by Scott, S. L.
Her gaze shifts to my wrist before she pulls her phone from a little satchel she has tucked under the bulky sweater. “Nine twenty-three.”
“What? That makes no sense.” I tap the glass face of the watch and then toggle the bezel. When the hands don’t move, I twist the crown. A twelve-thousand-dollar watch, and it’s stopped? That’s about right for how my day’s going.
The blonde (so what if I noticed how much her hair varies in the sunshine) angles her neck. “Your watch stopped. That’s a bummer.” When her eyes return to mine, she adds, “Nine seventeen.”
“What?”
She touches the face of my Rolex and then the heat of her fingertips graze over my skin. “It stopped a few minutes ago on nine seventeen.”
“Yeah, but you said nine seventeen.”
“Yes.”
“How long have we been standing here?”
“Not more than ten minutes.”
My heart kicks in my chest. “I mean exactly. How much time has passed?”
Looking at me like I’m a weirdo, she laughs humorlessly. “Um, six or seven minutes tops.”
Fuck. “I should go.” Before I let myself believe my mom has had a hand in this twist I didn’t see coming, I turn and walk away. When I reach the path, I glance back. How can I not?
Who is she?
Have I been set up?
Scanning the area, I half-expect my mom to jump from the bushes and tell me I told you so. Fortunately, that doesn’t happen.
But the woman is still standing there, watching me as if we’re friends and she knows I’ll return. Rascal tugs on his leash, trying to run toward me. He yaps twice. As much as I can’t help but think he’s talking to me, I turn back around and exit the park. Blending into the crowd on the sidewalk, my mind files through everything from the list pinned to my fridge to the fact that my hard-earned watch is somehow a part of this witchcraft.
Giving my watch another once-over, I twist the crown for the hell of it. I stop and blink once in disbelief because the hands are now rotating as if nothing happened. What the hell?
I start walking again and pull my phone from my pocket to check the time because I legit think I’m going insane. Tapping the screen, it reads 9:24. Until now, I’ve never had issues with my watch. I need to send it to get fixed and forget about this nonsense.
I may be rushing, but since when is that a crime? I slow, wondering why I’m getting dirty looks. “What?” I ask, throwing my arms out and staring down a man who raises his nose in disgust.
An older woman behind me pinches her nose. “You smell like shit, young fellow.”
Oh shit. I look down, remembering the dog doo smeared across my nice white shirt. I shake my head. It’s gross, but the world will survive, although I’m thinking my shirt won’t.
I’m already making quite the impression in my first few weeks in the city. I could be mad, but I’m not that bothered by people avoiding my personal space, to be honest. Straightening my shoulders, I walk like I don’t give a shit or have it on me.
But then I hear a familiar bark and turn back. The woman from the park rushes toward the nearest shop as if I didn’t just bust her for following me. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Are you stalking me?” I might be jumping ahead of myself, but better to settle it now. A lot of weird stuff was happening at the park. Is she to blame?
Despite Rascal’s joy to see me, obstinance stiffens her shoulders, and she scoffs. “You wish.” Her hand flies out. “It just so happens that I’m walking in the same direction. So what?”
“Defensive,” I reply, analyzing her body language. Crossed arms. Straight line across her lips. Half-mast eyelids as she glares at me.
“I’m not defensive. I’m offended. You just called me a stalker.”
“My bad.”
“You’re bad, all right.” She angles her chin up, and adds, “You can go about your day now.”
I’m tempted to chuckle, but I’m thinking it’s wise to restrain myself. “I will. Good day.”
“Good day, sir,” she says to my back as I walk away.
I stop again, but this time, I don’t look back. Forcing myself to walk forward, I continue through the upscale neighborhood to the next block. I busy my attention on the architecture until I hear Rascal bark again.
I knew I shouldn’t have talked to a stranger. She may be hot, but she could also be deranged, using her dog as a ploy to trick her next victim to her lair. What am I even talking about?
When I turn back this time, she sidles quickly up to a coffee shop window, pretending to know the people sitting on the other side.
By how they turn their backs to her, they don’t reciprocate. “Nice try,” I tease.
Glancing at me, she huffs. “I’m walking in the same direction. It’s no big deal, for God’s sake.” She punctuates the words with an epic eye roll as if I’m putting her out. Huffing, she grabs Rascal, clutching him to her side.
“His feet have—”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
Anger fills her chest, and she shakes her head, exhaling it loudly with a foot stomp. “Ugh! I’ll go this way.”
As. If. I’m the nuisance.
Me?
Why am I even sticking around to have this conversation? Why am I bothering? Going in different directions—that’s us. She crosses the street, and I turn the corner, both of us heading back to our own lives and hopefully never seeing each other again.
I continue toward the building up ahead alone. I’m good. I’m fine. Alone is how I thrive. I’ll be here a year or two. That’s nothing. I have plenty of work to keep me busy.
Work.
I’m here for work. That’s it. I have a plan in place, and nothing and no one will keep me from achieving my goals. I’ll go in, change my shirt, and get to the office.
The doorman opens the door for me and nods. “Welcome home, Mr. Christiansen.”
