Chapter 11
chapter 11
ANTHONY
As a native New Yorker, it’s easy to adopt a “been there, did that when I was ten, spare me the crowds, thank you,” attitude toward our city’s tourist attractions. Sure, I enjoy a Broadway show or a trip to Governors Island for a killer view of the Statue of Liberty from time to time, but for the most part, I avoid touristy shit like the plague.
I’m a cultural snob and far too fast a walker to have any patience with the gaping, ambling Midwesterners filling Times Square on any given afternoon. I rarely step foot in Midtown unless I have a meeting that can’t be rescheduled to my firm’s posh conference room in the Financial District.
But now, I’m so glad I braved the holiday hordes.
The look on Maya’s face as we’re slowly elevated three stories into the air above the observation deck atop Rockefeller Center is worth every second of the cramped subway ride from the Village and the battle through the crowds waiting their turn at the tiny ice rink below.
“Oh my God.” She steps forward, pressing her mittened hands against the glass, her lips parted in awe. “This is the coolest thing ever.”
“Not too shabby,” I murmur as I discreetly snap a picture of her with my phone. She’s too beautiful, with her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes filled with wonder to resist.
And a part of me knows I’m going to need photographic evidence of my week with her. Otherwise, it would be too easy to believe this wild, impulsive deviation from my status quo was a sexy dream I had on the way to a full-blown midlife crisis.
But when I’m with her, I don’t feel on the verge of a midlife crisis. Since we met at the botanic garden last night, I haven’t thought about what I left behind or what comes next for a moment. All I’ve thought about is her. And her body. And her smile. And her sweetness.
And her cat, who I’ve grown weirdly attached to since I met him in that dingy hotel room.
When she suggested we could bring Pudge on our outing if my surprise didn’t involve places that are off-limits to cats, I briefly considered revising my game plan for the afternoon. Partly because I wanted to see him dressed up in a sweater and riding in the backpack Maya brought along to facilitate cat-accompanied sightseeing, and partly because I thought it would make her happier than leaving her fur baby behind.
But now, I’m glad I promised we’d plan a Pudge-friendly outing for later in the week. Her gasp of excitement as we reach the top of our ride and the glass platform begins to spin in a slow circle is worth triple the price I paid for the VIP tickets.
The city spreads out before us, a snow-dusted landscape of architectural wonder beneath a light blue December sky. The One World Trade Center pierces the heavens to our south, while Central Park stretches north like a white blanket, dotted with bare trees and winding paths. From this height, even the yellow taxis look like toys scattered across a playmat.
“I thought the view from the Empire State Building was amazing, but this is…” She exhales with a reverent shake of her head. “This is next level. Thank you so much for bringing me.”
“Of course. I’m enjoying it, too,” I say wrapping my arms around her from behind. The warmth of her curvy body against mine contrasts perfectly with the winter chill. “We came here for a field trip when I was in fifth grade, but they didn’t have the Skylift back then. It’s nice to see everything above the crowds.”
“So nice,” she agrees. “Everything looks so different up here. More impressive, but also…more manageable somehow. Like a girl from Maine could really move to the big city, buy a piece of the action, and make something of herself.”
“You’re already something. Something pretty great,” I say, another prickle of misgiving itching across my skin as she leans back against me with a soft, “Aw, thanks. You, too.”
I did some research on the building she’s buying this morning before she woke up. It wasn’t hard to find. I know the neighborhood and there was only one building that matched her description.
One crumbling, likely asbestos-and-rodent-infested building that might very well bleed her reserves dry before she gets everything up to code and ready to actually make a profit…
Reading between the lines, it’s pretty clear she’s putting everything she’s saved into the down-payment. That won’t leave much for repairs, especially if they’re substantial.
I push aside my worries for now, not wanting to ruin the afternoon, but I’m going to make damned sure she touches base with me between her final walk-through on Wednesday and the closing on Friday. And if she’s about to make a potentially ruinous mistake, I’ll do whatever it takes to get through to her…even if I have to tell her the truth about who I am and just how much I know about buying property in Red Hook.
