Love in the City Read online

  Now I just have to find somewhere to live.

  Geoff leaves after a while in search of his “bear,” which he insists he won’t find at Bounce. I give him a huge hug, overwhelmed with gratitude for my new job. I knew I liked him.

  Cat and I share another drink in the booth as I fill her in on my fruitless apartment hunt. Just talking about it is killing my buzz. I’m about to tell her I’m considering looking in—gulp—New Jersey, when she waves across the bar.

  “There’s Mel!”

  I look at the throng of people but I can’t see who she’s talking about. Then, a tall, slim woman pushes her way out of the crowd. She’s dressed as Wonder Woman, with the red and gold corset-style top, knee-high red boots and the tiny blue skirt barely covering her long, slender thighs. Her full red lips curl into a smile when she spots us. She’s older—I’m guessing around forty—and despite all of Cat’s kind words earlier, I shrivel a little as she approaches.

  “Hey!” Cat grins, gesturing to me. “This is Alex.”

  I give Mel a meek smile as she slides into the booth gracefully. Even in a freaking Halloween costume she is the most sophisticated and chic woman I’ve ever met in real life.

  “So,” Mel says, her dark eyes sparkling as she glances at me, “you’re staying with Cat?”

  I nod, sipping my drink. I’ll need a lot more booze if I’m going to co-exist in the same time and space as this movie-star woman.

  “What brings you to New York?” She raises her martini to her lips. God, even her choice in drink is cool.

  “Oh, uh,” I say, flustered. I don’t know what it is, but I feel very intimidated by her. “I decided to move here after…” I flounder, unsure of how to say it without sounding like a loser.

  “After her idiot ex made a big mistake,” Cat offers, and I shoot her a grateful look.

  “Idiot ex? I’ve got one of those.” Mel gives a heavy eye-roll, flicking a wave of mahogany hair over a bronzed shoulder. “Aren’t men just total assholes?”

  “Mm,” I say, refusing to let myself think about Travis again.

  “Anyway.” She shakes her head, twirling her martini glass. “What do you do?”

  An hour ago this question would have had me wilting with shame, but now I can’t contain the grin that spreads across my face. “I’ve just got a new job at a bookstore in the West Village.”

  Cat nudges me. “She’s also a writer. That’s why she moved here: to write.”

  “I’m not really a writer,” I say quickly. “I want to be.”

  Mel nods. “What do you write?”

  “Um…” I glance down, feeling silly. All that talk about coming to New York to be a writer and I’ve only written one measly blog post. “I write a blog,” I say at last. “Well, I used to. I’ve been lacking direction lately. I feel like I need a project or something to guide me, because I’d like to write more.”

  “What did you blog about in the past?”

  For some reason I feel my cheeks color. “Just dating, mostly. And how shit it was.”

  “Sounds interesting. I’ll have to have a read. I work for a women’s website and we’re always looking for new writers.”

  “Of course!” Cat rolls her eyes to herself. “Why didn’t I think of that?” She turns to me with a grin. “Mel should check out your blog.”

  “Oh.” I wave a hand. “It’s mostly posts from a few years ago.”

  Mel offers me a benevolent smile. “It doesn’t matter how old it is if it’s well-written and there’s truth to it.”

  I contemplate Mel’s sincere face. I don’t know why I was intimidated; she seems like a lovely person. I guess she’s one of those people that we all love to hate: beautiful, successful, intelligent and also nice. You know the ones I mean. It’s like they’re perfect and you can’t help but hope that there must be something secretly wrong with them, like maybe they have an extra toe or a hideous scar somewhere or something.

  But gazing at Mel’s friendly face, I can’t hate her. She’s just too nice.

  “Anyway,” she adds, sipping her martini, “if you want to be a writer, you need to be writing. Find something you love to write about, and do it.”

  I sigh, sagging against the booth. She’s right—I need to be writing. It’s pretty damn simple, isn’t it?

