Love in the City Page 9

  She motions to the sofa for me to take a seat. “And what about you, dear?” she asks from the kitchen, taking out cups and saucers.

  “Sorry?”

  She smiles as she pours boiling water onto the teabags. “Have you got a boyfriend?”

  “Er, no.” Well I did, but then he dumped me to travel the world, only to end up staying home with someone else instead. I swallow back the bitter taste in my mouth at the thought.

  Agnes balances two delicate china tea cups on saucers as she walks over to the sofa, the cups trembling slightly in her hands. She places mine down on the wooden table in front of me, and steam swirls up from the cup. “No one taken your fancy?” she asks, easing herself onto the sofa beside me.

  Michael’s face flashes into my mind. I haven’t seen him since that afternoon at work a week ago, so it’s been easy to forget how awful his personality is and just remember the way his suit fit his shoulders, how good he smelled up close. And the more I thought about that, the more inspired I got for my romance novel again.

  I borrowed those books from work, figuring that since I won’t be having any real romance in my life I may as well write about it. I’m going to miss all that stuff, if I’m honest. Wondering if things could go somewhere, the anticipation and excitement of seeing each other. And—I’m not going to lie—I’ll miss the sex. I already do. Sure, I own several battery-operated devices designed to help me in that area on my own, but come on—my bedroom doesn’t have walls, for crying out loud. And when I do get time alone, well… it’s not nearly the same as the real thing.

  Anyway, it was fun writing a scene inspired by Michael at the bookstore. I rewrote what happened between us, took back some of the power. Instead of him catching me with an armload of erotica and smirking, he pinned me against the bookshelves and, well, I’m sure you can guess the rest. I changed the names of the characters, so it wasn’t about Michael and I at all, but instead about a couple called Matthew and Annie. Which is totally different.

  Well, of course it’s different. Matthew has a decent personality, unlike the bastard I keep running into. Although, Agnes did mention…

  “You know Michael, downstairs?” I say without thinking.

  She raises her eyebrows. “Oh? You’re interested in Michael?”

  Shit.

  Heat flares up my face. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. He just, well, you said he was a nice guy, but…” I spread my hands, unsure how to explain the unpleasant encounters I’ve had with him.

  Agnes gives me a warm smile. “Yes, he is a lovely man, comes up here for tea often. I do wish he would get out and meet a nice lady, but he doesn’t seem up for it.”

  I suppress a snort. He doesn’t seem up for it? More like he doesn’t actually like women. That guy has got womanizer written all over him. One proper date on Halloween and he ran for the hills. He probably prefers them in and out of his bed quickly, that way he doesn’t have to deal with complicated things, like their thoughts and feelings.

  “He has been under some stress lately,” Agnes continues. “I can’t quite remember what it was, but he did mention something.”

  “Something at the office, maybe?” I reach for my cup and saucer and take a careful sip.

  “Office?”

  “At his job?”

  She frowns. “He doesn’t work in an office, dear.”

  What? What about the suits? What about the board meetings and the buying and selling stocks and the bottom line?

  Agnes catches my perplexed expression and continues as she sips her tea. “He’s a writer, I believe. Written quite a few books. Even has things published in The New York Times,” she adds proudly, as if he were her own son.

  “A writer,” I repeat, baffled. We can’t be talking about the same guy. “We are talking about Michael, on the second floor. Henry’s father?”

  She nods. “Yes, that’s him.”

  My eyebrows shoot up as I raise my tea to my lips, my mind whirling. I cannot believe this. A writer! This is bad news indeed, because it just makes him sexier. Even if he does seem to be incapable of smiling.

  I mean, take the last time I saw him. I was trying so hard to be helpful with those travel books and he couldn’t have been any more ungrateful if he tried.

  I replay the moment where he got annoyed as I rambled on about that Appalachian Trail book, and something clicks in my brain.

  No. It couldn’t be… could it?

  I set my teacup down, turning to Agnes. “Thank you so much for the tea, Agnes, but I’ve just realized something and I have to run. I’m sorry.”

