by S. L. Scott
She nods toward the kitchen. “I’m starving. Hungry?”
“I just ate lunch—”
“How about something light?” There’s an unusual nervous edge in her tone.
“Where are they moving?”
She pulls a fruit and cheese platter from the fridge and sets it on the island between us. Natalie is the only person I know, besides her mom, who would have a handy-dandy cheese platter ready to go just in case company stops by. She replies, “Connecticut. Dolores is pregnant with her third baby, and they want land. They bought an old farm they’re redoing on some acreage.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Her current home is going to be gorgeous. I saw the designs this morning.” She pops a grape in her mouth as she gazes off into the distance. Her fingers tap against the cold stone of the counter, and I notice her lips twisting to the side. Her nerves are palpable, the frenzied energy contagious. What is going on with her today?
“I think I’m hungry, after all.” Taking a piece of brie, I pop it into my mouth and set my Birkin bag on the floor. She doesn’t miss the bag, as I knew she wouldn’t, and cocks an eyebrow at me before tugging open the door to the wine fridge set in the large island. “New bag?”
“New guilt bag.”
“You have enough of those to fill a penthouse on Park Avenue.” She smirks. “Or the townhome next door.”
“Nice try, but I’m not selling my bags. Though I might be swayed, depending on the size of their closet.” I laugh. “The bags need a closet of their own.”
“Maybe an apartment at this point.”
“I’m not complaining.” Out loud, at least. I’d rather have my parents than an expensive bag any day. Glancing down at my newest pretty, I add, “My mom was invited to preview their private collection in Paris. Figured I’d carry it today since Hermés fits the Upper East Side.” Pulling out a barstool, I slide onto it and watch as she moves around the kitchen like a ballerina on stage—lithe and gracefully, as if she was born for the role of Mrs. Christiansen.
She’s so at ease in her own skin that sometimes it makes me uneasy in mine. I’m not jealous of her, but she has a lot to envy—a husband who adores her and would pluck the stars from the sky if she asked him to. She owns a business she loves, and she has the most awesome best friend ever if I do say so myself. Mine isn’t too shabby either. I laugh lightly to myself. But lately, there’s been a niggle, a bothersome feeling in my gut as though I’m forgetting something or missing out perhaps.
Though it sounds like it, I know it’s not jealousy. I’m fully aware we each find our destiny on our own timeline. Natalie St. James, now Christiansen, is fortunate to be smack dab in the middle of her love story. And one day, I hope to be that lucky.
“You make the Upper East Side sound like our parents—all fundraisers and no fun,” she says.
“I didn’t say you weren’t any fun. We have fun all the time. It’s just different. You’re married, and I’m still single. Painfully single. Everyone around me is pairing off like lobsters and swans, and I’m over here still hoping to meet someone, get asked out, and fall in love before your anniversary party just so I have a date.”
Her palm is pressed to the marble countertop, and I’m leveled with a look. “The party is Saturday night.”
I shrug. As a professional gift giver and experience architect, I make people’s dreams come true, from finding the perfect present to creating an unforgettable special event in their lives, or even elevating a simple date night to impress a significant other. I’m a tried-and-true people pleaser and I get paid for it. “That’s two days. I’ve accomplished greater feats in less time.”
Setting a bottle of wine on the island, she laughs. “As much as that’s true, you don’t have to bring a date. There’s no pressure. It’s not that kind of soiree. It’s friends, who are your friends too, and family. Just a small-ish celebration. Wine or water?”
“Wine. Make it a double.”
“Stop worrying. You’re witty and smart.”
“Pretty.”
She grins. “Beautiful. A great catch.”
“I’m so ready to be caught. Maybe just for the night.”
Bursting out laughing, she adds, “I’m sure you have a phone full of the right guy for tonight. As for love, it will happen when it’s supposed to for you. Don’t force something because of someone else’s timeline.” Grabbing a glass from a cabinet, she sets it in front of me and starts to pour the wine. “You’ll know when it’s right.” A gentle smile slides into place. “There will be no denying no matter how hard you try. And I know you love to deny some very good opportunities.”
She takes a deep breath, peace softening her features. When she pushes the glass toward me, I ask, “You’re not drinking?”
Tapping the counter, she perks up. “No. I have too much to get done. I still need to make sure Mr. Wriggler’s surprise for his wife gets delivered.”
“I thought that was handled?”
“Me too.” She sighs and rolls her eyes. Yep, two peas. One pod. “But the jeweler can’t deliver the necklace until tomorrow night at nine. The dessert cart is scheduled for nine fifteen. If there are any delays, the necklace won’t be served when dessert is.”
“There won’t be. It will work out perfectly,” I reassure.
I’ve worked with Natalie since she conceived the idea for her business back in college. I used to work for free, but since the company’s grown into a multimillion-dollar business, my salary is more than enough to live off in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Of course, my current lifestyle wouldn’t be possible without the monthly blank checks from my parents—money that eases the burden of their guilt for always traveling when I was growing up. I’m not going to deny them the pleasure even though I’m now twenty-six.
