by Scott, S. L.
Andrew
Knock. Knock.
I drag my tired eyes from the monitor, my gaze traveling across the large office when my door opens without permission. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“You never do,” Nick replies, my brother’s tone light. He’s been like this since he got married two years ago—smiling all the time, whistling for no reason, no tension found in his body. Basically, he’s not like he used to be at all and definitely no longer like me. “Why are you here so late?”
“Because Mom sent me on a mission, and I foolishly played along.”
He chuckles and sits across the desk from me. He’s wise enough not to kick his feet up on my desk. “Oh, yeah? What’s she up to?”
I could cite the three reports I still need to go through tonight, but what’s a few minutes with my brother? I push the keyboard away and lean back in the cushy chair. “That remains to be seen. Right now, she claims it’s having me settle into a new city, but I have a feeling there’s more to it. She didn’t give me a crazy list of things to do in Seattle.”
“Wonder why the sudden focus on your life in New York?”
“I have a hunch—”
“You don’t work off hunches.”
“Typically, but that’s all I have to go off of this time. Ever since you found your one and only, her focus has shifted to me.”
Chuckling, he sits forward. “I’ll be honest, I thought her New Age beliefs were nonsense, that she was traveling down a dead-end street when it came to me. Now I’m a believer.”
“What changed your mind?”
He raises his left hand, and the light from my desk lamp gleams off the metal wrapped around his finger. “I met Natalie.”
“I thought you met her on a drunken weekend in Catalina?”
“That too.”
“I don’t understand.”
He snaps his fingers. “Keep up, brother. She’s not helping you settle into life on the East Coast.”
Rubbing my right temple, I scowl, regretting that I allowed him to come in. “Now I’m completely lost.”
“For the smartest guy I know, you sure are dense sometimes.” He stands and rests his hands on my desk. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he says conspiratorially. “Mom’s matchmaking.”
“No . . .” I tick through the list again—park, perform, Shakespeare, exorcism, and the one that shall not be vocalized or even given a second thought. Arguably, all of them have nothing to do with anyone else other than the fifth and final. “She’s being subtle if that’s her motive.” And how on earth can she do that from California?
“Only time will tell. In the meantime, the last thing I want to do is make her feel like a failure.”
“I know there was no big production in you and Dalen calling things off—”
“Can we not do this?”
He studies me. “You weren’t in love with Dalen.”
“No, but she’s a good friend.”
“Hence, my point. The spark wasn’t there. As Natalie would say, she wasn’t your person. So, if Mom’s really trying to fix the unfixable, let her. Maybe you’ll both come out winners.”
Bored by my love life being the topic of conversation, I return my attention to the doc displayed on my monitor. “I need to get back to work.”
“Look, I get it, Andrew. You put your life on hold for years, worked your ass off, and have been rewarded. You’re married to your job. But one day, you’re going to wake up and wonder if an actual life was worth the sacrifice.”
“Until regret sets in, I have three reports to finish before morning, and you have a wife waiting for you to return home to, so if you’ll excuse me . . .” I don’t need to look up to know he’s staring at me, most likely disappointed. I can feel it. But the silence stings, so I give in, not something I often do. “What?”
What I expected isn’t written in his expression. Though I don’t understand the sympathy I do find. He finally says, “Natalie is waiting on me. We have reservations at eight thirty at this great restaurant in Tribeca. It’s been there forever, long past being trendy. If you ever need a place to take a date, Asado is the place. Try the empanadas.”
My stomach growls, reminding me that I forgot to eat lunch. Mostly because I was distracted by Juni and those hazel eyes of hers, the delicate curve of her neck where it meets her shoulders, and those lips—bare and licked with care as we stood on the sidewalk.
What the hell am I thinking?
She was a hurdle in my day, at best. At worst, I was shit on. So yeah, the fond thoughts of the two encounters twist into annoyances. A debt . . . I scoff.