  She smiles. “That’s okay, dear. It was lovely chatting with you.”

  “And you. Thank you,” I say again, and I dash out the door and down the steps. I pause only to grab my bag from the apartment, then walk as quickly as I can to work, my mind in overdrive.

  Geoff is cashing up the register when I arrive at the store, breathless.

  “Alex!” He looks up, concerned. “Everything okay?”

  “Just a second,” I call over my shoulder as I stride down the aisle to the travel section. I stop right at the spot where Michael leaned across me, the first time I smelled his scent and my heart skipped a beat. My eyes search the shelf and land on the book, the one I told him was terrible. I grab the spine and pull it out, reading the cover: Three Months on the Appalachian Trail by Michael Hawkins. My pulse is racing as I flip to the inside of the back cover. And there he is, staring right back at me: a slightly younger—but still insanely sexy—Michael.

  Oh my God.

  Geoff has appeared beside me, his face lined with worry. “What’s going on?”

  I turn to him, wide-eyed, and hold up the back inside cover to show him.

  “Wait…” His brows draw together in confusion. “Is that the hot guy who was in here a while back?”

  I nod dumbly.

  Geoff leans in closer to inspect the picture and his shoulders start to shake.

  “I can’t believe it,” I mutter as Geoff howls with laughter. “I told him all kinds of crap about how this book had bad reviews and the author wasn’t well-respected.” I grimace, thinking of the awful things I said.

  Geoff is wiping tears from his eyes with exaggerated mirth. “This is brilliant. You told him his book was shit, right to his face.”

  I nod again. Fuck, I’m an idiot.

  “I haven’t even read it,” I mumble, feeling a wash of shame. No wonder he was so annoyed with me.

  Eventually Geoff calms down and takes a deep breath. “So, read it.”

  “I think I will.” I owe him that much, I guess.

  Geoff takes the book and examines the photo in the back. “Michael Hawkins. God, he’s sexy. Sexy Michael.” Geoff gets hearts in his eyes and I roll my own.

  “Well, he might be sexy but he’s been an ass to me. Seriously, every time I see him—”

  “What? How many times have you seen him?”

  Whoops.

  Geoff lowers the book, narrowing his eyes at me, and I release a long breath.

  “He’s my neighbor, Geoff. He lives upstairs from Cat.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  I shrug, feeling my cheeks warm. “I don’t know. He and I haven’t exactly seen eye to eye. I was worried you might tell Cat and she might get annoyed, or something.”

  “Oh. Well, I won’t say anything.” Geoff hands me the book, and I think about what Agnes said.

  “There’s this sweet old lady in our building called Agnes, and she told me he’s divorced. She also said he’s a lovely man, even though I’ve never seen it.”

  Geoff raises his eyebrows and I shrug again.

  “Maybe he’s one of those guys who’s not normally nice, but is nice to little old ladies.”

  Geoff practically melts. “That’s still kind of endearing.”

  “I guess.” I turn and we wander back down the aisle. “But would it hurt him to be kind to others, too?”

  “Did she say anything abo
ut the divorce?” Geoff inquires as he steps back behind the register. “Like maybe it turns out he’s gay?”

  I smother a smile. “No. She didn’t out him to me, Geoff.”

  “Oh well. There’s still hope.”

  I tuck the book inside my bag and Geoff gives me a funny smile.

  “He is a dark horse, this Sexy Michael. A writer who is nice to little old ladies, but not to young, cute ones.”

  I laugh as I head out the door and turn towards home. Geoff’s words linger in my head, and for the first time, I start to wonder if maybe I’ve misread Michael.

  14

  I stay up most of the night reading Michael’s book. I’m not lying when I say I can’t put it down. I don’t know what the customer back home was carrying on about. It’s so good. And I’m not just saying that because I sort of like him.

  Because I think I do like him.

  Maybe.