  9

  A couple of hours—and many drinks later—Mel and Cat want to head to another bar downtown, but I decide to call it a night. Even though I’ve been here for two weeks now, my body still feels like it hasn’t quite adjusted to New York time.

  Plus, I’m in a weird mood. I might have found a way out of the job from hell thanks to Geoff, but Mel’s words about writing brought me down from that temporary high. Because now that I’m not trapped in a soul-sucking job, I have no excuses.

  I get an Uber back to Cat’s place alone and wobble up the front steps. Probably a good thing I called it a night when I did, because I can feel myself sliding into sad drunk territory.

  I key in the code for the front door and let myself into the lobby, looking forward to getting into my PJs. Searching in my bag for my keys, a hiccup escapes me, followed by a giggle. I did have a fun night. And I’m pretty sure I caught Cory checking me out at one point, which was a nice confidence boost. It’s this crazy Snow White dress, I’m sure. I giggle again as I glance down at the skimpy costume I’m wearing. I wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing this back home, but here, on Halloween, I fit right in. And, just quietly, my boobs look great in it.

  But… oh, shit. My keys are not in my bag, I realize, as I dump the contents out onto the table under the mailboxes. A million things tumble out—wallet, phone, EpiPen, tissues, pens, lip-gloss, earphones—but no keys. Even in my tipsy state I can see they aren’t there.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my empty bag and rubbing my face. I must have left my keys on the kitchen counter.

  I grab my phone with a sigh. Cat’s going to hate me asking her to come home now, but what else can I do? It’s already close to midnight and I don’t fancy sleeping on the lobby floor. But when I call her it goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message. Then I scoop the contents back into my bag and trudge over to the stairs, slumping onto the bottom step.

  I’m just about to attempt a sexy selfie when the front door to the building opens and I look up expectantly. But it’s not Cat, it’s—fuck, not again—him. My heart jumps and I silently curse Cat for making me wear this preposterous costume. I, once again, look like an idiot, while he’s still wearing his suit, his gaze focused down on his phone as he strides across the lobby.

  From where I’m perched on the bottom step he looks taller, his shoulders broader than I remember. Each time I see him it’s like he’s gotten a bit more handsome—and a bit more grumpy.

  He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, lifting his gaze to meet mine. His brow furrows into its default frown and he heaves out a breath. “You know, I’m trying to think of a time recently when I looked up and you weren’t there.”

  Okay, a lot more grumpy.

  I raise my eyebrows, huffing in disbelief. What is he implying, that I’m loitering out in the lobby, desperate to run into him? It’s hardly my fault he happens to live in the building where I’m staying. And I’m getting pretty sick of his unpleasant attitude, if I’m honest. Maybe, I think, as the alcohol courses through my veins, it’s time to give him a piece of my mind.

  I push to my feet, ready to say something scathing, but as I do his expression shifts. I watch as his gaze dips down my dress, lingering on my bare legs before returning to my face. His espresso-dark eyes lock onto mine and I feel a flicker of heat low in my belly. I mean, what the hell was that? Did he just—was he checking me out?

  No, that can’t be right. He’s possibly one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen in real life, and I’m quite sure I’m not in his league. Gorgeous, successful New York businessmen don’t tend to find themselves interested in women like me. Jesus, I must be pretty drunk if I’m imagining that.

 
; But drunk I am indeed, because next thing I find myself imagining is him lifting me up onto that table over by the mailboxes and sliding one of his big hands up my thigh. I shiver at the thought of it, my whole body flushing with heat.

  Oh God. Drunk and horny is not a good combination.

  I clear my throat, hoping my little fantasy is not evident on my face. And now we are standing, staring at each other in silence, and I can feel the tension gathering around us, thick and heavy.

  Shit, say something.

  “You, uh, don’t take Henry trick-or-treating?”

  He shakes his head, pocketing his phone. “He goes with his uncle. They do a whole”—he gestures vaguely and scrunches his nose—“Star Wars thing.”

  “Oh.” I can’t help but smile, picturing Henry dressed up as Yoda or something. How cute.

