by Jana Aston
“Finance.”
“Ugh, finance guys are the worst. My ex is in finance.”
“Lauren, the only ex here is the X-cross in my sex room down the hall.”
“Really?” My eyes bug out.
“No, not really.” He shakes his head while looking at me like I’m crazy. “There’s an office and another bathroom at the end of the hall.”
“Holy shit, you have two bathrooms?”
“Should I have led with that when I asked you out?” He gets up and pulls bottled waters out of the oversized stainless refrigerator and hands one to me. “Two bathrooms and Chinese delivery is the way to your heart. Got it.”
“Hell, yes, you should have led with that. Two bathrooms in New York City? I share one bathroom with three other girls. The idea of two bathrooms all to myself might make me spontaneously orgasm.” I wave a hand over my face. “Is it hot in here?”
“We can fuck in both of the bathrooms if you’re into it,” he offers.
“Do go on.” I stuff a forkful of noodles into my mouth and nod.
“I’ve got one hell of a walk-in shower in the bathroom upstairs.”
“Hmmm.”
“Italian Carrera tile.” He drops his voice and raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Basketweave mosaic,” he adds with a wink.
I laugh. “I already checked your bathroom out. You’ve got a herringbone tile not a basketweave.”
“Do you think I have any idea what I’m saying? I’m just spouting words I think are going to turn you on. Subway tile, Egyptian cotton, rainfall shower head. Is any of this working?”
“Oh, it’s working, but it’s unnecessary. You had me at two bathrooms, remember?”
“Never hurts to load the bases.”
Chapter 7
We’re almost finished eating when I spot the fortune cookies left scattered by the takeout bag. “Look, they gave us extra fortune cookies!” I squeak, eyeing the pile.
“Well, to be fair, we ordered enough food for half a dozen people so I think they gave us a normal amount,” Max comments wryly, but he seems amused by my excitement, his eyes lingering on my face.
“Hush,” I tell him as I grab one. I crack it open, eat one corner of the cookie then pull out the fortune and read it aloud. “‘You are capable, competent, creative and careful.’” I nod and place the fortune on the counter. “Now you go,” I tell Max.
He pops a piece of broccoli in his mouth as he opens one of the plastic-sealed cookies and cracks it open. “‘You will be invited to a small gathering with spicy conversation,’” he reads with a smirk. “Well, this one has already come true,” he comments as he eyes me in his shirt.
“Okay, my turn.” I grab another cookie and pop the package.
“You didn’t finish the last one.” Max points his fork at the abandoned fortune cookie pieces lying on his countertop.
“I know, I just like the fortunes,” I tell him, but I eat a piece of the new cookie as I unfurl the paper. “‘Time is the wisest counselor,’” I read off. We both groan and I toss it on the counter. “Boring. Your turn.”
Max pops another cookie open and glances at the paper with a grin. “‘The object of your desire comes closer,’” he reads and then suggestively looks me over.
“You keep getting the good ones,” I mumble as I grab another, again eating one bite of the new cookie as I flip the paper around so I can read it. “‘You find beauty in ordinary things. Do not lose this ability,’” I read from the paper. “Eh, kinda generic.”
“Why do you keep doing that?” Max asks.
“Doing what?”
“Eating part of each cookie. Why don’t you just finish one of them?”
“I don’t really want the cookie, but I feel like it’s bad luck if I don’t eat at least part of it before I read the fortune.”
“What about my luck? You didn’t let me in on this little superstition and now my fortunes are invalid!” He waves at the uneaten cookies in front of him and glares at me.
“Yours aren’t!” I insist. “It’s my superstition, it doesn’t apply to you!”
“But how could you risk it, Lauren?” He looks at me so beseechingly I can’t help but laugh. His eyes are so imploring. I think he could get me to do just about anything with those eyes.
“Okay, I’m sorry! I apologize. I was wrong not to tell you about the proper procedure for eating and reading a fortune cookie.”
