His voice echoes, so mad that I just can’t help it: I burst out laughing.
AHS looks at me like I just sprouted a second head. “What are you laughing at?”
“This! Us!” I splutter, still giggling. I’ve never seen somebody so reluctantly chivalrous in all my life. He’s like Mr. Darcy crossed with a grumpy grandpa, but I kind of see his point. I’m not exactly a poster girl for seeming sober and sorted right now.
I try to recover, wiping at my eyes. “What will it take to convince you that I’m of sound mind and judgment?” I ask, still smiling. “I mean, using the phrase ‘sound mind and judgment’ has to count for something, right?”
AHS folds his arms across his surprisingly broad chest and scowls at me. “You think this is funny?”
“Actually, yes.” I grin back. “Isn’t the point of chivalry to respect women, and what they tell you?”
He grits his teeth. “I thought it was to stop people getting mugged and left in a gutter to die.”
I sigh. Clearly, this dude won’t leave me alone until I prove I’m not a stumbling danger to myself or to others. I wrack my brains, trying to think of something that will—
Aha!
I suddenly get a flash of inspiration. It’s a feat I haven’t even attempted since college, but what the hell. Go big, and then maybe I’ll be able to go home in peace.
I give AHS a smile. “Watch and learn, mister.”
I take a few steps, summon all the muscle memory I can, and launch myself into a series of perfect cartwheels down the empty sidewalk. I’m already on my second when I think about the fact my bare hands are touching the New York City street, but hey, the three-second rule counts here, too.
I finish with my hands in the air in triumph. “Ta da!” I declare. “Is that good enough for you?”
AHS looks a little impressed, or maybe that’s just relief that he can wash his hands of me now. “You’re really sober?” he asks, drawing closer.
“For the thousandth time, YES!”
He draws level, looking at me with a weird expression in his eyes. “OK. I believe you.”
And then he kisses me.
I freeze in shock, because what the freaking hell?
And also, yum.
His body is warm against me, his mouth is cool and soft, and his tongue…
Well, let’s just say it’s good for more than just sarcastic retorts. I still have no idea what’s happening, but my body clearly knows what’s up, because somehow, I’m already reaching to pull him closer, kissing him back until my head spins and my knees are weak.
Then just as suddenly, Annoyingly Handsome Stranger wrenches away from me. His eyes are dark in the streetlight, his hair is rumpled from my fingertips, and he looks about as surprised as I’m feeling. “Uh,” he stutters, “I’m, uh, sorry.”
Don’t be, I’m about to tell him, and lean in for another round, but he’s already backing away. “I’ll, um… Goodnight.”
He turns on his heel, and pretty much bolts in the opposite direction like he’s trying to break the land speed record.
I watch him go. My heart is still pounding, and as for my other vital organs… Well, let’s just say, they’ve woken all the way up.
I shake my head, and start the walk home. Is the entire planet in retrograde or something? First my dream job, then the ice cream, and now this Handsome Stranger? It seems like the universe is dangling all these tasty treats in front of me, only to yank them away at the last minute.
Good thing I still have some emergency cookie dough in my freezer. Because that’s clearly the only satisfaction I’m getting tonight!
2
Eliza
The next morning dawns sunny and humid. I grab a jam jar full of cold brew from the pitcher in my tiny fridge and queue up my favorite playlist before I hop into the shower, singing along to Stevie Wonder and Ella Fitzgerald and the Beach Boys. Old-fashioned? Maybe. But that kind of music always makes me feel like I’m a plucky heroine in a Nancy Meyers movie, about to bake a perfect batch of flaky, buttery croissants in an immaculately designed kitchen the size of an airplane hangar.
Or smooch a handsome stranger on the street one night. Just saying.
Sadly, croissants only set off the temperamental fire alarm in my studio. It’s tiny, with a sleeping loft you can’t quite stand up in, and the kind of refrigerator you’d find in a college dorm. Still, it’s all mine and I’ve worked hard to make it feel like an actual home, with a fresh coat of white paint, and a framed quartet of my favorite old book covers hung between the tall, narrow windows. I used last year’s Christmas bonus to reward myself with a couch that didn’t come from the street, a sleek velvet number in a rich navy blue. Every week I buy fresh flowers at the bodega around the corner… along with a couple of cans of cat food for my slightly negligent neighbor’s slinky tabby cat, who likes to hang out on my narrow balcony.
But as for that annoyingly handsome stranger? I smile to myself as I blow-dry my hair, unable to get that kiss out of my mind—his strong hands spanning my rib cage, his narrow hips fitted against mine. It’s not like I make a habit of sucking face with guys I just met in the middle of Bedford Avenue, exactly, but it’s been almost eight months since I broke up with Boring Bryan and the well?
It has run dry.
I slip into a black silk blouse and leopard-print pencil skirt, then grab a cardigan for the violent air-conditioning of my midtown office and head downstairs. The streets are hot and quiet as I make my way toward the subway. Manhattan is a ghost town in August, with everyone taking off for grand houses in the Hamptons and rentals on Shelter Island or Cape May.
Can you imagine? Not just owning one home, but two! But it’s actually one of my favorites times of year in the city—a great opportunity to lounge in Central Park with enough room to really stretch out. There’s even space on the train to sit down and read a few pages of my latest manuscript, the A/C blasting with enough chilly velocity to ruffle the hair on the back of my neck. The whole city feels like a secret they only let you in on once you’ve lived here long enough to be in the know.
I grab two iced coffees from the cart outside my office building and head inside. The offices of Sterling Publishers are decidedly old-school—slightly scruffy, maybe, but in a way that feels distinctly literary. Harry hated open concept anything, so it’s mostly offices instead of big tables, with plenty of hidden corners to spend an afternoon lost in a new manuscript.
Even with half the staff on vacation, Sterling is buzzing with energy. The copyeditors are clustered like a flock of chatty birds around a box of donuts in the kitchen, while the accounting team is already meeting in the conference room, their studious heads bent over their spreadsheets. My assistant, Rachel is sitting at the admin desk, her slightly frizzy red hair tamed into a pair of braids pinned up on top of her head, Heidi-style. “For you,” I say with a smile, putting one of the iced coffees down in front of her.
“My hero,” she says, batting her pale eyelashes in my direction. “Messages are on your desk. And there’s an all-office meeting in ten with the new big-shot management consultant.”