This Kind of Love

1. Now

Everyone makes mistakes. My forty-five-pound husky-mix judges me for mine. For example, last week I forgot to pick up dog treats, and she didn't talk to me for days . Yesterday, my skirt was stuck in my underwear (#SundayScaries), and Hyla didn't even give me a warning bark. She just let me walk to the subway, where I was catcalled for blocks by middle-aged, beer-gut hanging-out construction workers. Now, there’s a rugged, half-naked stranger sleeping in my bed while I rummage around all five hundred square feet of my New York City studio apartment looking for my other boot and instead of helping, Hyla's giving me a hard side-eye. The sass .

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus. Find the matching boot and get to work. I stretch my arm as if it’s an elastic band to get a little further under my bed and sigh. I love my job, my co-workers, and going out to celebrate “team wins,” birthday parties, and #SingleSunday nights … but I’m going to need a large amount of caffeine to get through the day.

“Kate, babe, why don’t you come back to bed?” City Boy peeks one eye open and gives me a lazy grin.

Babe. So, he’s one of those guys . The kind of guy who thinks one night is more than it is. The kind of guy who has a pet name in his back pocket because he thinks I’m looking for a relationship, some sort of commitment, and that a night of sex, no matter how great (and it was not ), means giving a situationship a label in a matter of days. I’ve been through this over and over with guys who call me babe. This particular guy—Austin? Orlando? Memphis?—seems just like the rest. And even though I imagine my mama's eyes rolling into the back of her head at the sight of this, I’m not a hopeless romantic you can oblige with a white picket fence. Not anymore. Nowadays, you don’t just meet the guy next door, fall in love, and live happily ever aft—

“Babe?” he asks again.

“Oh, I can’t. I’m running late. Where is that boot?” I glance at City Boy, then continue searching under the bed.

He pulls my long-lost gray, knee-length favorite out from under the covers and (honest to God) caresses it. “This one?”

I pull it from his grasp. “Mhm.”

He holds the covers open for me.

What if I leave him here?

Hyla sighs.

Ughhh, she’s right. She deserves better.

I reach for City Boy’s elbow, encourage him to stand, and— mistake. This stranger is standing there in full … glory … manhood … nakedness at attention, and my head is pounding.

This is the moment— this right here is when it hits me: twenty-four is too old for one-night stands and all the bullshit that comes with ‘em.

Spotting his boxers by the nightstand, I toss them City Boy’s way. “Please put these on.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes.

I grab my clutch and pace toward the door. When he doesn’t follow, I gather his clothes in a small pile and push him and his clothes into the hallway. My fingers linger on the metal knob for a few seconds.

“This was … yeah .” I add a smile for good measure but peel it back when he opens his mouth.

City Boy wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe we can do this again tonight?”

I try not to wince at what may be turning into my second stage-five clinger this month.

Hearing Hyla’s less-than-silent judgment, I click my tongue. “This week's not good … but maybe sometime soon.”

I don’t wait for him to answer before I push the key in the lock, barrel down the three flights of stairs, and run out into the cool air of New York City in early October. While it hasn’t been the best start to the day, I freaking love fall in the city. It’s not too hot, not too cold, and is the time precisely between summer vacationers and holiday tourists. I pop in my earbuds and mentally run through my to-do list: -Starbucks -Monday morning meeting -Note sharing session -Copyedits for the New Year’s piece -Case of the Mondays blog -Pick up Bone Appetit for Hyla -Call Mama

The fragrance of freshly ground beans and baking croissants radiates through my nostrils as I rush through a set of familiar green doors. Paradise. My grin fades when there isn’t a single name tag I recognize on the staff.

“Oh hey, Nick, your usual?” a barista asks someone in line behind me, blinking her pretty, brown eyes.

“Yes, Betty, thanks … and whatever this lady would like.” His voice is deep but calm. A voice for radio, my mama would say. As I turn my shoulder toward him, my mouth falls open. He’s close to a foot taller than me, with chocolate brown eyes, a well-kept crew cut, and a black suit that fits in all the right places.

“That’s sweet, but I can’t let you do that,” I object. Please let the drool stay in my mouth.

Nick smiles, and one dimple forms on the right side of his perfect face. “I insist. Anyone trying to run people over for Starbucks needs it.”

