SISSY: On the way from where?
ME: Diner. Writing. Why aren’t you asleep? You’re supposed to be asleep by ten.
SISSY: Tell that to your father. He’s been snoring since ten thirty. I was thinking you should start an Instagram account for the cock pics.
ME: Um. No.
SISSY: @NYCwithCockandMe
ME: Nope.
SISSY: @NYCCockPics4U
ME: Mother.
SISSY: @AGirlandHerCock
ME: Please stop.
SISSY: Meet someone wonderful yet?
ME: Tons of someones.
SISSY: Fiona.
ME: I’ve only been here a week, Mother.
SISSY: Don’t you Mother me, young lady. How’s the writing coming along?
ME: Great!
SISSY: Really? Because you sound uninspired.
ME: I don’t know how you could get that from a text convo, but I’m fine.
SISSY: Pah! You can’t write a worthwhile romance novel when you’re just “fine.” When was the last time you did a Tibetan singing bowl meditation for your heart chakra?
ME: Good question! I need to get back to my prologue. I love you. Please get some sleep.
SISSY: Love you more. I’m doing well, I promise. Sending light and love to your heart chakra and your yoni, little lamb.
ME: Please don’t send anything to my yoni when I’m in public kthxbye!
Speaking of my yoni—I look up from my phone to find Handsome Guy grinning at me from his table. Maybe it’s the light and love my mother is sending to my heart and vulva right now, but I’m feeling tingly all over the place. When he realizes I’m smiling back at him, he instantly frowns and looks away. Which is weird and rude, but I’m still tingling.
“Here’s your check, whenever you’re ready,” Ellen mutters, sliding the bill onto the table. Except she doesn’t saunter off so that I can pay whenever I’m ready. She stands right there, with her hands on her hips, looking down at me. So, I guess I’m ready now.
“Thanks, Ellen!” I reach for my cross-body bag. “You clocking out soon?”
She just blinks at me, stone-faced.
“Okay, cool.” I’m going to make you love me next time I come in, Ellen, you’ll see. I fish around inside my bag, but my hand can’t seem to find anything shaped like my wallet. “You always work the late shift?” I ask in an attempt to disguise the growing sense of panic as I stare down into my bag.
“Nope.”
There are five thousand different kinds of pens in this bag and exactly zero wallets. I know exactly where my wallet is. In my other purse. I was so fixated on my brilliant decision to bring a notebook instead of my laptop so I could stay at the diner longer that I completely forgot I’d need money for the coffee and pie—my excuse for taking up space in here. “Um. Ellen? My wallet’s at home in my other purse. I don’t have any money or cards on me. I’m so sorry.”
The eye roll that this woman executes is slow and exaggerated and GIF worthy. I sort of want to high-five her, but then she’d just roll her eyes at me again. “Uh-huh.”
“But let me just call my roommate and ask him to bring it over. Or else I could run home and get it and leave some collateral? Like…my shoes?”
Ellen pulls her head back and glances down at my foot, which I’m sticking out from under the table.
“These are my favorite wedge sandals, so trust me, there’s no way I won’t come back for them.”
“What size are they?”
“Seven.”
She shakes her head. “I’m an eight. What else ya got?”
“I’ve got this, Ellen,” says a deep voice from behind her.
I think they must have turned down the thermostat all of a sudden. There must have been a blast of extra-cold air from that vent. I casually tug at my top so Frowny Handsome Guy can’t tell that my nipples are trying to claw through the fabric to get to him.
He takes a step to the left so I can now see him beside Ellen, and good Lord. I’m being ambushed by glowing blue irises and spray-painted skin and the perfect amount of stubble for scraping against my— “Let me get this for you,” he says, pulling out his wallet. We both reach for the check at the same time, and our fingertips touch.
His eyes meet mine for a flickering moment, and in that moment, I forget why I had convinced myself it would be prudent to avoid romantic entanglements until I’ve completed twenty decent pages of my book. I forget everything that’s ever happened to me up until now. My heart, that restless bird, is fluttering excitedly against its cage. Or maybe it’s my rebellious nipples fluttering against my very thin bra. Things are happening inside my blouse. And my panties.
