Isabel Jolie
When The Stars Align
Copyright © 2019 by Isabel Jolie
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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First edition
ISBN: 978-1-7343291-0-0
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Contents
Chapter 1 Anna
Chapter 2 Jackson
Chapter 3 Anna
Chapter 4 Anna
Chapter 5 Anna
Chapter 6 Anna
Chapter 7 Anna
Chapter 8 Anna
Chapter 9 Anna
Chapter 10 Jackson
Chapter 11 Anna
Chapter 12 Jackson
Chapter 13 Jackson
Chapter 14 Anna
Chapter 15 Jackson
Chapter 16 Anna
Chapter 17 Anna
Chapter 18 Jackson
Chapter 19 Anna
Chapter 20 Anna
Chapter 21 Jackson
Chapter 22 Anna
Chapter 23 Anna
Chapter 24 Jackson
Chapter 25 Anna
Chapter 26 Anna
Chapter 27 Jackson
Chapter 28 Anna
Chapter 29 Jackson
Chapter 30 Anna
Chapter 31 Jackson
Chapter 32 Anna
Chapter 33 Anna
Chapter 34 Anna
Epilogue 10 Months Later
Anna
1 year later
Jackson
Afterword
Chapter 1
Anna
The snow-white pigeon swoops up and down, flirting with the reflection within the sliding doors. A sign of things to come, Al would say. My Australian labradoodle quivers at my side, ready to charge. She’s not one to obey, so her actions amaze me far more than the pristine white bird captivated by its image. The glass door slides open, and the pigeon flies sky high out of sight.
“Chewbacca, my love, how was your Sunday morning walk?” My big curly beast wags her tail so hard her whole body wiggles and weaves. She leaps onto Al, completely oblivious to her human on the other end of the leash. Both paws land right above Al’s protruding, bulbous belly. He laughs and gives her a treat. A treat.
“Al, you can’t give her a treat when she jumps on you.” A good dog owner would scold her sixty-five-pound canine and tell her to get down, but these two have a sort of odd love thing going on.
Al ignores me. Normal. “Did you see the pigeon circling the glass?”
“Yes! Have you ever seen a pigeon do that?”
“Nope. Must be a sign. Good things coming.”
I smirk. Al and his signs. I’d estimate Al is in his mid-fifties. He’s wearing the building doorman uniform of black pants and white button-down shirt. His shirt’s never starched. Al and I share an aversion to ironing. We don’t share a belief in random signs directing our destiny.
When Al sees Chewie, he always steps out to greet her. He scratches behind her ears, and she licks his chin, making him laugh. Because, yes, she’s still standing on her hind legs with both paws planted on his chest. Crumbs from the treat she inhaled litter his wrinkled shirt.
“Is someone moving in today? I noticed the curtains are hanging in the elevator.” The building hangs quilts to protect the sides of the elevator from gashes during a move. My apartment building, The Wimbledon, features twenty-six floors and four elevator shafts. This one building houses as many people as some suburban neighborhoods. Weekend moves are the norm.
“Yeah, two units. One on your floor, actually.”
“Cool,” I respond. There are six apartments on my floor, but my neighbors are relative strangers. I have one mean, grumpy neighbor who complains any time Chewie barks. “Any chance Sixteen-C moved out?”
Al grins and in baby talk answers my question to Chewie’s bushy face. “No. Mr. Truman’s still there, so Chewie here has to be quiet. You have to be quiet, don’t you, girl? No barking, right, girl? Gotta be quiet. Yeah, that’s a good girl. Such a good girl. Such a good, good girl.”
Chewie responds by wagging her tail and licking him from the bottom of his chin up to his nose. He laughs, and she lets her front paws fall to the floor.
“How’s the weather out there today? Looks like it’s a good one.”
“It’s gorgeous. You should definitely take your lunch outside. Blue skies. Not a cloud anywhere. The high’s gonna be sixty-eight. Couldn’t ask for a better September day. Next week, we’ve got a cold front heading in. But by the end of the week, warm weather will be back.”
I nod as he shares the forecast. Al’s a walking, talking weather report. “We did the full loop around Central Park today. Some of the leaves have started changing color.”
I peer out the glass doors of the lobby at the street and the facing brick building. Cars whiz by, and a faint horn sounds every now and then. You can’t see the sky from where I’m standing, but the blue sky and fall-scented air lurk in my mind. A stunning weekend day, yet work calls. It’s okay. I have a good view from my home office. “I’m gonna head on up. I’ll see you later. You here until six?”
“You know it,” Al responds with his signature wink and gunshot finger point.
“See ya later.”