“Apology accepted, but I’ve got my eye on you.”
I roll my eyes and shrug, “Last one’s yours,” I tell him and slide the remaining cookie across the counter.
He opens the package and makes a big show of stuffing half the cookie in his mouth before reading the fortune. Then his brows draw and he nods to himself before stuffing the rest of the cookie into his mouth and the slip of paper into his pocket.
“You’re not going to read it?” I question, confused.
“I read it.”
“You’re not going to read it to me?” I try again, a little hurt. Why do I feel like things just got weird?
“I’m saving it for later,” he says and I wonder what the hell that means.
“Um, okay,” I agree without looking at him and sweep up the mess of cookie crumbs onto my plate while wondering if all men are covert or just the ones I’m attracted to. “That’s really cagey,” I blurt out.
“Cagey? How am I cagey?” He looks so confused I second-guess my gut reaction to question him. Why am I so suspicious? “We’re in my apartment and I gave you carte blanche to go through my stuff. You’re the one who wouldn’t let me walk you home,” he points out as he gets up and drops our plates into the dishwasher. Bastard has a dishwasher too.
“Oh, that.” Yeah, he has a point. “That’s because I share a one-bedroom apartment with three other girls.”
“How does that work exactly?” He looks genuinely curious, then grins. “Does it involve snuggling and pillow fights?”
“No, pervert. Bunk beds.”
“Bunk beds,” he repeats with a nod, but then a moment later he frowns, subtly, the skin on his forehead wrinkling for a fraction of a second, so quick I wonder if I imagined it. “Can I get you anything else to drink? Should I open a bottle?” He’s not facing me, sticking leftovers in the fridge as he asks, and I wonder if it’s a dismissal. I wasn’t expecting to spend the night here. I wasn’t expecting to be here at all, but then he showed up for my book club with his dimples and flowers and things got out of hand.
“Do you want me to leave? It’s getting late.” I should probably go before I fall for this guy. This has gone too far—time to shield myself.
“No, I definitely don’t want you to leave.” He pops his head around the fridge door and stares at me. “What’s this talk of leaving?”
“Um, I don’t know.”
“You promised me a dirty bedtime story,” he reminds me. “You’re staying.”
“Okay.” I grin, the weirdness from before forgotten.
“I think I’ve got something you’ll like,” he says as he pulls a bottle from an under-counter wine fridge and sets it on the counter before peeling the seal off and grabbing a corkscrew. He’s really adept with a corkscrew and I’m intoxicated watching the muscles in his arms flex as he grips the bottle and pops the cork. Adeptness is a turn-on, even for a simple task. “Where’d you say you were from, Lauren?”
“I didn’t say.”
He tilts his head as if to ask the question now.
“You don’t think I’m a New Yorker born and raised?” I ask with a laugh.
“Not quite.” He shakes his head as he pours the first glass.
“Iowa,” I tell him.
“Iowa.” He repeats it slowly for such a short word. “What brought you to New York?”
“A guy.” I take the offered glass and bring it to my lips. “The stupid finance guy.”
“The cheater,” he says, focused on tilting the bottle, pouring a glass for himself.
“Yeah.” I nod. “That he wa
s.” I pause for a moment, thinking. “Wait, when did I mention that he cheated on me?” I don’t remember mentioning it. I find it sort of embarrassing so I’m usually careful about who I mention it to.
“This afternoon. When you tried to get out of having dinner with me.” He flashes a smile at me while stowing the half-full bottle in the fridge.
“I did? Oh, that’s weird. I try not to mention it. But yeah, he was a cheater. Is still a cheater, I assume. He’s just cheating on someone else now, I suppose.”
“He’s an idiot,” Max snaps. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”
“That’s true,” I agree. “But it’s hard not to. For a long time I felt stupid for not seeing it, you know? But hell, I was in Iowa most of the time it was going on.” I shrug. “So now I blame his friends.”
“Why’s that?” Max asks, pausing.