Without those checks, I wouldn’t be able to live in the apartment I do. “You have your party to worry about. I can make sure the necklace arrives on time,” I say.
“It will be fine. I’ll be in constant communication with the jeweler but thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Happy to help. You know me when it comes to diamonds. There can never be…” “Too many of the two main C’s—clarity and carats,” we say in unison, and break into a fit of giggles. Natalie has quite the collection of diamonds herself, so she understands my love of the sparkly gems.
“I have a surprise upstairs. Want to see?” she asks.
“Do you even need to ask?” This house is incredible and a great leg workout. The basement has a secondary living room and a home gym. The main floor is the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room. We’re already climbing the stairs to the second floor, which has the main bedroom and two spares. I glance up just as I hit the landing. The top floor has one empty room and a guest bedroom. I’ve slept up there a few times over the years when I was too tired or too drunk to go home. We’ve also had a few sleepovers when Nick is out of town. Slipping on our panda onesies and snuggling in for movies or Friends reruns. I love those nights.
With my glass in hand, I ask, “What is it?”
“It’s called a surprise for a reason, Tate.” Her laughter permeates her words.
“Guess you have a point.”
One of the rooms on the second floor is her home office. STJ, the company, which stands for St. James—her maiden name—is housed in a great space in SoHo. It’s been slow, but she’s been making headway in moving everything out of the house. Sometimes we bring our work home if it’s going to be a late night, though, preferring to be here rather than in an office. It reminds us of old times when we were roommates still building this dream, wrapping gifts on the floor of our apartment, and honestly, it brings me comfort. With so much constantly changing in our lives, it’s nice to have something consistent.
She walks into the room, stops in the middle of it, and turns around. Staring at me with wide eyes and her hands clasped in front of her chest, she whispers, “Surprise.”
Gripping tightly t
o the stem of the glass, I dart my eyes from the sketched wall mural to the two stuffed animals on the new chair in the corner, from the creamy color palette to the shelves with a small collection of children’s books, and from the dresser to the crib.
“What happened to the office?” I ask, swallowing so hard that a lump gets stuck in my throat.
Her hands remain clasped, hope held inside by the look in her eyes. “I thought the one in SoHo was enough. And my furniture finally came in yesterday afternoon.”
“You’re really prepared.” Still taking it in, I turn back to her just as tears glisten in her eyes. I set my glass down on the changing table and rush to my friend. “What’s wrong?”
Worry wrangles her expression. “Tatum, look around.”
“I am.” I finally swallow down the lump, and ask, “You and Nick are trying to have a baby?”
“Nick and I are having a baby. I’m pregnant.” Her words are whispered as she grips the side of the tall dresser.
Oh.
My.
God.
“Natalie,” I say, the breath knocked from me. My gaze dips to her middle. “What do you mean?” I catch the question just after voicing it. “I know what it means, but I . . . I didn’t realize you were trying.”
“I know. It was a shock for me and . . .” She walks to the window and looks into the backyard. When she turns back, she says, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know if I could. It took longer than we thought, and I started to lose hope.” Her smile returns. “When the test came back positive, Nick and I thought it was best to wait before telling anyone, just in case the worst happened. And then,” she adds shyly, “it just felt like something Nick and I were sharing, something just for the two of us. But now, saying it out loud, I feel as if I’ve betrayed you.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t think that. You didn’t betray me. You’re telling me now when it was right for you to share.” I bring her into an embrace, my eyes filling with tears as I realize what this means for all of us. “You’re having a baby,” I whisper, resting my head on her shoulder. “That’s amazing.” Leaning back, I look into her eyes. “I’m so happy for you and Nick.”
“You mean that?” We’ve been through crushes, heartbreak, drama, and life, but this is different. This is her bringing life into the world, our world.
“I do.” Though my chest feels tight, happiness fills my heart. “I remember you talking about being a mom when you were twelve. Your dream is coming true. How can anyone not be happy for you?”
“You’ve always been there for me. Now you’ll be here for my baby, too.”
“For every moment.” I smile so big my cheeks ache. “You’re going to be a mom, Nat. Guess our crazy days are behind us.”
Stepping back, she rubs her stomach. “I don’t know. This might be the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”
I laugh with her and then reach to cover her hand. “It just might be.” I’m not sure why I suddenly feel insecure, but I raise my chin and hold tighter to the happiness I feel for my friend.
Taking my hand between both of hers, she releases a sigh of relief. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I had this fear that something could go wrong, and I didn’t know how I would handle that.”
“You wouldn’t. Not alone. We would. You, Nick, and I. I love you guys, and I’ll always be here for you through good and bad.”
“That’s why I wanted you to be the first to know.”
A soft gasp fills my chest. “You haven’t told anyone else?”
“No,” she admits, smiling. “We were debating if we should at the party, but as I said, it’s early. Just two and a half months.”
I squeeze her hand. “You should. This party will have all your closest friends and family. This baby should be celebrated and showered with love.” Speaking of the party has me thinking of another. “Can I throw you a baby shower?”