I own two warehouses in the area and a building I donated to a non-profit that offers emergency housing for victims of domestic violence, not to mention the three single-family homes my family inhabits not far from the waterfront. They’re all on the same block, making that section of the neighborhood feel like a Pissarro-family compound. My cousins’ kids ride bikes up and down the street at all hours of the day and night, especially in the summer, and getting enough signatures to close the street for a block party is never a problem.
The June crawfish boil has become such a hot ticket that my uncle had to start selling tickets on Eventbrite to make sure he had enough food for everyone, and they always sell out within twenty-four hours.
I bet Maya would love that, I think, as the platform begins its slow descent back toward the top level of the observation deck. Especially if she’s a member of the Red Hook community by then. She didn’t mention anything about moving into the apartment building she’s buying, but I doubt she’ll have enough money left over to afford to live anywhere else.
As much as I hate the idea of her in a sketchy area, I like the thought of her being a part of the close-knit community that always watched out for me as a kid.
But, of course, I can’t connect her to that community or promise her a ticket to the crawfish boil without giving myself away. Without letting her know that I’m a liar who’s been abusing her trust from the moment I gave her a fake last name in the club Friday night.
But maybe she would forgive you, my inner voice whispers. If the rest of the week is as perfect as last night and today have been, you’d both be stupid to let a little bump in the road derail something with this kind of potential.
I roll the thought over in my head.
Is lying about being a male prostitute a “little” bump in the road, though? Before I can decide, we’re back on the 70 th floor and the attendant is opening the glass door for us to exit.
“Want to walk around a little more? I’d like to take a few pictures of the skyline,” she says as we move past the next group waiting in line, adding with a laugh, “I was so excited on the ride, I forgot.”
“Of course,” I say, letting her lead the way to the railing, where a gentle winter wind nips at our skin without being too brutal. “We can stay as long as you like.”
“Thanks,” she says, pulling her phone from her coat pocket and lining up a shot. “I love how clearly you can see all the different styles of architecture from up here. An art deco masterpiece next to a glass tower from the 80’s next to something brand new…but it’s all still cohesive somehow.”
“You’re an architecture fan,” I say, noting the passion in her voice and the way her eyes flash as she lines up each shot. I glance over her shoulder at the screen, impressed. “And one hell of a photographer.”
She laughs self-consciously. “Oh, no. I’m just an amateur. My friend Sully is the photographer in our group. She’s insanely talented. I like taking pictures, but I mostly use them as references for sketching and watercolor.”
“A photographer and an artist,” I say, refusing to let her talk me out of being impressed by her. “I’d love to see your sketches sometime.”
Her cheeks flush as she bobs a shoulder. “Maybe I’ll make you one before I leave. As a thank you for letting me stay at your place. I always do a little watercolor for my Gram when she sells a house. She gives them to her clients along with the keys at closing as a personal touch.”
“Add stellar granddaughter to the list, but I’m not surprised,” I say, loving that we both make family a priority. We come from such different worlds, but we have more in common than I would have imagined that first night at the club.
Tucking her phone back into her pocket, she turns to me with a playful arch of her brow. “Yeah? So, I’ve got you fooled, huh?”
I smile, enjoying her sassy side as much as her sweet one. “Yeah, you’ve got me, all right. I think you’re pretty great, Miss Swallows.” I pull a face. “I mean, aside from how loudly you snore, obviously.”
Her jaw drops, but she laughs as she says, “I do not snore!”
“Oh, but you do. Loud enough to rattle the pictures above the bed,” I lie. “Why do you think I was up so early this morning?”
Her eyes narrow. “Nope. I don’t believe you. I may not have slept over at a man’s house before, but I still have sleepover parties with my girlfriends all the time. They would have told me if I snore, so I could do something to stop it. They believe in tough love.”
“Good. Tough love is the best kind of love.”
“Agreed,” she says, her expression growing serious. “Truth feels way more like love to me than pretty lies. Truth means you really care.” Before I can recover from that direct blow to the conscience, she adds, “But I do have flaws, for sure. I don’t snore, but sometimes…I’m super bad.”