But I am not some damsel in distress.
I pull my hand away, but I say, “No, it’s fine, really. I can call my roommate and ask him to bring my wallet to me. I mean, he’s probably in the middle of fellating someone right now, but he’ll check his phone eventually. If you don’t mind me waiting here for a while longer, Ellen, I will pay you, I promise. I’ve been in the restaurant business my whole life—I would never try to stiff you.”
Frowny Handsome Guy just became Smirking Handsome Guy.
Wait. Did I just say “fellating” out loud? And “stiff?”
“Shit.”
Shit. Did I just say “shit” out loud?
What is wrong with me? Why does it feel like my skin is on fire? What happened to the air-conditioning? How can I be this warm and have arctic witch tits at the same time? “Um…”
“That’s sweet of you, honey,” Ellen says.
“Thanks,” I say before realizing she’s talking to Handsome Guy and not me.
“I’m clocking out soon, so I’d appreciate it.” She pats his bicep affectionately—but I notice her squeezing it just a little bit and blushing. Must be a nice bicep.
“No problem.” He hands her a twenty, along with my check, and tells her to keep the change.
“Thanks, doll. Can I bring you anything else?”
Doll?! Why is he the doll? I’m the doll.
“I’m good, thank you.” He gives her a perfunctory nod. Almost dismissive but still somehow polite. He is definitely from money.
But I would have given Ellen a bigger tip.
If I’d had enough money.
Or any money.
Ellen turns on her flat, slip-resistant heel without so much as a glance at me before walking away.
I half-expect dismissive Wrinkled-Brow Handsome Guy to disappear without acknowledging me too, but he seems to be studying me. Contemplating me. Dreading me?
“Thank you so much.” I offer him a genuine smile as I place the strap of my bag around my shoulder. “I really appreciate it.”
His gaze drops from my face when I have to let go of my blouse, and he does a really good job of almost not widening his eyes when he catches a glimpse of the nipple show. “Welcome. It’s no problem.”
Jesus, his voice is smooth and gravelly at the same time. How is that even a thing? Most of his face appears to be mad at me, but his eyes and voice are warm and inviting now, and I do need inspiration… Well, why not? I solemnly swear that I’m in the mood to get up to no good.
“So how’s that milkshake?” Harmless question delivered in a flirtatious tone—my specialty.
“It’s fine.” He blinks, nods, and then goes back to his table.
That’s it. That’s all he says and does.
Which is so rude, because—don’t assault a girl with hot-guy eyes, confuse her nipples, pay her bill, and then just walk away. Who does that?!
He doesn’t even look over at me when he sits back down. He just sucks on that straw and finishes off his milkshake, staring down at his table. It’s like he’s erecting an invisible wall between us. And that is clearly the only thing that will ever be erect between us.
All righty then. Mischief managed, I guess. Thank you and good night.
Apparently, I’m repelling everyone in this diner tonight, so perhaps I should leave now.
Fiona out.
I accidentally brush past Rude Handsome Guy’s arm because I’m so focused on avoiding him. It hardly matters because he doesn’t tear his gaze away from his tabletop. I mean, it’s a really stunning tabletop so I get it. God forbid he should have to look at me again.
What a dick.
My feet hit the pavement, and I’m out in the night again, with the warm late summer air and the electric pulse of the city that never sleeps and the no Handsome Guy.
“Excuse me.”
I just need to get home. Hopefully Jed will be in his room and Keiko won’t be there, so I can take a much-needed Romance Author Nap before leaving for Grand Central. The Hitachi Magic Wand kind. Because I’m just all hot and bothered and primed to fall in love after thinking about William for two hours straight. That’s all it is.
“Hey. Notebook girl!”
Whaaaat?
I stop in my tracks and turn back to find Handsome Guy strolling in my direction, no big hurry, holding my notebook.
Well, shit.
“You left this on the table.”
“Oh. I can’t believe I forgot it.”
He hands my notebook over.
