Free Greatest Distraction (Distracted #1) by Juli Valenti

maneuvered my way inside the building, my feet leading me to the elevator by memory alone. I pressed the button and smiled to myself as the door opened immediately, revealing an empty car. It took no time to reach the correct floor, and I easily found the door, the ‘#2E3E’ much like a giant ‘X’ marking the spot. Seeing it made me super happy; we’d spent many nights creating clever rhyming names with the unit number – most of them including Elle being drunk with a number before or after it. ‘One drunk, two drunk, three drunk Elle!’ Never mind, don’t ask – definitely an inside joke.
    I slipped the key in the lock, releasing a breath of relief I hadn’t known I’d been holding when it disengaged and the door opened. The smell of cinnamon and roses, just like Elle’s house in Georgia, grew and I smiled, recognizing the scent and turning on the lights. As I stepped inside, my eyes widened and my heart sped, just like it always used to. My condo in Atlanta was pretty, but if this place was used for the scale? I lived in an old refrigerator box, in the middle of the ghetto. Not even kidding. Maybe it was because I hadn’t been to Central in forever, but good grief, it was amazing.
    Rich, authentic hardwood floors met me, shining a beautiful maple, perfectly accenting the eggshell color of the walls. On the side of the spacious living room was a set of sta irs that I knew led to the bedrooms. The other side was home to a large, open-space kitchen, complete with white marble countertops, an industrial silver fridge, and matching appliances. A black wood dining table sat in the corner, a fireplace strategically behind it, acting as a perfect focal point. The couch and other living room furniture was plush, but simple, the red of the accent pillows going well with the tan suede.
    High ceilings, and by ‘high’ I mean ridiculously so, elegant bright lighting , and wall art completed the room. Almost. The real Pièce de résistance were the windows. Framed with drapery the same scarlet red as the throw pillows, they were amazing: floor to ceiling, almost a full wall, and the view cinched the deal, perfectly overlooking Central Park.
    I let my bags drop where they would, they’d gotten heavy while I’d taken it all in, and shut the door behind me. The security latch followed the deadbolt and I couldn’t help but chuckle at myself. It’d been forever since I’d used mine at my place. Old habits in familiar places died hard, I guess.
    Starting for the kitchen, my foot scuffed on something, bringing my attention downward. Under my feet were envelopes, a lot of them actually, each different colored with my name written elegantly on the front. They’d obviously been dropped off through the small, old-fashioned mail flap Elle had demanded be installed on the door when we’d moved in.
    Intrigued, I took them to the coffee table and sat on the floor in front of it. Delicately pulling the flap of the gold envelope, a slip of card stock dropped into my hand, the paper rich and the writing pristine:
    Miss Ryen F. Macek,
    You are cordially invited to the twelfth annual ‘Beauty in Art’ gala, to be held on Thursday, the thirteenth day of March at eight in the evening.
    All proceeds will be donated to the ‘No Child Left Behind’ foundation.
    White carpet event, Black tie required.
    The address to the event was printed at the bottom, along with a name and number to contact with any questions. No return address was listed on the invitation, but I at least knew how I’d gotten it. Elle. I also had the sneaking suspicion that the rest of the pile would be pretty much the same; all invites to different events, all personalized with my name, all dropped off for me personally. Geez, I needed to remember to thank her.
    Speaking of events and galas and different -colored carpets, I checked my watch, surprised so much time had passed. Taking two of my pieces of luggage - I wasn’t superhuman strong; I couldn’t carry three