Stroke is a unique enemies to lovers, billionaire romance collaboration from twenty-four authors.
Chapter 1
MIA
Written by Allie Juliette Mousseau
“ can’t believe it! We’re in New York City!” Lanie said as we stepped through the terminal of JFK.
Excitement bubbled up from my toes to the top of my head like trapped champagne in a shaken bottle until I couldn’t contain it. The top popped!
“We are really here!” I jumped up and down like a kid on Christmas morning. “In the city of photography and fashion! We’re going to see and do it all! New York Fashion Week…”
“Victoria’s Secret runway shows.” Lanie turned to face me as we huddled together like an NFL team about to run on the field to play the Super Bowl.
“Vogue.”
“GQ.”
“Cosmo.”
Then together, we cheered, “STROKE!”
Stroke was the greatest men’s fitness, style, and pop culture—not to mention scorching sex advice—magazine in the world.
“I can’t believe I have an interview tomorrow evening!” I shrieked, not caring who heard or saw me. “I’m so freaking nervous!”
“You’re going to win them over the moment they speak with you,” she encouraged.
A pang of guilt swept through my belly. “I’m sorry…” “Don’t you dare!” She lifted her hand to stop me. “You completely deserve this interview! I’ll get another chance. I already have twelve resumes out. I’ll get my call back.”
Disappointment flashed over her face, but only for a second, before she puffed out her chest with pride. “I am Lanie Marx. My photograph of the First Lady from the Inaugural Ball hangs in her sitting room. I won’t have to be a waitress at The Cheesecake Factory forever.”
“No, you absolutely won’t,” I reassured her.
“Hey, at least the job comes with its advantages.” Lanie had worked there all through college, which had its perks because she got fifty percent off everything on the menu and always brought home extra slices of cheesecake. But, of course, it most definitely had its disadvantages too.
“Yeah, that’s how I became acquainted with my two closest friends from college.” I tilted and pointed at my right hip. “Chocolate Peanut Butter.” I switched and pointed to my left, “…and Original.”
She giggled. “I’m lucky I was able to transfer my posi‐ tion from LA, here to New York.”
“Speaking of cheesecake and positions,” I said, “if I don’t get hired at Stroke, I could make an OnlyFans account.”
Lanie laughed out loud.
We had both sent resumes to Stroke. I nearly fainted when I was called in for an interview.
My gaze turned to the beckoning exit. “Our futures are right on the other side of those doors.”
I’d been star-struck since our plane soared over the Empire State Building before landing. All I could think of was when Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks met on the top floor in Sleepless in Seattle. I’m such a hopeless romantic.
Magic happens in New York!
Suddenly, Lanie planted a loud, sloppy smooch on my cheek. We both laughed.
In a few seconds, my hand floated to my cheek. “Don’t you do it!” Lanie warned me.
“What?” I acted like I was startled. “You know what!’
I did. Quickly, I spun around to hide my face from her so I could…
“Don’t wipe it off!” She shrieked and grabbed hold of me.
“I’m not! I’m…wiping it in.” I retorted.
“You always say that!” Lanie gripped my wrist to keep my hand away from my face. “You know it’s good luck!”
I gave up. It was pointless to fight her. She always did this, especially before a date or an important test.
“UGH!” Her strawberry-scented lip gloss was sticky on my skin.
The blast of a loud car horn broke us out of our antics. We caught sight of the yellow and black checkered NYC Taxi sign with an arrow pointing toward the set of sliding glass exit doors.
Lanie and I exchanged glances.
“Let’s do it!” She spoke with extra sass.
As we stood on the curbside, we did our best not to look like two naïve southern California girls who had never hailed a New York City taxi in their lives. In LA, we got around on the Metro, either by train or bus line.
Swiftly, seemingly out of nowhere, a yellow taxi stopped directly in front of us.
Reaching for the handle, I opened the back door wide and gestured to Lanie.
“You first,” I told her, grinning from ear to ear.
I didn’t even see the stranger coming before he somehow slipped his lean body between mine and the backseat of the coveted cab.
“Hey!” I protested. “That’s our taxi!”
“You weren’t paying attention. My chauffeur is stuck in traffic, and I have a seven o’clock dinner date.” His gaze landed quickly on my luggage. “You’ll have to be a lot quicker than that if you’re going to make it in this city.”
I must have looked like the angry emoji where the top of its head explodes.
Taxi-thief tipped his ball cap at me mockingly. He didn’t even bother to glance up at me from behind his dark Prada shades.
“Better luck next time,” he taunted before adding, “sexy legs.”
Furious, I balled my fists and felt the blood rush to my face.
With no good comeback, I just stood there with my mouth gaping open as the taxi screeched away.
“Wasn’t he lovely?” Lanie’s jeer dripped with sarcasm. “Welcome to New York.”
AS I SHIMMIED on my chic yellow dress suit, Lanie was sprawled across the blanket on the living floor, watching me. There was some snafu with our moving service, and the truck with all our stuff was still on the road some‐ where in Iowa.
We rented this matchbox-sized apartment nearly sight unseen. Lanie and her dad contacted a realtor, made sure the neighborhood had a low crime profile and high safety rating, and had a virtual tour before we signed a six- month lease. Not to mention it was almost affordable for two starving artist types.