A loud clap snaps my mind into the present, and Nick asks, “You want to share whatever’s on your mind because I have a feeling it’s not the accounts you’re working on?”
“No.”
“Figured, but since you didn’t hear me the first time, I thought I’d repeat myself. Natalie and I are hosting a dinner party on the twenty-fourth. I’m giving you three weeks’ notice, so save the date. You’re not getting out of it. No working that Saturday night or saying you’re too tired. I’m RSVP’ing for you now.”
He heads for the door. After he opens it, he looks back. “Let us know if you’re bringing a plus-one.”
“I don’t know anyone in this city who could be a plus-one, so you’re stuck with me coming alone.”
“Natalie can set you up on a date if you’d like. She has plenty of single friends looking for love in all the wrong places.”
“Wrong is right, so I’ll pass.”
“The offer still stands. Anytime you’re ready, just let us know.”
“I think Mom’s rubbing off on you.”
He chuckles. “Have a good night, man, and don’t work so hard.”
The door closes before I can think of a comeback, and silence invades the space like he was never here. Enough light still claims it’s still day when I look out the windows, but night’s coming in quick. I won’t make it home before nightfall at this rate, so I bury my head in work and get these reports done.
I look up, my body stiff from sitting too long. Stretching my neck to the side, I realize darkness has only taken over outside. It’s past ten. Again. Work has stolen another night out from under me.
But as I pack up, Nick’s words return. “One day, you’re going to wake up and wonder if an actual life was worth the sacrifice.”
Scrubbing over my face, I attempt to fight the tiredness that’s overcome me, but I’m done for the night. I’ll blame the start of my day since that threw everything else off.
The monitor goes dark as I grab my jacket and slip it on. When I open the door, most of the lights are turned off, and the vacuum roars somewhere down the other corridor. No other employees should be here, but I do a quick walk around just to make sure. Working late is practically in the CEO’s job description, but for others, I’m hoping they find the balance that eludes me.
I nod to the cleaning crew on my way out. I know I’m not the only one working in this thirty-five-floor building, but it sure feels like it as I ride down in an empty elevator. This may be a first for the bustling building.
The lobby lights are dimmed, and the security guard is caught up in a cop drama on his covertly hidden phone from the sounds of it. I say, “Good night.”
“Good night,” he replies, glancing up as I pass.
The car is at the curb waiting, the door open when I approach. “Good evening.” I slip into the back with a quick nod of my head.
“Good evening, Mr. Christiansen.”
When the door closes, the weight of the day drains from my body. I never needed someone to drive me around in LA, but I appreciate the luxury here in Manhattan. Usually I bide my time, checking emails, text messages, and listening to voicemails. Tonight, I take a deep breath and just relax.
At my apartment building, Gil opens the door for me. “Seems we’re working the same schedule today, Mr. Christiansen.”
“Seems that way. Good day?”
/>
“Great.” His answer makes me realize it’s been a while since I’ve felt the same. He asks, “You?”
“Not too bad,” I reply, trying to keep my mood from souring as I head upstairs.
My state-of-the-art apartment has a programmed ambience set to begin prior to me walking in the door—soft music not overpowering the view—to welcome me home.
Home.
I don’t let that sink in. It’s a rung on the ladder, two years at worst, sooner if I have my way.
A quick push of a button on my phone has the bathroom filled with steam by the time my suit hits the bed, and everything else lays at the foot of it. The heat envelops me, and when the hot water hits my shoulders, my tension begins to melt away.
Closing my eyes, I step under the spray. Usually, I’d recount my day, but tonight, Juni outweighs that habit. I have time for this . . . or her.
Not sure why I’m trying to convince myself. Nick is right. I’m married to my job, and I don’t see a change in that commitment anytime soon. So why get involved with someone in New York when I plan to move back to LA?
Nick is a prime example. He came here for work and stayed when he met someone. That’s not my plan. I’m not even open to it. Though I imagine my mom would have a field day if she knew my focus even slipped for a minute.