“Thanks, Gil.” When he coughs, turning his head away from me, I ask, “Is it worth noting I’ve had a shitty morning?”
“It was noted the moment right before you arrived.”
Funny guy.
2
Juniper “Juni” Jacobs
It’s not the first time I’ve been called a stalker . . .
New York has changed. Apparently, I can’t walk in the same direction as somebody else without people assuming I’m following them home. Despite how sullen the guy at the park was, I’m not letting his mood taint mine.
As I look out the window, the Manhattan streets are busy below, but the sun is shining above. It’s a beautiful spring day, and I need to make the most of it.
After giving Rascal a bath, I blow-dried his hair before returning him to his owner, Mr. Clark. I turn up the music and finish getting ready, feeling good after my shower and hoping I’ve successfully gotten rid of the smell.
Walking around the apartment, I gather my stuff.
A book to pass the time if I have to wait.
Stationery and pen to take notes.
Snack. I scribble an S on the end. A single snack would be a flat-out lie.
Wallet.
Charger.
Phone.
Mints.
I’m traveling light, except for the nonfiction book I’m bringing with me. Sometimes, these meetings take ten minutes, and sometimes, I’m left waiting for two hours. I feel better prepared. I swing the straps of my bag over my shoulder and grab my bottle of water on the way out the door.
Sixteen flights down, I enter the lobby and am greeted with a warm grin. “Good afternoon, kiddo.”
“Hi, Gil. How are you today?”
Standing, he comes around from his desk to get the door. He once told me I’d put him out of business if I kept beating him to it. I glance at the camera hanging in the top left corner that’s filming our every move and slow my pace to let Gil catch up. He’s not as fast as he used to be. He replies, “It’s a beautiful day, and the Yankees are up.”
“What inning?”
“Fifth.”
Just outside the building, I slide my sunglasses over my eyes while still under the protection of the awning. “We’ll take it.”
“Darn right, we will. Where’re you off to?”
Turning, I walk backward a few steps. “I have a meeting with the agency.”
“Good luck, Juni.”
“Thanks.” Turning back, I wave over my head. “Have a great day!”
“You too.”
Down one block, I push into the coffee shop and stand in line. My morning should have been more easygoing, but I've lost some steam after that encounter in the park. Chasing a dog who loves to escape more than Houdini was the workout I didn’t see coming.
Looking at the daily specials, I decide I’m not in the mood for anything but my usual, finding comfort in the familiar. It’s not a phrase I live by, but I remember hearing my grandmother telling me that, her voice a faint memory these days. The tears had stung as they rolled over my skin, but the warmth of my mom’s favorite sweater and the comfort of my grandmother’s hug made it better. At least that night.
When it’s my turn, I step up to the counter to place my order. “Good morning, Barry.”
“Good to see you today,” he replies. I doubt this college kid has hair on his chest, but he’s managed to develop an ego to rival most men I’ve met in this city. I guess being cute is a curse he’s learned to abuse. “Your usual?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He’s normally flirty, but I’ll take the reprieve.
Moving off to the side, I mentally tick through my week’s to-dos. For a woman with few commitments, I have a mountain of things to tackle. Nana always warned me about burning the candle at both ends. I miss her.
I reach into my bag for my phone to schedule in some fun when I hear, “Got the time?”
The deep voice is familiar. He’s standing in a suit tailored to his fit build, the medium gray fabric set nicely against a crisp white shirt and black tie. I give a half-smile, unsure if I’m under friendly fire or the warm smile is real, considering how things ended earlier. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“Good point.” Chuckling, he seems less . . . angry than he was when he called me a stalker. He’s also drop-dead gorgeous. Everything about him is put together, even his hair, which tempts me to run my fingers through it just to muss it up like it was this morning. What am I thinking?
Crossing my arms over my chest, I raise an eyebrow at him. “Is this a coincidence, or are you stalking me?”
I don’t get the laugh I was going for. Instead, his smile disappears, and shame stiffens his shoulders. “About that. I owe you an apology. I don’t know why I said that. I’ve watched too many movies, or maybe it was that weird look in your eyes.”
Reaching up, I touch the corner of one eye. “What weird look?”
“That one that silently accused me of stalking you.”
I give him a full grin as amusement works its way through me. “Serves you right.” He laughs. There’s a formality to it, but it feels natural for Mr. Uptight. “You may have thought I was nuts, but I wasn’t the one lying in the park for no reason.”
Waffling his head, he says, “There was a reason.”
I’d been trying to keep my eyes off him, not to seem like the stalker he called me, but this brings me back to him. “Which was?”
“It was nine seventeen.”
“I suppose that makes sense . . . to a crazy person.”
He finally releases the tension that fills his shoulders along with a chuckle. “Touché.”
Barry, the barista, leans over the counter and shouts, “Andrew?”
Tall, dark, and too handsome for his own good standing next to me steps up to the counter, thanks Barry, and then turns back to me. I see the debate in his eyes when he glances toward the door. Does he need a reason to leave, or is he looking for a quick escape? I can’t worry about what comes next because I’m stuck on his name. “Andrew?”
“Yes?” Then it dawns on him, awareness awakening his expression. “Guess we haven’t gotten that far.”