I frown, falling in beside her as we wander to the other side of the observation deck. “Oh yeah? Example of this badness, please?”
“Well, I…” She glances around, ensuring there’s no one too close before she adds in a whisper, “I hired a male prostitute. In a secret sex club. That’s pretty bad.”
I snort, making it clear I’m unimpressed. “Please, I’m a consenting adult. You’re a consenting adult. We’re both having a good time together. Nothing bad to see here, let alone ‘super bad.’ You’re going to have to come up with something better than that, Swallows.”
She wrinkles her nose, lifting her chin in that stubborn way I’m coming to love as she adds, “Fine. I break into buildings. Lots of them. I learned to pick locks one summer as a kid, after watching too much Harriet the Spy, and now I break into people’s vacation homes while they’re out of town. I do it all the time, in fact.”
My brows lift. I’m surprised, but also…intrigued.
Is it wrong that I find her deviant side as adorable as her sweet one? I don’t know, but I’m not sure I can help myself if it is.
“Okay,” I say, nodding as I consider this latest revelation. “We might have something here. So, what do you do after you’ve broken in? Drink their booze? Use their pool and leave wet towels in the pool house? Throw wild parties for your friends?”
She gives a self-conscious roll of her eyes. “No, I just…walk around, looking at the architecture and getting design inspiration, but still…” She points a finger at my chest. “That’s bad. And illegal. I could get in big trouble if I were caught, which I almost was one time when I didn’t realize the new owners had installed cameras when they bought the property.”
I grin. “Wow. You wicked thing, you. Just walking around, looking at things, without touching anything or causing any chaos or destruction. How do you sleep at night?”
She gives my arm a playful slap. “Oh, hush. It is wicked. And I’ve never told anyone about it before, not even my best friends.”
I sober, my smile fading as I assure her, “Your secret is safe with me. Thanks for sharing it. I appreciate the trust.”
“You’re welcome,” she mutters. “I just think it’s a shame no one ever gets to see the inside of those old mansions except rich out-of-towners who don’t even live there most of the year.”
An idea forms, so perfect I know the ice-skating I had planned can wait for another day. “Have you been to The Met?”
She nods. “Yeah, I love it. The impressionist paintings are my favorite.”
“So, you’ve been to the period rooms?”
Her brow furrows. “Period rooms?”
“There’s an entire section near the American wing, where they’ve recreated historic interiors, from the bedrooms of kings and queens to old hotel lobbies and fancy French drawing rooms.”
Her eyes light up like she’s just found buried treasure. “No, way! How could I have missed those? That sounds amazing.”
“It’s an enormous museum. It’s easy to miss things. But I’ve been a member for years and know all The Met’s secrets. Want to head up there?” I glance at my phone. “We’ll only have a couple hours before they close, but that should be enough to see the period rooms and grab tea in the Patrons Lounge. I can text the concierge and ask them to reserve a table for us at four if you like tiny sandwiches and even tinier desserts.”
“Yes, let’s!” She practically bounces through the crowd toward the elevators. “I love tiny sandwiches and even tinier desserts. And tea! And museums.” She grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. “This is seriously the best day ever. No other day will ever be able to compare.”
Not if I have anything to say about it , I think as we slide into the elevator, taking advantage of the fact that we’re the only ones in the car to make out in the corner as we rocket toward street level.
Yes, today has been wonderful, but I haven’t begun to woo this woman. I have dozens of tricks still up my sleeve, cards waiting to be played when I want to make her jaw drop and her pretty blue eyes dance.
And yes, I probably shouldn’t be thinking about “wooing” a woman I’m supposed to say goodbye to in a week, but fuck that. I can’t bring myself to care about “should” when Maya’s cuddled against me in a car whizzing uptown, grinning from ear to ear.
She’s beautiful when she’s happy.
And I’m happier than I can remember being in years when she’s happy.
And that’s enough to push all my worries aside as we emerge from the cab and start up the grand steps to the museum, hand in hand.