Okay, starving except for the cheesecake.
After realizing we’d be living in Flushing, Queens, Lanie and I watched all The Nanny reruns and sang the theme song for a month.
Now, Lanie grilled me. “What if he expects you to schlep him coffee every morning?”
“How do you take it, Mr. Cohen?” I asked brightly. “Yeah, well, what if he orders you to pick up his things at the cleaners?” she chortles. “Easy enough.” I shrug.
“Even if it’s seven different sized pairs of panties–one pair for each of the seven different women he spent each night of the week with?” She cocked her eyebrow at me.
“Even if.” I’m nonplussed.
“What if he wants to clean your panties next?” I gasped. “Bite your tongue!”
She batted her eyes. “He hasn’t solidified his reputation as the city’s hottest playboy by sitting home alone sipping chamomile tea.”
“I’ll keep my wits about me.”
“Good job. You pass. Now, wear the red heels,” Lanie instructed. “Red is a power color, and they’re going to hear you roar.”
I slipped my feet into them.
“Not to mention they make your calves look so sexy,” she complimented.
“Thanks.” I shot her a sideways glance. “Didn’t we just talk about not getting played by the boss?”
Lanie rolled her eyes at me. “I didn’t say you couldn’t have a little bit of fun.”
Nervously, I stepped into the bathroom. Luckily, there was an old full-length mirror glued to the back of the door.
I studied myself. My chestnut hair hung in waves down my shoulders, the caramel highlights complimented against the yellow fabric. I put one more coat of darkest brown mascara over my lashes to flatter the blue of my eyes.
“Thank you for ironing the dress for me,” I hollered out.
“No problem. I mean, you are lousy at it, and I couldn’t have you going to your big interview looking like you slept in the thing.”
Stepping back out, I smiled at her. “Thanks.”
“Just repeat after me. I am Mia Adams. I have a Master of Fine Arts in Photography from UCLA, and I graduated in the top ten percent of my class.”
“Magna Cum Laude.” I didn’t even try to stop the smile from spreading across my face. I’d always had a difficult time in school, but from the moment I got a camera in my hands, I discovered the real me. And I had transformed from the proverbial ugly—or rather awkward—duckling to a graceful swan.
Strapping my attaché over my shoulder with my full portfolio carefully tucked inside, I strolled to our door with confidence. “Get ready, Trak Cohen. Here I come.”
“That’s it, baby. Work it.” Lanie cat-called like the best friend from Pretty Woman.
I laughed and threw a strut into my walk.
“WAIT!” her shouting snapped me back. In a moment, she spritzed me with her favorite perfume. A misty cloud of sexy scent wafted around me. “There, now you’re perfect. Go get him, tigress!”
I took a cab into Long Island so my dress didn’t get rumpled on the subway. I was so excited to meet the Trak Cohen. CEO, editor, and head photographer of Stroke. From interviews I’d seen, he seemed personable enough. Former employee reviews called him brash, among other expletives. It was obvious that when he was behind the lens, he was a demanding perfectionist, and I could respect that.
Unapologetic playboy? He was wealthy and successful with magnetic movie-star good looks, able to give any of the models Stroke photographed a run for their money. In fact, his gorgeous face, and ripped body, often graced the cover of Stroke. And GQ, Forbes, Men’s Health, Esquire, and others. I’d done my homework. His dark hair, topaz blue eyes, and finely chiseled features were a hypnotic lure to any woman, not to mention his talent and business savvy. I, however, was interested in his eye behind the camera.
“THE FAMOUS ATTIC STUDIOS.” My voice came out in a trembling whisper as I stood in front of Studio A, smoothing my dress with my hands. “Please stop shaking.” I pressed my palms against my knees.
“You’ve got this, Mia.” Taking a deep, full breath through my nose, I let it flow slowly out of my mouth right before I opened the door.
I stepped into another world. A vibrant, hectic, controlled chaos kind of world, and I immediately loved it.
Numerous tripods were strategically positioned around the photographer’s subjects. I was told by the assistant who contacted me for the interview what I was walking into. Seeing what was happening here now, I was so incredibly grateful she did.
The photoshoot was an elaborate production to promote the new music video from the power, musical duo-couple, Isabella and Nico. The song was titled “Want You,” and it was a scorcher! It played in the background while they rolled around together on a king-sized bed with white silk sheets. Isabella was stunning in her barely there, sheer satin and lace Versace gown. And Nico wore nothing but a pair of black Calvin Klein briefs. His fit, muscular body was oiled for the scene, and his hand was seductively gripping Isabella’s shoulder strap, ready to rid her of the obstacle.
A smoke machine was churning out hazy clouds while large industrial fans blew them around the smoldering couple. The way I saw it, they hardly needed an artificial smoke machine. The way they were moving, they could produce enough steam on their own.
Behind them, sweeping views of Manhattan’s renowned skyline glowed through the windows. The lights of the city were dazzling.
“STOP!” the loud, gruff voice demanded. All produc‐ tion screeched to a halt. However, from the corner of my eye, I saw Isabella and Nico were staying in complete character. Nico’s fingers caressed Isabella’s exposed skin, their eyes locked together.
“Who the fuck is wearing that perfume?”
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