The bottom line is I’m not interested in strings or complications. I’m not sure if that’s what Juni is, but by how our lives have already tangled together, there’s a strong possibility.
I take several deep breaths to calm my mind, letting it fog over like the glass of the shower, my muscles easing under the pounding of hot water. Resting a hand on the marble wall, I lower my head and close my eyes. I can’t stop my stomach from growling, reminding me that a small bag of Fritos and an apple at four won’t tide me over for long.
After pulling on a pair of sweatpants, I try to figure out something quick to make for dinner. Loud music begins as soon as I set the mustard on the counter.
Surely, playing music that loud is against the rules, especially after eleven. This wouldn’t fly in the building where I lived in LA. It was filled with lawyers, doctors, agents, and even a few celebrities, looking for peace from the outside world, not to have it shattered. That’s why I lived there. If I wanted to party, I would have lived on Sunset or in The Hills.
I finish making my sandwich and eat while I move from vent to vent, listening with the rapt attention I usually reserve for my work. I’m quick to narrow it down to three vents in the living room as I eat. Tomorrow, I intend to find out who’s at the other end. I don’t need another stress. Not. Here.
The kitchen only takes a minute to clean, and then I make my way to the bedroom. In the bathroom, I stare into the mirror, not recognizing myself as easily these days. I’ve aged beyond my years, the stress of building a family empire wearing into my skin. I run my hands over my jaw, feeling how the long hours add to the growth. I didn’t shave every day in California because I didn’t have to. But from what I’ve seen of this city, even from my brother, the professional community takes a more formal approach.
I pull out my razor blade and set up for the morning. Organizing things now feeds my need to control things. I brush my teeth, floss, and then climb into bed. After a day of being surrounded by TV screens blaring while watching the stock market, this is much-needed peace.
I’m not that lucky, though.
The upbeat melody from the offending neighboring apartment sneaks in. I bury my head under a pillow. Shit. Seems to be a running theme today.
4
Juni
What if I get there early? Do I stay and wait to order? Or do I order and then take the coffee, telling Barry the bill will be paid as soon as a certain man who lost a jinx shows up with the money?
Oh wait, they won’t even make the coffee until it’s paid for. Hrm . . . I could arrive fashionably late, but that would be rude. I have no idea what to do. It’s been a long time since I met someone of the opposite persuasion for coffee. This flirting-dating business has me feeling woefully unprepared for this meetup. And with someone I find extremely hot, in spite of his ever-changing moods.
I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s coffee. Nothing more.
Anyway, a molehill is all it can be since I have a job today. I grab my bag and hurry downstairs.
Pete is helping Mrs. Smith to the curb. The door closes behind them as I cross the lobby, determined to ignore the wilting row of variegated snake plants against the far wall. I lose. Again.
Pushing the door open, I hear Pete say, “Sorry about that, Juni. I didn’t see you coming.”
I never mind opening the door for myself. It always makes me feel too pampered when I leave it to the doormen, but they don’t appreciate me stealing their job.
“No worries, Pete. I can handle the door.”
He tips his head. “We’re always looking for help if you want to cover a shift or two.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I reply. “I’ll keep that in mind.” As he helps Mrs. Smith into a taxi, I stroll the block, admiring the trees blooming in their large planters and the birds flying with a blue sky as the backdrop.
When I turn the corner, I spy Andrew pacing the sidewalk with a phone to his ear. The tips of my fingers run the length of the smile he brings to my face before I bite my lower lip. I shouldn’t fixate on such shallow things like his looks or the way his suit hangs on his body just as nice as yesterday's did. And my tummy definitely shouldn’t tighten when I eye that cliff dive of a jaw on full display. But I’m pretty sure I’m not alone, nor the first one to admire this man for his physical attributes.
Men like him get plenty of attention. The last thing he needs is mine.