There's scuffling further back in line, and my palms moisten.

Betty the Barista taps her finger on the register. “Miss, what'll it be?”

I order all in one breath: “A Grande decaf Americano with room for cream, a Grande blonde roast with room for cream, two Grande pumpkin spice lattes, and one venti vanilla latte with no foam. Please. ”

There’s heat behind me as Nick chuckles.

Glancing over my shoulder, I send an awkward, apologetic smile.

He shrugs. “Hey, a deal's a deal.” After handing his credit card over to Betty, he walks to the other side of the store to wait with me. He extends his hand. “Nick Scott.”

“Kate Dailey.” I close my hand over his. “I…”

He speaks before I can find the words. “Tell me, Kate Dailey, do you always need such a copious amount of caffeine in the morning?”

I hope he's joking, but my palms start to sweat anyway. “I, um, most of them are for a big meeting at work.”

The bells on the door ring as a few new patrons enter, and Betty nearly sings, “Nick!”

I hurry to the counter to grab the five that are mine, murmuring a “thank you” while heat rises to my cheeks. “Well, I should be going. Thank you for all of this.” I nod to the carrier.

Nick rushes to the door and holds it open for me. “See you around, Kate Dailey.”

“I, uh … We'll see.”

“Well, you do owe me half a dozen coffees.” He adds a wink that’s cuter than it has any right to be.

“Touché.” I shuffle across the street to the office, glancing back to find him looking my way, too.

The spark between us was almost as electric as the energy that consumes me when I first step foot inside the Q Magazine lobby. The familiar smell of must, sweat, and tears hits me instantaneously. I almost crave it when I’m not here: the hard work and success of writers, editors, publishers, photographers, and assistants who put everything on the line, day in and day out. My people . I take a deep breath, and the espresso-filled tray of drinks takes over my senses. The initial whiff is always gone too soon.

I’m late, again. Shit.

As my phone vibrates through my handbag, I shift and stack the coffee to one-handedly dig in my purse for my cell. I slide it to “talk,” put the phone on my shoulder, and keep walking. ”Hey, Ame, what's up?”

“Where the hell are you?” Amy whisper-screams.

“In the lobby, headed up.”

“I'll meet you at the elevators.”

I slip the phone back in my bag, re-adjust my hold on the cups, and step foot into the waiting elevator car to go up eleven floors to magazine headquarters.

True to her word, Amy Park, the shoulder-length, raven-haired, amber-eyed, bombshell editor at Q —and my boss, confidant, and best friend—is waiting. She’s fidgeting with her cadet blue blazer before she reaches out to take the tray from my hand.

We rush down the hall to the Monday morning meeting as I smooth out my skirt.

She leans in and whispers, “What happened? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Sorry, the line was out the door today.”

“I don't think anyone else noticed, but we need to get in there.”

Take a deep breath, I accept the coffee carrier back from Amy. As we pace by the white wall showcasing framed issues from the past year, I can’t help smiling at the latest issue of Q . It’s a special one, not just because it has my first mag-published piece, but because of what it stands for and who helped inspire it. I blink the thought away before it has a chance to linger too long.

Amy pulls at my arm. “Wait a minute. You have a look .”

I tilt my head. “What look?”

“An ‘I just got laid’ look.”

“I do not have a look . I was just thinking Selena’s November issue looks great next to Taylor’s October cover.”

Amy waves her arm. “Yeah, but did you get laid last night?”

My silence confirms it, and she screeches.

“I knewww it. Who is he? How was he? Was this at Encore after we left? Or did you go to The Saloon again?” She shoots question after question, one after the other, without taking a breath. A few people look up from their cubicles, glaring one by one.

“Amy, we're late. If we don't get to this meeting, I may be fired. Hell, I'm late enough; I may be fired anyway.” I freeze in place as her last question hits my brain. “Wait, why do you say The Saloon like it’s toxic? It’s the best bar on the Lower East Side.”

“‘Best bar’ is debatable. They can't fire you … they need you. I need you.” She pauses and checks her watch. “Whew, we need to get in there, but we’re not done with this conversation, Kate.”

“Second time I've heard that today.”

Amy raises her eyebrows in a ‘ we will be talking about this’ kind of way, opens the conference room door for me, closes it as she follows behind me inside, and takes her seat near the front of the room.

