We exit the hotel to the waiting Town Car, and Tony eases into Saturday morning Manhattan traffic. I reach over and pull Gracie’s hand into mine as we make our way through New York City and into Brooklyn. I visibly shudder when we pull up in front of the old pre-war brick apartment building in Red Hook. I glance out the window and up and down the street that’s questionable at best. Is this where she lives? I know what we pay Gracie, and while she wouldn’t be living on the Upper West Side with her salary, she has to be able to afford better than this. I make a mental note to review her salary again.
She can see the disapproval written across my face. I’m horrible at masking my emotions, which is why I’d make a shitty poker player. She opens her door and slides out and I follow closely behind her. “Give us a few minutes,” I tell Tony and follow Gracie.
She pulls keys from her purse and I get a better look at the area. There’s a bodega at the end of the street where people are loitering. The surrounding buildings are in rough condition, and there is an abundance of dollar stores, hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and check-cashing places in every direction. A typical lower income area in New York City. I assumed she was living somewhere that was more revitalized, because that’s what I would do. But I’m quickly learning that Gracie isn’t me. She’s her own person, with her own ideas and her own plans. While she frustrates me, it’s something I appreciate about her nonetheless.
She fights with the lock on the door to enter the building. With a swift kick and a hard turn of her key, the main door swings open and we step inside. Cool, musty air fills my nostrils as we take the three flights of stairs to her apartment.
Gracie fumbles with her keys again, finally sliding the right one into the deadbolt of the shabby wood door. The white paint is chipping off the door and trim, and the numbers three-zero-one that once appeared to be black are now a faded grey. Her apartment door creaks open and we step into what has to be the smallest kitchen I’ve ever seen. Nothing more than a tiny fridge, a miniscule counter, and a miniature stove fill the small, outdated space. The apartment is old and dingy, but clean. Everything is dated, from the kitchen cabinets, the countertops, all the way to the old, scratched parquet wood flooring.
Gracie has a small but quaint kitchen table and two chairs that sit up against the only wall in the kitchen. Straight ahead is a nonexistent transition to the living room where a loveseat sits with a grey slipcover on it. A large, colorful throw rug rests under the loveseat and on each side are mismatched end tables with large ferns on them. Finally, there are two bookshelves that flank another wall, completing the entire living space.
“Make yourself at home,” Gracie says self-consciously, tossing her purse onto the kitchen table that doubles as a catchall. She moves through the small space and into what I presume is her bedroom directly off the living room. I follow her. There’s no door, just a framed opening.
The tiny room holds what looks like a full-sized bed and a small dresser. That’s it. There is a tiny closet with a single door and a window off center on her bedroom wall. Everything about this apartment is small and awkward. But it’s Gracie’s, and because of that, even though we just met, I love it. It’s different. Like her. I don’t know what it is about her, or me, but this woman has me feeling like I’ve never felt before. An immediate connection, a sense of possessiveness, and a longing to protect her.
“Do you have a garment bag, or…” I gesture toward the too-small closet, hoping she has some type of bag she can put some clothes in.
“A garment bag?” she asks, her face twisting in confusion.
“You know, a bag that carries clothes.” My tone is dripping with sarcasm and I can’t help but smirk when I see her eyes widen in realization of what I want her to do. Pack an overnight bag.
“Oh, no. I’m not staying with you again tonight.” She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, highlighting those perfect breasts of hers.
I tilt my head and watch her argue. She’s cute when she tries to be assertive. “Yes, you are. I don’t know how long we’ll be out today and we’ll be on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It just makes sense that you stay with me tonight instead of coming all the way back here.”
She continues to shake her head, ignoring everything I’m telling her. She’s defiant and tells me no and, while it drives me insane, I also love it about her. I’m used to everyone doing what I tell them to, when I tell them to, so I appreciate the challenge Gracie provides. It’s become fun to watch her try to stand her ground. She shakes her head defiantly, her eyes wild. “I thought we were coming back here so I could change clothes for today and take my pills. I didn’t agree to spend the entire weekend with you, Drew.”
Ignoring her protests, I march over to her closet and open the small door. A large black shoulder bag hangs on a hook she’s attached over the door. I grab it and hand it to her. “Get changed. Put what you’ll need for the next two days in here. We’ve got to be back in Manhattan in forty-five minutes for an appointment.”
She doesn’t argue this time; instead, she sighs. Loudly. I can’t help but smile knowing I’ve won, again, and she rolls her eyes at me. I sit on the edge of her bed, scrolling through the real estate listings my agent provided while she scurries around, shoving things in the bag.
“What are we doing today?” she asks, not turning around to look at me. Instead, she thumbs through the hangers in her closet, assessing each clothing article as she passes by them.
“Wear something comfortable,” I tell her, not looking up from my phone.
“I’m in something comfortable,” she mumbles under her breath. I fucking love her snark. I’ve never met a girl that’s sassy, sweet, and snarky all rolled into one person, and she’s beautiful to boot.
“Just pack what you think you’ll need for the next two days,” I tell her again. Honestly, she won’t be needing clothes other than today when we’re looking at condos. I plan to spend the rest of the weekend in bed, devouring her. No clothes needed for that.
I hear her rummaging through a cabinet in the bathroom and mumbling to herself.
“Do you always do that?” I ask, amused, shutting off my phone.
“Do what?” she growls.
“Talk to yourself.”
She appears from the bathroom with a toiletry bag and shoves it on top of her black tote full of clothes.
She shrugs, unfazed. “I’ve always done it.”
“It’s cute,” I tell her. There are so many things she does that I find cute, including her wittiness and ability to banter, and also the way she purses her lips when she’s concentrating.
She rolls her eyes at me, and I let out a small laugh.
Walking over to her nightstand, she plucks her pack of birth control pills off the top, wiggling it in one hand before dropping them into her bag. “I’m ready,” she announces, reaching for the bag before I take it from her.
“Let me get this.”
She reluctantly hands over her bag, then grabs her purse and keys from the table before locking up. We make our way down the rickety old stairs and back out to the waiting car. Of course, even on a Saturday morning, Manhattan traffic is a bitch. It takes us almost an hour to get from Red Hook to the Upper West Side, where we meet my realtor. Gracie had her eyes glued out the window, taking in all of Manhattan on our way here.