“Thank you. God, I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost this.”
“This is a good pen too.” He holds up my Zebra Sarasa Grand pen.
“Yeah, I love this pen. I’ve tried a million of them, and this is my favorite.”
“Good weight. Clean lines. No smearing.”
“Exactly. And they’re pretty too.”
He smiles and almost laughs, but his expression goes back to neutral so quickly I think I may have imagined it. “I like that kind of notebook too.” He sort of winces, like he regrets saying that.
“I love it. I’ve tried a million notebooks also, and these are the best.”
Wow.
I’m standing on a Manhattan sidewalk in the middle of the night, talking about pens and notebooks with the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in real life.
Pinch me.
We just stare at each other, nodding in agreement—I don’t even remember what it was we were talking about.
“Well, anyway. Thanks again. I’m not usually this flustered. I just moved here, so I don’t have a routine yet.”
I’m pretty sure he mutters “Shit,” to himself. “You’re new in town?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No.” There’s some kind of recognition there—or resignation, perhaps. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks in a tone that most people would use when reluctantly scheduling a dentist appointment.
“Um…”
“We can go back to the diner, or we could stop in at the lounge a couple of blocks up the road.”
“You want to buy me a drink? Now?”
“It’s kind of a tradition. Buying someone a drink when they’re new in town.”
“Well, that’s sweet, but it’s a little late for alcohol and I can’t drink any more coffee.”
He crosses his arms in front of his chest, nodding. Like this is some kind of negotiation. “Yeah, it’s too bad alcohol and coffee are the only beverages available in this city.”
“What did you have in mind? Because I’m mildly lactose intolerant, so a milkshake isn’t a great idea. Although I did once have a really intense sex dream about sharing a milkshake with Chachi after my mom made me binge watch Happy Days with her. So consequently, milkshakes have the potential to give me both diarrhea and orgasms. Which is the worst combination imaginable.”
Shit. Maybe he didn’t hear anything I said just now.
After staring at me for about infinity seconds, he finally deadpans, “Well, I’m more of a Fonzie, so it doesn’t sound like you could handle it.”
Wow. He’s funny-ish. And he’s seen Happy Days. Nice. Maybe this can happen.
“Okay, so…” Aaaaand he’s shutting down again.
“Right. I guess I should get home,” I tell him. Because I really should. For all kinds of reasons. Mostly to pick up my cock. And my wallet.
“Yeah, me too.”
We both walk in the same direction, up Houston.
After half a block of walking next to each other in silence, he keeps his gaze trained on the sidewalk in front of him and says, “Are you walking all the way home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yes. You always walk around by yourself this late at night?”
“Yes. Why? Is the Lower East Side not a safe neighborhood?”
“It’s safe enough, but that doesn’t mean young women should walk around by themselves at this hour. There are a lot of drunk guys stumbling out of bars this time of night.”
“Should I be more wary of them than seemingly sober guys who offer to buy strangers drinks at four thirty in the morning?”
“To be clear—I am sober. I don’t offer to buy strangers drinks in general. And you should be wary of everyone who’s out and about at four thirty in the morning. Night owls are the worst.”
“You should be wary of me, then. Been a night owl my whole life.”
“Trust me, I’m wary of you,” he says, jaw clenched, still looking straight ahead. “But I’m concerned for you too.”
“Well, I appreciate the concern, but first of all—maybe some of the people who are out and about are extremely early risers, not night owls. And secondly, I do have mace in my bag.” I say this just as I’m realizing I left the mace in my other purse too. “And a lot of pens. I’m not worried. I trust the universe.”
I catch the cynical East Coast eye roll. It’s subtle, but I caught it.
“Do you live around here too?”
“Yes. Little Italy. I used to live in the Lower East Side.” He stops in his tracks and waits for me to turn to face him before speaking again. “I should walk you home. I’m not trying to pick you up or anything. I just don’t like the idea of you walking around by yourself.”
“Well thanks, but I’m not exactly walking around. I’m walking home. I’m not an idiot.” Now my skin is getting all warm and prickly again, but I also sort of want to stab him with one of my pens. Seriously, who is this guy?
