffering!

"One more night," I mutter, slamming open the terrace doors. One more freaking night, and the bet will finally be over. I just wish tonight had turned out a little differently.

Stupid, two-faced, entitled producers...

They woke me up at 3 a.m. a week ago, demanding I edit a twenty-minute-long scene for this movie gala. Urgently. Then I come here and find out they scrapped my work at the last minute. Why? Because some junior messed up cast releases, and they can't screen any shots with the actors who signed the wrong waiver.

All those sleepless nights, hours of perfecting zombie makeup, and timing that majestic bus explosion? Gone. Just like that. Poof!

I grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter and take a long swig. My feet have blisters from the stupid boots, and the bust of this strapless, A-line dress is squeezing the life out of me.

I near the edge of the terrace for a breath. The dust rising from the evening traffic stings, but I'll take it. I'll take this gritty, sewer-scented air. I'll take anything to put out the fire in my chest, my feet, and my face.

I shuffle my bangs and turn back, sipping more champagne. The cold fizz slides down my throat, and somehow, helps me breathe.

Beyond the terrace's doors, two men in tuxedos stand under a crystal chandelier in the grand foyer.

Why aren't they watching the movie with everyone else?

Are they actors? They can't be. One of them is too short—maybe five foot nine—and the other doesn't have the kind of facial symmetry the cameras adore. Still, they both look pretty hot from where I'm standing.

The shorter one takes out a velvet box, shakes it, and flips it open with a frown. The tall, muscular one pats the other's arm and gives his shoulders an encouraging shake.

I wish I could hear them. Looks like Mr. Muscle is prepping Frowny Face for war or something. I lower my glass as the shorter one stares at the box, then straightens up when Mr. Muscle punches his jaw playfully in slow motion.

It's been a while since someone touched me—and I don't mean intimately. A human touch, like the way Frowny slaps Muscle's cheek in a brotherly manner. My cheek, my hand, my hair...

I'm in a drought.

My last relationship ended six years ago, the moment I graduated from high school. The breakup was messy and brutal—the kind that leaves you on the floor like a stain on a carpet. The kind that makes you feel like a dust ball, swept and piled into a corner.

Don't get me wrong, I went out with all sorts of guys later on. College was fun, but that's all it was. Meaningless fun.

I've been on dating apps, the most exclusive ones, swiping left and right. Although I matched with some pretty hot guys, we never had a spark when we met. I can't bring myself to touch those apps anymore.

I put my faith in astrology, flipping through horoscopes, waiting for the stars to align and lead me to the one. I've read countless articles about soulmates, twin flames, fated souls and cosmic connections supposedly happening out there in the universe.

Well, not in my universe.

Meditation, manifestation, screaming seven-seven-seven in a moment of drunken desperation—it's supposed to be the number of angels, by the way—I've tried it all. I grounded myself, even hugged a tree, whispering I accept to receive.

But... You guessed it right. None of that stuff brings a meaningful relationship. At least, they haven't worked for me in the last six years.

So, I've decided that the problem isn't me, or the universe. It's the dating scene.

Every straight guy in Manhattan is the same. They all talk and act as if they are some hot-shot from a stupid men's magazine, living the dream. What is the dream, anyway? Everybody is after getting something from you with no consequences, and they have no intentions of giving back anything in return. They are nothing but a different profile picture with the same character: a copy of a copy.

But tonight, I'll even take a copy. I'll take whatever the universe gives me.

Hear me, universe!

And just like that, Mr. Muscle lifts his head and meets my eyes.

I know the universe didn't answer my call, but I grin anyway.

Yeah, he'll do just fine if he's up for it.

Muscle's lips curl into a sexy, half smile. Then patting Frowny one last time, he leaves him behind.

Our gazes lock as he opens the glass doors to the terrace. He's walking toward me suavely, one hand casually tucked into his pocket while the other rubs his sharp, clean-shaven jaw.

My grin widens. I'm forcing every muscle on my face to look innocent. He is a player—it's written all over his moves, but he looks nothing like a copy. He is an original, and he knows it.

His lips are full and pink. His nose is arched, small, and cute. The dark hair falling onto his forehead looks like it was gelled back until he raked his fingers and messed around with it. But the show-stopper is his eyes. His wide, green eyes glow with sweet mischief. I like his contained smile—not too eager, but not too shy.

"Excuse me, are you an actress? Because I'll run back and watch that film 'till the end to see you on the screen," he says.

I chuckle and sip my champagne. "I'm not. Are you?"

His grin grows and reflects in his eyes. He likes—no, he loves my answer. He scratches his chin and grabs the fence behind me, swinging his body closer to mine. "Nah, you wouldn't be able to recognize me if I was in that movie. I'd be an extra, one of the zombies taking over the city."

"Oh, but I would," I say, gravitating toward him. "Believe me, I've touched up lots of zombie faces in the editing. I'd recognize your green eyes from miles away."

Yeah, I'm smoother than him. And tipsier. But the way his eyes glow takes my breath away. Something about his smile warms my insides and turns the heat from my draught up a notch. I'm dying of thirst, but I'm loving this sweet mirage.

"Nate," he says, holding out a hand.

"Abby." I take his hand into mine.

My small palm fits perfectly into his big one. His fingers close around my bones, and he gives them a tight squeeze. I can't help but keep grinning. My insides are churning and flipping right now.

Finally, physical contact. So innocent, yet promising wonders. And this time, it's not just a one-way transaction, but a mutual feeling—I don't know how I know. But at this moment, the universe is revolving around me.

Nate glides his arm across the edge of the fence behind my back, keeping a close proximity. "So did you edit this film?"

"Yeah. Well, part of it," I say, pointing my glass toward the terrace doors. "Frankly, I'm glad to be done with it."

"I'd be glad too. I mean, you probably had to look at those zombies for countless hours. I couldn't even last thirty minutes."

I burst out laughing and nearly choke on my drink. God, it feels fantastic to laugh at my own project to blow off some steam. Wiping the corners of my lips, I ask, "And what do you do, Nate?"

"Sports..." His voice trails off when he turns around and raises his hand to stop a waiter.

"Sounds like fun." Okay, I didn't hear what he said, and he's doing something wordy, but I can imagine him doing all sorts of sports. He has the upper body of a swimmer and the tall, strong legs of a hockey player.

When the waiter approaches us, I leave my empty glass on the tray and take a new one.

"It's not as fun as people think. But tonight is," Nate says with a crooked smile, and raises his champagne. "To a fun night."

"Cheers."

We clink our glasses and sip our drinks. A warm wind shuffles the leaves of the tree we are standing under.

Nate licks his lips and looks at his feet as he steps even closer. "May I?" he asks, lifting his hand to my face. When I nod, he takes a leaf out of my hair and tucks a few loose strands behind my ear.

A glow flashes through his green eyes and makes me smile. At that moment, I know I'm going to take Nate home tonight, and it's going to be a fun ride.