CATHY — I’m falling...

The doorbell jangles, announcing my arrival. And as always, the moment people look in my direction, without interest, almost by instinct, their eyes widen, and the whispering begins. After all, I am a supermodel. My face is all over Times Square. I don’t have the luxury of privacy, of an anonymous life.

Still, why am I here?

My blue eyes meet the owner of this place; he’s distracted by another customer, smiling easily.

My stomach twists, and I feel suddenly nervous.

The whispers reach his ears, and he looks at me. It takes a few seconds for his face to show a reaction, but soon, the smile rises to his eyes, following me while I cross the coffee shop to the table at the back.

I sit down and hide my face behind the menu, my cheeks burning for a reason unknown to me.

Dammit, I look like a teenager. It’s not like it was the first time I’ve woken up in a man’s bed after a few drinks. And it certainly wasn’t the first time