Chewie and I only have to wait a minute for the elevator. We walk in, and I hum a bit as I scratch her floppy mass of hair. The elevator door slides to close. A hand shoots through the gap to force the door open. I tighten my grip on Chewie’s leash as she attempts to lunge forward to say hello. “Chewie!” I scold.
I grip the leash tightly to keep her at my side. Once I have my shaggy girl under control, I raise my head and see the man standing on the threshold of the elevator. My mouth drops open. My lungs contract.
Hazel eyes I haven’t seen in four years stare back at me. The blue-gray suit offsets those chameleon eyes, casting a bluer hue. The short, trimmed beard makes him appear older and more distinguished. The dark, curly, college student hair, now cut in a shorter, controlled, professional style, says business.
My skin tingles. From shock or from being in his presence again, I’m not sure.
Jackson’s eyes flick between me and my rambunctious, shaggy brown beast. “Anna?”
“Jackson?” Chewie attempts to jump on him, and I give a quick pull on the leash and command, “Sit.” I close my mouth, but I’m still gaping. How could I not be? Jackson lives in Atlanta. I never thought I’d see him again. That door closed.
Through my peripheral vision, I notice Jackson’s hands flexing, as if he’s stretching his fingers. He blinks his eyes in rapid succession. I imagine he’s as shocked as I am. He half shakes his head and exits the elevator. My stomach freefalls. A second later, he wheels in two large black suitcases.
I swallow. My heart’s beating a million beats per minute, and I stare at the panel of floor buttons. The door slides closed, and the elevator lurches upward. Proper elevator etiquette reflex compels me to ask, “What floor?”
He doesn’t answer but leans over to the panel with his index finger extended. Then he slowly pulls back. “You’ve already pushed it. Sixteen.”
I blink. My heartrate speeds as I scratch Chewie’s ears, trying to collect my scattered self. The whole situation feels surreal. I fold an arm against my stomach and breathe as the elevator doors open and we both exit.
The silver door slides closed behind him, leaving us standing in the hall facing each other.
“So, are you visiting someone?” Judging from the two overhead suitcases, either he’s the worst packer on the planet or he’s staying a while. Or maybe he’s not alone?
His Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. His gaze wanders over my entire body, sending chills through my core. This man has intimate knowledge of every part of my body. As his eyes rove up and down, my cheeks burn. I remember. I cross my arms, defensive, and focus on breathing.
His chest heaves, and I hear his exhale. “I’m moving in.” He peers down the beige hall lined with dark green painted doors. Dull brass numbers hang on the front of each door. I’m Sixteen-B, and we’re standing in front of Sixteen-C.
He points to the end of the hall. “I’m Sixteen-D.”
I point in the opposite direction. “Sixteen-B.”
Our voices mingle and crash over each other as we speak at the same time.
He squints his eyes. “You go.”
“Ah, you’re moving here?” My voice comes out squeaky and high-pitched. Get it together. He’s just a guy you used to know.
He stares ahead at the elevator door. “Good job opportunity.”
“What are you doing?”
“Law.”
“Are short answers your thing now?” It comes out bitchier than intended.
He huffs and turns his head to me. “I’m at a new firm. M&A. What are you doing these days?” His gruff tone sends a flurry of chills along my spine.
“I’m a creative director. At an agency called Evolve.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say more, to tell him I work on the Heineken, Greenpeace, and National Geographic accounts. But I stop myself. His dark gaze radiates an unfriendliness I’m not sure how to respond to. Chewie’s picked up on his unusual behavior. She’s standing beside me, tail still, watching.
Jackson angles his head in the direction of my apartment door. “Do you live alone?”
“Yes. I had a roommate up until two months ago. She moved to Prague.” Again, I could rattle on but don’t, forcing myself to stop. My gaze falls to his chest. His hand rests on the handle of one of the suitcases. Beneath his jacket, he’s wearing a form-fitting starched shirt. Subtle muscular lines lead to a firm, narrow waist. His clothes fit so well I suspect they are custom. I also imagine he still flaunts a six-pack.
I flush, visualizing his pectoral and ab muscles. The hardness of those muscles beneath my roaming fingers. Over the years, I’ve thought about him often. Most often when playing with my favorite vibrator. My body temperature rises, and I hope the burning sensation on my cheeks doesn’t mean I’m blushing.
We stand there staring at each other. I have so much to ask him, but then again, I don’t. Things didn’t exactly end well with us. But he’s new to the city. Be kind. “Do you need help getting unpacked?”
The muscles in his jaw flex as if he’s grinding his teeth. “No, thank you. Take care.” He heads down the hall, pulling his two suitcases behind him. He stands in front of the door and flips through keys on a ring. I watch. When he looks up from his keys and catches me staring, I unlock my door and rush inside.