“So I don’t have to blame myself?” I joke. “Because he was a pretty nice guy in college. Then he came to New York and got a fancy job and a nice apartment and I don’t know what happened to him. He changed. Started hanging out with a bunch of Wall Street types. No offense,” I add when he raises a brow at that comment.
“I’ll let it pass.”
“His friends are clearly a bunch of degenerate douchebags though. You’d think just one of them might have pointed out to him that he already had a girlfriend.”
“Maybe they didn’t know.”
“Possibly.” I nod. “Except he actually told me it wasn’t a big deal. Said he was just blowing off steam and that I got to be his girlfriend. Like I should be honored I got top billing in a polygamous relationship I wasn’t aware I was in.” I snort.
“Huh,” he murmurs.
“You don’t hang out with guys like that, right?” I question.
“Not on purpose, no,” he says, then adds, “Fuck him,” as he pulls me off the stool I’m on and leads me back to the couch we had sex on before dinner. Then we talk and kiss and it’s the best night of my life. He asks questions about my job and my roommates and what I miss about home and what I like most about the city.
He agrees my boss is a troll and listens to all of the ideas I would have liked to have implemented for Budget Bridal instead of walking around Times Square in a wedding dress today.
We just really hit it off, like we’ve known each other forever.
Later we go upstairs and Max gets that bedtime story.
“Once upon a time there was a girl named Lauren and her mouth was so, so wet,” I purr into his ear as I slide my hand lower.
“Fuck,” Max groans in response. He doesn’t say much after that. After all, it’s my story.
Chapter 8
On Monday I smile my way through the entire day. I spent the weekend with Max, returning to my apartment only long enough to grab clean clothes on Saturday morning and not returning again until Sunday night. We played tourist all weekend, doing the things I imagined I’d do when I moved here. We saw a show on Broadway, something Brad had kept promising to do with me but never had. After, we walked through Times Square, which is insane twenty-four hours a day, but at night it’s insane with a neon cherry on top. There’s nothing like Manhattan at night. The lights, the sounds, the energy, the people.
We got gyros from a street vendor on Fifty-Third and Sixth that Max insisted would change my life and edible cookie dough from the new place in Greenwich Village that I contended would change the size of my ass. Max whispered some very filthy promises to me about how we’d burn the calories off while we waited in a line that snaked out the front door and down the block.
We even took one of those double-decker bus tours. Max said he’d never been on one either—and it was probably pretty repetitive for him to see a bunch of sites he’s seen for years, but we went anyway. We took a night tour and I know it’s silly because we were on a bus and surrounded by tourists, but it was romantic. Like stupid romantic. Max had his arm slung around me as I rested my head on his shoulder and enjoyed the tour. We drove past Rockefeller Center and Madison Square Garden. Past the Empire State Building illuminated in white light and the Flatiron Building, which the tour guide told us was mocked upon completion by critics believing the combination of the triangular shape and height would cause the building to fall down. Over a hundred years later it still stands and is considered one of the most photographed buildings in the world.
We crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, which is stunning in the daylight and magic after dark, the lights running up the cables to the top of the stone towers and then back down again. On the Brooklyn side of the bridge the bus stopped long enough for picture-taking of the Manhattan skyline. Max took our picture with his phone, smiles on our faces and the city sparkling behind us. My heart beats a little faster and I suck my lip between my teeth just remembering it.
I’m so happy even my troll boss hasn’t been able to get me down. She keeps looking at me suspiciously, likely trying to imagine what’s making me happy so she can dream up ways to squash me, but whatever. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter because I will find another job eventually. This job is just a blip on the radar of my career. I’ve already found two open positions within the company that I’m perfect for and applied. Maybe I’ll get one of them, maybe I won’t. But eventually I’ll find something because I won’t quit until I do.
It turns out I don’t have to wait very long because on the following week I get asked to interview for one of the jobs I applied for and I have an offer by the end of the week.