  Michael narrows his eyes at me. “What are you doing lurking in the hallway at this time of night, anyway?”

  I smirk. “Hoping to run into you, obviously.”

  There’s a little twitch in his lip, a spark dancing in his eyes as they explore my face. For one crazy moment I actually think he’s going to laugh. But, no—he manages to suppress what is clearly a foreign and unnatural urge for him, his expression returning to neutral.

  “I’m locked out.” I smooth my hands down over the tiny skirt of my costume, watching as his gaze follows them. It was sweet of Cat to make this for me, but I’ve had about enough of dressing up since arriving in this city. I smile to myself at the thought that I’ll never have to wear that hideous wedding dress again. Geoff is a lifesaver.

  Michael cocks his head. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Nothing. I just… I got a new job tonight. At a bookstore,” I add proudly.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Which one?”

  “Between the Lines.”

  He nods, scrubbing a hand over his beard. His gaze lingers on me and I feel a spike of self-consciousness again. I attempt a casual laugh to cover it.

  “And what have you been up to? Hot date?” I say, then immediately cringe. I don’t know why I’m trying to banter with him when the two interactions we’ve had have been nothing but awkward and unpleasant. Maybe I was trying to see if he could crack a smile. I’m sure he was close a moment ago.

  Anyway, I’m quite certain he was at the office again, closing on a deal or something, given he’s still in his suit. That delicious suit.

  “Something like that,” he mutters.

  Oh.

  I feel an unusual twinge in my chest, and it takes me a second to recognize it as envy. He might be grumpy as fuck, but lucky bloody woman.

  “And you’re coming home alone?” I joke awkwardly. “Shouldn’t you be bringing her—” Shit! Abort! Abort! What the hell am I saying?

  I stare at the ceiling, grimacing. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to be a normal person all of a sudden. When I risk a glance at Michael’s face, he’s regarding me with that same look of amusement in his eyes.

  “She wasn’t really my type,” he says at last, loosening the button on his suit jacket. He drags a hand through his hair, messing it up. It’s longer on top, I notice, and God, it looks even better all tousled like that. What I wouldn’t give to thread my hands up into it.

  Fuck. I should not be out in this corridor alone with him after drinking. I’m going to say something stupid and embarrass myself. Wait, I already have.

  I force myself to clamp my lips together and just shut the hell up. My phone buzzes in my hand and I glance down to see a message from Cat saying she’s on her way home.

  Good. Okay. Michael will leave in a second and until then I need to just zip it.

  But he doesn’t leave. He’s still studying me, apparently debating whether or not to say anything more. Eventually, he lets out a long sigh. “It was a set-up. I don’t know why I bothered.”

  I suppress an eye-roll. Honestly, this guy. First he makes someone else take his kid trick-or-treating so he can go on a date, and then she’s not good enough for him? No doubt he’s got exceedingly high standards and this poor—probably quite attractive—woman had no chance of meeting them. I feel indignant on her behalf.

  “What was wrong with her? She wasn’t beautiful enough?”

  “Oh, she was beautiful,” he says. “But that’s the problem. You women all think that if you’re beautiful you can get away with anything.”

  A dart of irritation shoots through me, quickly chased by confusion. “Us women? Why am I being brought into this?”

  “Because—” He rakes his eyes over me with a smirk, and I shrivel a little under his glare. I knew he was one of those men that didn’t respect women. It was clear from the start.

  “You’re all the same,” he mutters, shaking his head. And before I can say anything in response, he steps past me, taking the stairs two at a time, until he’s out of sight.

  And I’m left, for the second time this evening, staring after him in shock.

  10

  Romance.

  Mel said I should find something I enjoy writing and do it. I’ve been lacking direction in my writing, feeling like I need something to help me focus, and a romance novel might be a good place to start.

  I’ve wanted to write one for years—hell, I’ve read enough of them—but I’ve never had a good reason to finally sit down and do it. Now, maybe I do. Because I suddenly find myself overcome with inspiration. Inspiration that has come from an unlikely source: my rude neighbor.