  I mean, beyond the physical attraction, which is undeniable. But reading his book, I realize he’s nothing like I thought. The book is about a lot more than his time on the trail; it’s about him and his life. He’s funny and caring and really smart. He’s passionate about nature and travel and history, about his son, and he was completely ripped apart by his divorce, which surprises me. In person, he’s come across as so rude and cynical, but I wonder if he’s still just dealing with the fallout of his marriage. He doesn’t go into any detail about what happened—hell, he doesn’t even name his ex-wife—but it’s clear that it’s scarred him. That’s the reason he gives for going to walk the trail in the first place.

  And he is a brilliant writer. He writes with such openness and honesty and emotion. More than once I’m moved to tears by his writing.

  I owe him a massive apology. I can’t believe I told him this book was bad.

  I read for hours, curled up with Stevie. Eventually, I fall asleep, Michael’s book in bed with me. I’m not sure what time it is that I doze off, but when I wake there’s sun coming in through the living room windows and Cat is in the kitchen, making coffee. I was so engrossed in the book I didn’t even close the curtains to my nook last night.

  “Morning,” Cat calls from the kitchen. She wanders over to my bed with a travel coffee cup in her hand, and pats Stevie on the head. “She looks so cozy. Do you mind if I leave her here with you today?”

  I yawn and sit up on my elbows. I don’t have work today. I was planning to stay in and keep reading Michael’s book, maybe write later. It will be nice to have Stevie’s warm little body for company.

  “Sure.” I reach over to scratch behind her ear.

  “Thanks. Just take her out in a few hours, then again later.”

  I nod, snuggling back under the covers. I doze off again as I hear the door click shut behind Cat.

  A few hours later, I wake and take Stevie out for a walk to get a coffee. When I get back to the apartment, I settle onto the sofa to continue with Michael’s book, Stevie stretched out beside me. It only takes me another hour before I finish it. The first thing I want to do after that is go online and see what else he’s written, but when I glance up I notice Stevie is gone.

  I peel myself from the sofa and stretch, scanning the room for her. Maybe she needs to go out again. But she’s not over by the door. Instead, her bum is up in the air wiggling, her face buried in my bag.

  “Stevie!”

  I pull her out of my bag, but she’s got my EpiPen in her mouth like it’s a chew toy.

  “Stevie, no!”

  I’m not sure what will happen to her if she breaks and ingests it, but I’m sure it won’t be good. I manage to carefully wrestle it from her tiny jaws and put it back in my bag, placing it up on the counter out of her reach.

  “Right.” I raise my hands to my hips and look down at her. She cowers as if she knows she’s been bad, and I reach down to pat her head. “It’s okay, little pup. Let’s take you out again.”

  After I’ve taken her around the block, I remove her leash in the lobby, opening the door to our apartment. At that moment, Michael comes down the stairs. He has a gym bag slung over one shoulder and is focused on his phone, his face creased in concentration.

  I hover in the doorway, watching him. He’s in a hooded sweatshirt, gray sweatpants and sneakers. It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his suit, and he looks nothing like the man I thought he was when I first met him. Knowing what I know now, I’m not even sure how I came to all those conclusions about him. Well, okay, he said some things about women that weren’t great, but Agnes did say he’d been having a hard time recently.

  Either way, I owe him an apology for insulting his book.

  “Um, hi,” I say tentatively.

  He glances up from his phone and stops in front of me. “Oh. Hello.”

  God, now I don’t know what to say. I can’t just launch straight into “I’m sorry I said your book was crap even though I hadn’t read it.”

  I clear my throat. “I, er, was wondering if you have a moment?”

  His eyes flit to the front door then back to me. “I’m on my way to the gym.”

  “Right. Okay.” I try to ignore the strange sense of disappointment that rolls through me.

  He wanders across the foyer, grasping the door handle and pulling it half open before turning back to me. “Is it urgent?”

  I shake my head.

  Stevie appears at my feet and Michael looks down at her, his face softening. He reaches a hand out to her but before either of us can do anything, she dashes out through the open front door, down onto the street.