“No, we haven’t.” I stare at him, still intrigued by the secrets he appears to hold in his dark brown eyes while trying to imagine him living life as an Andrew. “I wouldn’t have guessed Andrew.”
“Oh, really? What do I look like to you?”
“Mocha latte!” Barry calls out as if someone just offended him. My guess is the guy to my right based on how Barry’s glaring at him. I also note an impatient tap of the fingers before I glance back at Andrew. “That’s me.”
When I step up to the counter, Barry whispers, “I added a bonus half-shot of espresso and just a hint of peppermint syrup. Just how you like it when you have a rough day.”
“Thank you. You’re the best.”
His voice is still low, only for my ears when he asks, “You coming around tomorrow?” I swear he glares at Andrew.
“Depends on a job I might have.”
As if I just made his day, he replies, “I hope I see you tomorrow, June.”
Does that mean he’s rooting against me getting the placement? Sure sounded that way. Andrew is now the one staring at me when I walk away from the counter. “June?” he asks with the slightest tilt of his head.
“No. That’s not what I like to be called. He got it wrong the first time, and I felt bad correcting him.” I take a sip of coffee.
“Why would you feel bad?”
Shrugging, I say, “Because then he’ll feel bad every time he sees me. June is no big deal.”
“But that’s not your name. What is your—?”
“Aren’t you late for work?” I look at him, remembering he was in such a hurry this morning. “Or wherever you’re going?”
“Figured it didn’t matter now, and I need a hit of caffeine.”
The midmorning rush for caffeine crowds the coffee shop, and I’m bumped from the side. “I’m going to get out of the way.” It’s not exactly an invitation, but I can’t help but think I wouldn’t mind him leaving with me. I start for the exit.
Andrew is swift enough to reach the door and open it. “After you.”
“Thanks.” On the sidewalk, I’m not sure what to do. Do I keep walking, never to look back, or do I stop and chitchat with Andrew? Andrew . . . I can see it fitting now that we’re back in the sunshine—the suit, the chivalry, the comfort he exudes in his own body. I decide to take a chance and toss an opener into the mix. “Well . . .”
“Yeah.” He glances around, making it really hard to read him, though I don’t think I was doing a stellar job of that previously anyway. When his eyes settle back on mine, he adds, “I’m sorry for accusing you of stalking. I don’t know why I said that.”
I don’t know why I like how he runs his hand over his hair, dipping his chin down and peeking at me, but I do. “Maybe you find women a foot shorter and a lot smaller than you intimidating, or maybe Rascal made you nervous. He can get pretty vicious if you try to take his food away.”
“Why would anyone take his food away?”
I laugh lightly, but he doesn’t. This guy is so serious. Intense. “Don’t worry. No one’s taking his food from him.” This time, I look around before catching him check his watch. “We don’t have to stand here awkwardly if you have someplace to be.”
“I do, but it’s not so awkward standing here with you.” He tucks his hand in his pocket and jiggles what sounds like keys.
The silver metal of his watch catches the light just above the gray fabric, and I say, “I see your watch works again.”
“It does.” Pulling his arm up in front of him, he studies it. “I’m not sure what caused it to stop. The—”
“Universe?”
His smile reminds me of how he looked this morning before he got grumpy. “I was going to say that.”
“Jinx, you owe me a coffee.”
His smile wiggles wider. “I think we’re both supposed to say it for it to count as a jinx.”
“Work with me here.” He’s ve
ry nice looking, smiling and all. Fine, he’s hot when he’s uptight as well, so I seize the moment. “How about tomorrow? You heard Barry. He’ll have my order ready to go.”
His eyebrows knit together, but then they recover. “Are you asking me out?”
“No. I’m collecting a debt.” I twist my lips to the side, tightening the reins on my grin.
Andrew doesn’t bother with the same restraint. A smug smirk practically consumes his stupidly handsome face. “I never leave debts unpaid. Should I prepay Barry now, or do you like to collect your debts in person?”
“Always in person. Don’t want to be stiffed.”
“It’s not so bad being stiff.”
If I had pearls to clutch, I’d do it just for effect. “Oh my, Andrew. Did you just insert a sexual joke into our innocent conversation?”
“Were we not flirting?”
“I have a feeling you never misread a situation.”
He shrugs. The lax gesture doesn’t suit him as well as that designer one does. “I should probably get going.”
“You’re always going.”
“Yeah, duty calls. I should have been there hours ago.”
“What kept you?” Shaking my head, I look down briefly. “Sorry. I tend to ask too many questions.”
“That’s okay. I have one for you. What time do you want your coffee?”
He might be flirting with me this time, but I’m not going to embarrass him by calling him out. “I’m fairly open. What works best for you?”
“Seven thirty. Is that too early?”
“It’s not.” I start to walk away. “See you tomorrow, Andrew.”
He stands still, looking smug as ever, but then his lips part, and he reaches out. “Hey, I didn’t get your name. I want the one you like to be called.”
My cheeks heat. Twice in one day. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this giddy. It’s been longer—going on two years next month—since I’ve even dated. “Juni. I like to be called Juni.”
“See you tomorrow, Juni.”
3