  Well, okay. A good portion of my inspiration has come from my fantasies about him, which are based entirely on his good looks and have nothing to do with his personality. I’m pretty sure that’s non-existent.

  But I’ve also been thinking about what he said, about how he shouldn’t bother dating because women are all the same, or some crap like that. He’s clearly a cynical, misogynistic asshat, and that further inspired me. Because while the men in real life are always disappointing, the men in romance novels are not.

  Okay, I know. These books are full of mush that isn’t realistic, or whatever it was my mother said. But isn’t that the point? It’s escapism. There’s only an issue if I believe that it could be real.

  I’m thinking about this as I dress for my first day of work at the bookstore a few days after Halloween, Stevie watching me from her spot on the sofa. She’s come to like curling up at my feet when I sleep and it’s adorable. I might not have a man right now, but her tiny, furry body keeps me company. I can see why Cat loves her so much.

  Grabbing my bag, I give her a quick cuddle, then slip out into the cool morning air. An elderly lady is slowly coming up the front steps. She looks to be in her eighties, in slim-fitting navy pants with a finely-knitted shawl sweeping down over her shoulders. Her long gray hair is pulled back with a shell hair clip and long earrings dangle from her ears. She has an air of elegance about her, even if she is slightly stooped.

  “Good morning,” I say as I pass.

  She stops and glances at me, a smile warming her creased face. “Well, good morning.” She pauses as if thinking, before adding, “No one says good morning anymore.”

  “You’re right. Not here in New York, anyway.”

  “Oh, you’re from out of town!”

  I nod. I guess you could say New Zealand is “out of town.”

  “Have you moved into the building?” She raises one gnarled hand to gesture to the apartment building behind me.

  “I’m staying with a friend. Do you live here?”

  “For thirty-seven years now.” A light breeze blows past, loosening a few wisps of hair around her face. She turns and, clutching the handrail, begins to take another careful step up.

  “Um… would you like some help?”

  “Oh, thank you.” She lets me take her arm and I guide her up the stairs. “You’re a lovely young lady,” she says. We reach the top and she turns to me. “I’m Agnes.”

  “Nice to meet you, Agnes. I’m Alex.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy your
stay. If there is anything you need, let me know. It’s an odd bunch in there, but I’m always happy for visitors.” Her gray eyes light with a smile.

  I grin in return, pleased that I stopped to talk to her. See, this is what neighbors should be like: friendly and kind, ready to lend you a cup of sugar and all that. Not grumbling because you offered their son pizza or, you know, dared to wait in the lobby.

  And then a thought occurs to me. If she’s lived here for so long, maybe she knows Michael. Maybe she knows why he’s so, er, unpleasant.

  “Thank you, Agnes. I wonder—” I hesitate, glancing into the building to make sure we are alone, then turn back to her, lowering my voice. “Do you know the man who lives on the second floor, Michael?”

  “Michael.” The wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “Oh yes. Wonderful man.”

  I frown. We must be talking about two different men.

  “No. The man with the son, Henry?”

  “Yes, Michael. He’s a very nice man. And Henry is a sweet boy.”

  Wow.

  “He’s had a rough time of it,” she continues. “Went through a divorce a few years back. I never did care for his wife.”

  I stare at her.

  “It’s a shame,” Agnes says with a shake of her head. “A lovely man like that without a wife.”

  I’m speechless. A lovely man? How is it possible we are talking about the same guy? A thousand questions flood into my brain and I’m desperate to ask more but I don’t know where to begin. After a moment I realize that I’m just gaping at Agnes, and I quickly pin on a smile.

  “Well, I should probably get to work. It was nice to meet you.”

  “And you, dear.”

  I head back down the steps, processing what I’ve learned as I walk the few blocks to work, my head a cloud of confusion.

  I love my new job! Well, in my previous job I had to brave the elements in a wedding dress that smelled like B.O. while dodging garbage thrown at me from passing cars, so the bar was pretty low.