“I never implied that you’re an idiot. You just seem a little out of sorts.”
“Mostly because of you. I’m flustered by you. Maybe if you left me alone, I’d feel less…confused.”
He blinks and then starts walking alongside me again. “I’m a little confused by you too. And conflicted. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Or a weird foot, at least, and I don’t know how to change that. But the offer still stands.”
Well.
Shit.
What kind of lawyer admits to feeling confused and conflicted?
I guess it wouldn’t hurt to walk and talk with a sad-eyed handsome stranger who has excellent taste in pens and notebooks at 4:30 in the morning in Manhattan.
I slide my phone out of my jeans pocket and tell him I’m going to take a picture of him to send to my roommate. He doesn’t smile for the camera or even look at the camera. He continues walking and staring at the sidewalk five feet ahead of him. But he also doesn’t turn his head away, so I get a decent shot when we pass by a streetlamp.
I send the photo to Jed, who is probably either fellating or being fellated or possibly sleeping right now.
“What’s your name?”
“Emmett,” he mutters.
“What’s your last name, Emmett?”
He watches me when he tells me, “Ford. I’m Emmett Ford.”
I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond to that, other than: “Thank you.”
ME: This gentleman has offered to walk me home from the diner. If I don’t show up, tell the police to look for Emmett Ford.
To my surprise, Jed replies: I CAN HAS?
ME: Not gay.
JED: MOUNT HIM IMMEDIATELY.
JED: ALSO, ASK HIM WHO HIS BARBER IS.
JED: THIS IS MY NEW WALLPAPER.
JED: WHAT COLOR ARE HIS EYES?
ME: STOP YELLING
AT ME! I’m coming home to pick up the cock and then leaving.
JED: BRING HIM TO ME.
ME: NO.
JED: Fine.
ME: Is your date still there?
JED: Yes. But he just wants to be friends, so I hate him and I can’t get him to leave. Bring me eye candy. BRING HIM TO MEEEEEEE!!! Or bring him up and bone him here. These are your options. Emmett Ford is a hot name btw. HAWT.
He’s not wrong. Emmett Ford, if that’s really what his name is, is hawt. And maybe what I’m actually feeling right now is inspired.
6
EMMETT
All righty then.
No sign of name recognition at all. Other than the confusion, there’s very little indication of any kind of attraction to me, well—besides the outrageously erect nipples beneath the thin layers of blouse and bra. But the air-conditioning was on full blast, so who knows if that had anything to do with me.
It usually does. Erect nipples usually have everything to do with me if I’m in the room—that’s not arrogance, that’s a fact. Something I reluctantly came to terms with when I was a teenager. Something I’d grown tired of by the time I was in college. That was what drew me to Sophie—she saw beyond my looks. She was curious about me as a person, but she never let me get away with being charming.
I fell back into old habits when it became necessary to charm women again—a means to an end. Never the beginning of anything. Halfhearted as my attempts have been in the past decade, I was always successful.
I am way off my game tonight.
This is the opposite of a meet cute.
Which is fine.
I only found this woman intriguing at first because she seemed so alive and focused. I could see Jack going for that. Something about her would remind him of his wife. Something about the way she stared off into the distance so seriously, absentmindedly tapping her pen against her lips, before grinning and looking back down to scribble in her notebook. Something about the slope of her long neck and the casual glimpse of collarbone and smooth exposed skin between that open V of her nearly transparent white blouse. The shade of her brown hair matches her eyes exactly, the white of her eyes match her blouse, and everything about her is striking in a totally subtle way, somehow. She wears a thin, delicate gold chain necklace. No pendant. Just a sliver of gold that catches the light every now and then, and I bet it sticks to her skin when it glistens with sweat. The way she rubbed her flat hand up and down her thigh. Something about the way she tried to endear herself to Ellen, despite the outright rejection. The way she closed her eyes to savor each sip of mediocre black coffee. She’s not a girl, but she radiates youthfulness and hope and new beginnings.
The Love Interest Page 3