Her laughter wipes any doubts or fears from her eyes. “I can’t think of a better person to throw me a party.” She rubs her stomach. “Or this baby.” She goes into the closet, and I see she still has a few of our office supplies tucked away in there. Taking a gray binder from the shelf, she holds it up, and says, “I swear I’ve already lost some of my mind growing this baby.”
“If that isn’t writing on the wall for how the next seven months are going to be, I don’t know what is.”
“Let’s go back downstairs. I’m hungry all the time now.” I hear her laughing as she walks into the hallway.
I reach the door, but then say, “Oops. I forgot my wine.” I dash back into the office—I mean nursery. That’s going to take some getting used to. Just like my friend being pregnant. I’m quick to grab the glass but stop and look around once more.
Time is moving on, and our lives are forever changing. I smile, knowing not only will she always play a part in my life but now her child will also have the best and most stylish aunt ever. I can’t wait to spoil this baby rotten.
In the meantime, I down my wine before I reach the kitchen, not sure what’s come over me. Sitting down on the barstool again, I open the binder.
After she eats a cracker, she asks, “Did you know Harrison’s staying with us?”
“You forgot to mention it, and I ran into him when I got here.” Literally, but I leave that detail out of the story. I push the empty glass forward. “I’m going to need a refill.”
She laughs as she pours, pushing it back to me and tilting her head. “It’s not that bad.”
“So says you.” I take a big gulp, hoping to stop my head from spinning. He does that to me. Something I’ll never admit. “How long is he staying?”
“Two months.”
The liquid spews from my lips, covering the surface in front of me and Natalie’s white pants.
Natalie hurries to my rescue, hooking her arm over my back and patting me with the other hand. “Are you all right?”
“Months?” I scratch out when I finally catch my breath.
She giggles and rolls her eyes, returning to the other side of the island, closer to the platter. “Is that what all the hacking was about? Harrison? Good grief, Tatum. Sometimes you make it hard to know if you like him or hate him.”
“Hate him,” I mumble, and then take a slow sip, letting that hit of reality sink in.
Natalie is wrong. Two months.
It is that bad.
Damn him.
I expected my world to change when my best friend told me she was pregnant. And even though those two words have significant implications for our lives, they have nothing on that arrogant and frustratingly sexy man and these two words—Harrison Decker.
2
Harrison Decker
“The Manhattan office runs smoothly and is performing financially. If support is needed, headquarters is listening in LA. So, I’m here not only to represent the Decker brand in the city but also to establish myself individually now that I have my real estate license for New York.”
I don’t shift or fidget. I’m confident in my ability to sell property, so a rock star doesn’t intimidate me. I’ve sold homes to Oscar winners, baseball hall of famers, Super Bowl quarterbacks, and rock ’n’ roll legends. I’ve known Kaz Fabian—guitarist, descended from Russian royalty, pianist prodigy—for years back in LA. He’s one of the most interesting people I know, and his band, The Resistance, stands in a league of their own. But at the end of a long day, everyone needs a place to lay their head.
They come to me to make their real estate dreams come true.
In the past six years, I’ve used my connections to go from a floundering agent with a well-known last name to a top agent who has to turn away clients due to my busy schedule.
My dad made me work my way up to prove myself. He demands excellence at the expense of anything and everything else, including a personal life.
Kaz says, “Lara’s design business has outgrown her LA office. She needs a space when she’s here, a place to stay and work, and I don’t want her in a
hotel. Although she’ll be splitting her time between LA and New York, I want twenty-four-hour security, a doorman, amenities.”
“Many of my California clients have multiple homes and regularly travel between the two coasts. For a client of your discretion and need for privacy, I’ll make sure you get all that and more.”
“So I’m your first New York client?” Kaz says, chuckling. “You must have been losing a lot of money to make it worth the effort to get your license here.”
He’s right. I’m not doing this for fun, although I have a good time. “I was handing over millions to local co-listing agents.”
“My brother, Andrew, was flipping the fuck out at the losses,” Nick says.
Kaz nods. “You’re working with him, too?”
“Nobody manages my money better than the Christiansens,” I reply. Look, I could lie to get my friends more business, but fortunately, I don’t have to. I grew up with Nick, so he’s like a brother to me. I’m basically a third Christiansen son. They do manage my money, though, so no lies are being told today.
Christiansen Wealth Management already handles most of the band’s money as well, so we’re safe in our discussions.
Kaz stands and shakes my hand. “I have to run but send the paperwork over. You did us right in LA, so I trust you in New York.” While he shakes Nick’s hand, he adds, “Ultimately, it’s not me you have to please. Lara has a whole list of other things she needs to make it feel like a home. Take care of her.”
“I will. You never mentioned a budget, though,” I say.
“It’s only a part-time home, so I’d like to stay under ten mil.”
Got to love that celebrity money. “I can do that. Let her know I have some listings I can send. If any interest her, we’ll take a look.”
“Will do.” He takes a few steps around to the other side of the table to the exit.
Balancing on the back legs of his chair, Nick says, “Break a leg.”
“I’m not superstitious,” Kaz says, laughing. “You guys coming to the show?”