“Kate. How nice of you to join us at nine-twenty-seven.” Amy’s boss, Lucy, is an intimidating woman despite her five foot and size zero frame.

“I’m sorry, Lucy.” I keep my head down as I distribute the coffee.

“I suppose you just forgot the meeting starts at nine sharp every Monday.”

“I—”

Lucy cuts me off. “Don't bother. I’ll take the tray, and you can sit.”

I grab a chair away from the table, which is reserved for editors and full-time contributors. As one of the assistants, I pick up coffee, take notes, and do anything else Amy needs. Lucky for me, Amy is as cool a supervisor as she is a friend, and she tries to make my life at work not only bearable but enjoyable. Not every editor/editorial assistant relationship here is as functional as ours. Part of it, the part everyone sees, is Amy’s the youngest editor in the history of the magazine, so she not only busts her ass to show she’s earned it (and she has), but she also lifts everyone around her. She doesn’t talk down to anyone, from the janitor to her assistant (Hi). While there’s no denying how wonderful Amy is at work, it’s the other part, the one no one sees; that’s my favorite part of who she is. It’s the long nights at the office, Jose Cuervo-induced Kelly Clarkson karaoke nights at a local pub, and the girl talk. It’s her being the same person, no matter if she’s in the office or if we’re hanging out at each other’s apartments to discuss non-work-related things like relationships (or lack thereof) or having long-standing marathons of the Bachelor/Bachelorette while splitting a bottle of Moscato.

I owe Amy a lot, so as soon as the meeting ends, I hustle into her office. I know we’ll be digging into details from last night, why I was late this morning, and meeting notes all in one fell swoop—and I kind of want to .

“So ...” Amy begins.

“Okay. I brought someone home last night; it’s not a big deal.” I shrug and set down the water bottle I picked up while leaving the meeting.

She gives me a pointed look. “Don’t give me the ‘it’s not a big deal’ or ‘this happens all the time,’ or ‘it was just some guy I met at The Saloon’ speech.”

I raise my finger toward her. “One, while The Saloon slaps, two, it was Encore, and three, it was a random guy. It was a one-night stand, truly not a big deal, and I've had better.”

“See? This is what I am talking about. You say it's a random hookup, but you come in here all ‘cat ate the canary’ look on your face, which says it was more than some random guy you want to forget.”

I take a long sip of water and stare at Amy. There's no way she's going to let this go. I sigh. “Okay. You're half-right.”

“I knew it!” She shouts.

“Shhh!” I rush to close the door. She may have a ‘private’ office, but it doesn’t mean the rest of the open-concept floor plan won’t hear everything she says.

“Okay, keep it down,” I whisper. “It wasn't the guy from last night.”

“What?” She stares wide-eyed.

“It wasn't the guy from last night.”

“There's someone else?” Her eyes dart around the room.

“It’s not what you think. I met someone at Starbucks this morning. He paid for our entire coffee order and said he'd be ‘seeing me around,’ full air quotes. Nothing serious, and I doubt I’ll ever see the same stranger again in Manhattan, but there’s something about him.”

Amy slaps my knee. “Unbelievable. In one of the most single cities in the world, I can’t find someone—anyone—to spend a nice dinner with, but you’re fighting them attractive men off with a stick. It's not fair.”

“What happened to Alexis?”

She shrugs. “Eh, it fizzled. The next time we go out, you need to be my wing-woman. I can’t be the only person in the city not getting any action.”

I slap my palm to my forehead. “I can't believe you said, ‘getting any action.’”

“What? It's true.”

“It’s also very … old, and you’re twenty-six. Do what any other twenty-something is doing and download Tinder.”

“Eww. No. I do not have the energy for that.”

I slouch in her guest chair as I start thinking of alternatives. “Oh! What about that new guy? I thought I sensed a vibe between you two?”

Amy blushes and avoids my gaze. “Leo? No. Not an option.”

I straighten my back. “What do you mean not an option?”

She changes the subject. “Tell me more about Coffee Guy.”

“What’s to say? I just met him.”

“What’s his name?”

I shrug. “Nick something.”

Amy inches her keyboard closer to her. “Mhm, not much to go off of, but I still think I can find him.”