But that smirky grin he’s wearing when he sees me also doesn’t help settle the butterflies flapping around my stomach.
Keep your eyes on the prize, Jacobs. Coffee, that’s it. Nothing more. The last thing I need in my life is some guy who has me imagining growing a garden, barbecuing on the weekends, strolling through Central Park, or dining out. Nope. I don’t need any of that . . . that . . . fantasy stuff in my life.
I’m not interested in changing. Cut bait and get out is working just fine.
“Hello, Juni,” he says, a grin so devilish that my knees weaken, causing me to stumble over my own feet in my stride.
My arms fly into the air as a high-pitched squeal escapes my throat. “Oh my God!” I exclaim, catching myself. Technically, my face stopped the momentum against his chest, but we don’t need to get caught up in the minutia of the details.
Fortunately, he’s quick with his hands and also stopped me from plowing into him . . . well, any more than I did already. Pushing off him, I try to catch my breath, which was also lost in the fall. I straighten my skirt before brushing my hair back from my face and failing to keep the embarrassment from heating my face.
A small section of hair falls from his prior-to-seeing-me perfectly coiffed hair, and he asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” And utterly mortified. But I swallow down that admission.
His kind smile quirks up on one side. “If it makes a difference, you saved it at the end.”
“As did your chest. Oh no!” I reach for his shirt but stop shy of rubbing the fabric that’s now covered in makeup that conveniently matches my face. Covering my mouth in horror, I say, “I’m so sorry.” His expression hardens as he stares at his shirt, but he doesn’t say anything.
As for me, I think all of Manhattan can hear me swallow. I add, “I’m sorry. I can’t fix it, but I can have it cleaned. Again, you probably have your own dry cleaner, but you can send me the bill. Or I can just buy you a new shirt. That won’t help you right now, but—”
“It’s okay.” Nothing about his tone has me believing it’s actually okay, but he’s kind enough to pretend. “Two out of three leaves me one ahead.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking I’m bad luck for you.”
His eyes are more golden when h
e looks in my direction as the sun awakens the avenue. The hard lines of his forehead finally soften, and he says, “I don’t believe in bad luck. Things happen for a reason.”
“So I was meant to ruin two of your shirts in two days?” I laugh. It’s light but releases some of the guilt. Only some of it. “Look, I feel awful. How can I make it up to you?”
“No need.” He checks his watch and then glances over my shoulder. “I hate to cut this short, but I need to get to the office. Can I buy you that coffee?”
I’m quick to the door and open it. “I should be buying you a coffee.”
Andrew’s hand covers mine, and I find my breath escaping me. His body is close, all six-two, maybe six-three of him, shadows mine. “After you. I insist.” His voice is low, as if a secret was shared, and those butterflies are awakened.
I slip my hand out from under his, careful to only steal a glance at him. “Thank you,” I whisper before entering the coffee shop. When I look forward, Barry’s eyes are on me, and a smile on his face, but they’re quick to dart behind me to Andrew. His smile disappears. If there was a way to steam milk with fury, he’s mastered it.
As Andrew and I wait in line for our turn to order, I ask, “Are you sure you have time for this? I don’t want to keep you. It was only a playful joke anyway. My feelings won’t be hurt if you need to leave.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No,” I reply with a light laugh. “Like I said, I just feel bad. First the shirt and now I’m keeping you.”
“The line is moving fairly quick. I should be fine.” We both move forward, and as I study the pastry counter, silently debating between the chocolate croissant and the banana muffin, he says, “You look very nice.”
Instead of looking up at him, I look down at my clothes. It’s not a shining star of an outfit or anything, but I guess it’s flattering. Over my shoulder, I say, “That’s very kind of you to say.” Keeping my voice down, I say, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Confidence is built into every syllable this man speaks. And although I’m fairly certain he’s hard to catch off guard, I’m thinking I’m doing a fine job of it.