It’s to move to the social media team. A twenty percent increase in pay and, even better, it’s a job I could be excited about doing. I really clicked with the supervisor I interviewed with. She’s a blogger too and we spent most of the interview chatting about affiliate programs and algorithms. She blogs about living in small spaces and when I told her about my bunk bed living situation she asked if she could take some photos and feature my apartment on her blog. So, yeah, we totally hit it off and—dare I be too optimistic?—I think she’s going to be more than a boss, I think she’s going to be a friend too. She’s already sent me links to several blogging conferences she wants me to attend and told me if there’s any others I’m interested in to let her know, that as long as it’s something I can use for work then we can find a way to justify sending me. It’s a dream gig. I’ll be using my skills instead of wearing a wedding dress in Times Square and I’ll be getting paid to learn things that I’ll also be able to apply to my personal blog.
You know that saying about how fast life moves? That in the blink of an eye everything can change? It’s true. I’ve spent the last year stuck, so to say, and these past two weeks it feels as if my life is moving faster than a New York minute.
Probably because it is. A promotion and a new guy. Crazy.
And not just any guy. The perfect guy.
One who makes me smile.
One who makes me shelve my skepticism.
One I might be falling in love with.
I know it’s only been a couple of weeks. I know it sounds insane and like I should use more caution. But it feels right. It feels like everything is coming together. Meeting Max feels like the reason I came to New York. I mean, I know the reason I came to New York was Brad. But when that went south, I stayed. I persevered though a shitty year at work and a tight budget. Through self-doubts and questioning if I should have gone back to Iowa with my tail between my legs where I could have at least afforded my own apartment and a car. But I didn’t. I stayed and meeting Max is more than a reward for staying. Max is like the answer to everything happens for a reason. Like all roads led to him. So cheesy, but I don’t know how else to explain it.
I’m still smiling when I walk through the door after work on Friday and the entire time I get ready.
“You’re seeing the new guy again tonight?”
“Yup,” I reply with a big grin on my face.
My roommate Allison—the part-time fit model—is sitting on the couch in our apartment watching me get ready at our kitchen table-tu
rned-vanity.
“Where are you going?”
“We’re having dinner with his sister. Some Indian restaurant that she loves and Max tolerates.”
“His sister, huh? Serious stuff.” Allison looks up from her phone with interest, my love life suddenly becoming more interesting than her social media. “Didn’t you just meet this guy?”
“Yeah, a couple weeks ago. But what can I say? I like him.”
“I like him too,” Allison comments.
“You haven’t met him.” I turn to her in confusion, mascara wand halfway to my lashes.
“I like that he keeps you at his place all weekend. Last weekend you were gone, Delaney flew home for someone’s wedding and Bridget was on a multi-night leg with the airline. I took a ten-minute shower on both Saturday and Sunday and pretended I lived alone. It was glorious.” She sighs happily.
“Did I tell you Max has two bathrooms?” I finish with the mascara and apply my fade-resistant lipstick.
“Two? Marry him.”
“I know, right?” I nod. “But all joking aside, I really like him.”
“Well, if you like him I like him too,” Allison says from the sofa, where she makes a big production of stretching out and hogging the entire sofa. “I think I’m gonna watch a movie on my laptop tonight. Without headphones. Bam,” she boasts as she kicks back.
I laugh because I know what she means. When you have roommates you spend a lot of time with headphones shoved in your ears so you’re not disturbing the others. “Enjoy your movie with the added soundtrack of the neighbors downstairs having sex and the ones across the hall fighting.”
“Oh, I will.” Allison claps her hands in glee. “Neighbor noise equals bonus soundtrack,” she says while scrolling through the options on her laptop.
A minute later Max arrives, the buzzer from the front door announcing his arrival. Allison hops off the couch before I’ve even set my hairbrush down and hits the release, allowing him into the building. Then she opens the front door and leans into the hallway waiting on his arrival like a little sister about to check out her sibling’s big date.
