2015 – Alaska
There are many ways a girl can humiliate herself at eighteen. Forgetting the professor's name on the first day of class, tripping on the cafeteria tray line, or accidentally sending a text about your roommate to your roommate.
But no, not me. I had to take the scenic route straight into the Hall of Fame of Mortification: I impaled a billionaire with my shoe and then grabbed his crotch in front of half the business school.
Yes. Hi. Nice to meet you. I'm Alaska, and 2015 was already shaping up to be the year I learned gravity had a personal vendetta against me.
It started with a caramel latte. I'd just spent the last of my week's food budget on it, so naturally, the universe decided it belonged all over my blouse instead of in my stomach. The culprit? A six-foot-something man with a jawline like it had been carved by the cruel hands of Zeus and a suit so sharp it probably required a license to wear. He spun around too fast, his iced coffee collided with my latte, and bam – coffee fireworks, Alaska dripping in caramel.
"Watch where you're going!" I yelped, clutching my chest like he'd shot me.
He raised one brow, slow and deliberate, like men who know they're rich and don't have to worry about spilled lattes. "You ran into me."
Excuse me? Was I hallucinating? Did this man just mansplain my own collision to me while his Americano dripped off my skirt?
I opened my mouth to retort and took one fateful step forward.
Here's the thing about cheap stilettos bought on clearance: they don't just break on you. No, they choose violence. The skinny heel of mine lodged itself neatly through the shiny leather of his fancy Italian loafer – like a sword in the stone, except the sword was my low-priced knock-off heels and the stone was his three-thousand-dollar shoe.
He let out an unmanly grunt. I blinked at the sight of my leg tangled with his foot like some tragic modern art sculpture. "Oh my God," I whispered. "I stabbed your shoe."
"You stabbed my foot," he hissed.
Naturally, I panicked. Which is how my hands flailed in the general direction of his torso, trying to steady him, and somehow – I swear on my student loan debt – my palm landed squarely on his crotch.
Time. Stopped.
He stared at me like I was an alien lifeform. I stared at him like maybe if I squeezed my eyes shut, I could astral-project out of my body and go live as a yak herder in Mongolia instead.
"Miss," he said finally, his voice dropping low, scandalized, and a little strangled, "are you helping me or assaulting me?"
I squeaked. Actually squeaked. "I'm – oh my God – I was just – your balance – "
"Pretty sure you're holding my balance hostage," he muttered, prying my hand away.
And look, I don't care how embarrassing it was: the man smelled like expensive soap and all kinds of sin. A little cedarwood, a little coffee, and a whole lot of "you'll never be able to afford me." My eighteen-year-old hormones did not need this level of danger.
Of course, because life is cruel, the business school dean chose that exact moment to clap him on the back and announce, "Ladies and gentlemen, your guest speaker today – Richard Hale!"
My eyes widened. Richard Hale? The guy plastered on Forbes' "Under 30" cover, the one my roommate had called business daddy? The man whose shoe I'd just skewered and groin I'd just… grabbed?
"Nope," I gasped, yanking my heel free so fast I nearly toppled. His shoe made the saddest, most expensive death-squelch I'd ever heard. And then, without another word, I bolted out of that hall like the place was on fire.
I didn't stay to hear his motivational talk. I didn't stay to hear how he built his empire from scratch. I didn't even stay to apologize for what was, objectively, aggravated groin assault.
But here's what I did stay for: the way his eyes followed me as I ran, that flicker of something – amusement? annoyance? interest? All I know is, if attraction could be expressed in a joke, ours was a pie smacked straight to the face.
And that, dear reader, is how I met Richard Hale: coffee-stained, broke, stuck in a shoe-and-groin hostage situation.
You know. The usual.