Free Juice: Part One (Juice #1) by Victoria Starke Page A

and can navigate the sea of NYC taxi cabs, trucks, and pedestrians better than anyone.  But, he’s home in Los Angeles for the next two weeks.
         I message back Piper, “No problem, I’m on it!”
         In the next hour and a half, I fire off several emails, make a few phone call follow ups, and quickly pack up for the day. I’m heading for the elevator when Barry stops me.
         “Headed out already? You young gals have a lot going on. Just make sure you get me everything by Friday, sweetie.”
         Again with the sweetie. God I can’t stand him.
         Now I’m half walking, half running down the sidewalk in my four-inch work heels, work bag in hand, and gym bag over my shoulder. I should have just enough time to pick up the two cases of product and get up to midtown by 8 o’clock.
         Outside, the sky is dark and a feel a few rain drops as I scamper down the blocks and across an intersection. Not what I need now.
         How do I know that address… 432 Park Avenue? I can’t get it out of my mind how familiar that building sounds.
         I’m sweating now as I scramble up the three floors to our tiny but cute apartment in the East Village.  “Keep going, girl,” I tell myself, “This is all part of the plan.” Two cases in hand, I’m flying back down the three flights of stairs and out the front door.
         “Always in a rush, Bronwyn!” my 80 year old landlady Doris calls after me.
         “I know, I know,” I smile back at her.  She’s so sweet.
         I’m back pounding the pavement again, half running and half walking like a maniac in my pencil skirt and thirty pounds of our fresh juice under my arms. I make it to the subway stairs, and get there just in time to catch the 6-Train uptown.
         Now in midtown east, I scamper the quieted sidewalks in search of this address that strikes a chord, but I can’t for the life of me remember why . I thought to myself as my arms start to shake under the weight of the boxes.
         Is it my ex’s old address? That place I had that never-again one-night stand after one too many shots?” A few more steps and I’m there. Success! Too bad I’m sweating, hair probably a mess, and a fresh pair Jimmy Choo’s taking way more miles than anyone should be giving them.
         Oh yes, now I remember! This is 432 Park Avenue, the just-completed, mega skyscraper that has the city’s real estate news abuzz. Swanky.
         A doorman in a fitted uniform helps me with the entrance, “Evening madam”.
         “Hi, I have a delivery for a Mr. Chase,” I say with a smile, as I trip over the threshold and spill the contents of both boxes on the floor. One bottle breaks, sending all my hand-squeezed lemon, ginger, and aloe goodness spilling across the marble lobby floor. “Oh, no!” I cry out, helpless only to watch the hard work go to waste. I’m now on the floor, frantically trying to grab all the spilled contents and assess the damage.
         A deep voice appears from behind me, “Thanks, that’s for me.” I spin around mortified to find Mr. Chase who appears to be about 30 years old, tall, broad, and lean, and unbelievably handsome.
         He’s sweat-covered apparently from a city run and wearing a cocky grin as he walks directly to my aid, with bottles rolling every direction. I’ve always had a thing for guys exercising – I don’t know if it’s pheromones or something chemical, but a well-cut man after a workout always turned me on.
     

Chapter Three
     
     
         “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I stammer, “I don’t know what happened – I just dropped it – oh my God I’m so sorry, I can –“
         “It’s quite alright,” he says, cutting me off, ”Here let me help you,” he says as he quickly rushes over to my aid. He brushes against my shoulder as he leans down, sending a warm and pleasant shiver down my side.
         “If these juices are half as good as my