  “No!” I cry.

  Michael’s eyes widen and his gym bag slips to the floor. “Shit!”

  All my thoughts of apologizing to him are replaced by the much more urgent realization that if anything happens to Stevie, Cat will kill me.

  I push past Michael and race down the front steps, but I can’t see her. My heart is juddering as I scan the street.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Michael appears beside me, worry lining his face. “I’m so sorry, Alex.”

  I turn to him, fuming. “She’s not even my dog!”

  “I know.”

  I dig my nails into my palms as panic rises in my chest. “Fuck! What am I going to do?”

  “Okay,” he says confidently, taking charge. “You go that way, I’ll go this way. Walk around the block to look for her and we can meet back here in five minutes.”

  I nod, inhaling a shaky breath. We peel off in opposite directions.

  “Stevie! Stevie girl, where are you?” God, if anything happens to her I’ll never forgive myself. I know Cat loves her more than anything.

  I quickly round the block and end up back on the front doorstep. Michael strides towards me, empty-handed.

  “Any luck?”

  I shake my head, resisting the urge to say something scathing.

  “Okay,” he says again. “This time go down a block that way.”

  We head out again and walk a block around and back, but still nothing. We meet up on the front steps of our building and I begin to pace back and forward, my gut clenched tight like a fist.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I mutter, wringing my hands. Cat’s been so good to me and after everything she’s done I let this happen. I feel on the verge of tears.

  Michael catches my expression and puts a hand on my arm, halting my frantic pacing. “We’ll find her,” he says gently.

  “How do you know?” I wail. “She’s probably crushed under a truck by now.” Tears spring to my eyes and I turn away. I do not want to cry in front of him.

  “No, don’t be silly. She won’t have gone far.”

  I don’t know why, but that makes me snap. All the frustration I’ve felt towards him for being such a dick comes rushing back, and I wheel around to face him. “I can’t believe you! You’ve been nothing but a total jerk to me from the very beginning. I know I made some mistakes but you’ve been awful. You act all superior, like I’m just some idiot, but this is your fault.
” I stab a finger at him accusingly.

  His mouth opens in shock and for a second I think he’s going to yell at me. I feel a flicker of uncertainty and draw in a breath, willing myself to stand my ground. Because I mean every word, whether he likes it or not. He has been a jerk and he has made me feel like an idiot, but this is totally on him. He’s the one that let Stevie out the door.

  Oh God. Stevie. I rub my face, glancing up and down the street again before turning back to Michael. Just as I think he’s going to say something nasty, his face crumples and he looks down at his hands.

  I feel a flash of surprise. This is the first time I’ve seen him like this: uncertain, wrong-footed. He’s not scowling, he’s not trying to place the blame on me. He knows he’s in the wrong.

  He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again, dragging the heel of his hand over his forehead.

  I tear my eyes away from him and look back down the street, gnawing on a fingernail. There’s still no sign of Stevie and I feel desperate. There has to be someone I can call, something I can do.

  “I’m going to go searching again,” I say.

  “Okay.” Michael nods. “I’ll go too.”

  We head out again in opposite directions, but this time I don’t stop at one block. I go around the next block and the next, calling Stevie’s name. Fear clutches at me as I pound the pavement, getting further and further from the apartment. The cold air bites through my thin sweater, but I’m so anxious about Stevie I don’t even care.

  Please Stevie, I beg silently, where are you?

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I ignore it. It’s probably Cat checking in on Stevie and I can’t face her yet.

  “Stevie,” I call, over and over, my voice hoarse. But it’s no use; she’s not here. I don’t know where she is or what’s happened to her, and tears prick my eyes again. I’m the worst roommate—the worst friend—ever. Cat will never forgive me and I’ll have to move out. I’ll have to leave the city and it’s all Michael’s bloody fault.

  My phone buzzes again and I pull it out with a weary sigh. Probably best to just get this over with.

  But it’s a number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?”