I flop down on my futon, a relic from my first post-college days. The stained, beaten-up piece could stand an upgrade, but sofa shopping doesn’t interest me.
I pull out my phone and press my best friend’s name. She may live in another country, but she’s still my BFF. My first call.
She picks up. It’s evening, her time. Before she can say a word, I blurt, “You are not going to believe who moved into the building. On our floor!”
Chapter 2
Jackson
Wandering into the sports bar with Chase, my gaze floats to the ceiling where men’s neckties hang. A thick layer of spider web-like dust clings to many. The bar has a tradition of cutting men’s ties off and nailing them to the ceiling. College teams and associated paraphernalia litter the walls and shelves. My shoes grip the sticky floor, and the place reeks of spilled alcohol and what might be vomit doused in Clorox. No surprise Chase Maitlin would choose a shithole like this to watch the game.
Nodding at the bartender, I order a Michelob Ultra and claim the stool next to Chase. The LSU and Tulane game runs on all seven screens scattered around the sports bar. A game I couldn’t care less about.
After my early morning flight, and after getting the shock of my life, I changed clothes and couldn’t sit still. My furnished apartment requires no effort. Still, I headed out and purchased some things I’d need. Toilet paper, paper towels, coffee. Then I explored my new neighborhood before meeting Chase. Checked out the nearby delis, shops, and restaurants.
Sitting, after pounding hard sidewalks all day, feels good. Pain radiates from the balls of my feet. “Man, I spent hours today walking around. My feet are killing me.”
Chase leans over and glances at my feet then sort of chuckles. “You’ll get used to it. We walk here way more than you probably did in Hotlanta.”
“You’re probably right,” I agree, shaking my head. “Anyway, I can’t get over how expensive this city is. Rent here costs the same as a mortgage on a four-bedroom home in Atlanta.”
“How’s your new place?” Chase asks, grinning.
I reach over and slap the side of his head. “About that. What the fuck, Chase? You set me up in Anna Daughtridge’s apartment building?”
He smirks as he takes a long swallow of his draft beer. I roll my eyes. Chase lived with me my last two years of law school, along with two other guys from my class. Chase and one of my roommates, Brandon, went to undergrad together. When Chase got into business school at Carolina, he moved in with us. Three law school students and one b-school student. There was no question which degree required more effort.
“Do you like the place or not?” he finally responds.
“It’s fine. But you couldn’t give me a heads up?”
He shrugs. “You guys dated a long time ago. And for, like, a New York minute. Does it matter?”
I angle my head and glare at him. Fucker. Yeah, it matters. Dickwad.
Before I respond, he continues, “Anna’s friendly with her building manager. Tenants are moving in and out of The Wimbledon all the time. For some reason, the building manager allows subleases. I figured you’d have a good chance of finding something there. It’s hard to find places in the city. And, presto. You got a sublease. How long’s it for?”
I grit my teeth. There’s no point in letting Chase have it. It’d go over his head. “It’s month to month. I will say I lucked out with a furnished sublet. Tracey, the manager, she hooked me up by putting me in touch with this guy. He has six more months on his lease, but if I want, I can take it over when his lease is up.” I pause as I sip my beer. “So, did you tell Anna you were asking for her building manager’s contact info for me?”
Chase scratches the side of his head, and I can tell he’s trying to remember the conversation. “No.”
Fucker. Clueless as ever. That was evident from the shock plastered on Anna’s face when we ran into each other.
“Look, man, you’
ll never see your neighbors. It’s different here. And aren’t you still looking for another place?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, frustrated. “I had to readjust my criteria with the realtor. I have a few more places I’m going to check out. I had planned to buy pretty quickly, but I’m gonna need to take some time to research the market. Prices here are insane.”
Chase taps his beer glass against mine. “Welcome to New York.” And then he laughs. “What finally drew you here, anyway? I was shell-shocked when I got your email saying you were moving here. I seem to recall ‘never New York’ coming out of your mouth.”
“I had a good offer. And things change,” I say, tapping my fingers along my beer bottle to release frustration. The guy loves to push it.
“Yeah, things change. Doesn’t mean I don’t get a kick out of feeling your pain as you adjust to a real city. I remember visiting you in your palatial townhome.” He grins.
“Yeah, well, you won’t enjoy visiting me anymore.” Thinking about what kind of apartment I’ll likely end up buying makes me grimace. “I moved because it was a good offer. Junior partner now, senior partner within five years. Hopefully, I’ll be name partner by the time I’m forty. The timeline here is way better than my old firm.”
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