Chapter 5
KEATS
“Any regrets?” Sosie asks, skipping ahead on the sidewalk and spinning with her arms in the air like a ballerina on stage. She does another twirl before kicking out her leg and holding the pose two counts before lowering her leg back down and waiting for me.
I’m beginning to realize that she doesn’t need a spotlight. She draws attention without even trying.
There was the man who couldn’t stop staring at her when we passed the bodega a few blocks back.
A couple of girls our age said she was stunning, then told me not to fuck this up.
I said I’d do my best, which made Sosie giggle.
And then there was the couple around our grandparents’ age, holding hands as they passed us and said, "We make a handsome couple." I don’t mind being dragged into her spotlight, but it makes me wonder if she always gets this much attention when she goes out. I don’t.
Not like this, and usually it’s only from the opposite sex, not everyone I meet or pass on the street.
“Not so far.” When I catch her peeking back like she might be testing me, I ask, “Should I?”
“No.” The melody of her laughter travels farther in the dead of winter when there’s no one else around. “You trust me with your life, so I don’t want to let you down.”
She couldn’t. I don’t need to assure her because I think she knows I’m open to her adventures, but I like that she cares what I think.
We’ve worked our way through the city on foot and caught a train. Two blocks from the station, which I think has landed us in SoHo, she stops and looks up at the tall building. When I arrive by her side, she says, “We’re here.”
“Where are we exactly?” I look up, unfamiliar with the building.
Leaving me in the mystery, she’s already heading for the door. “Come on. I’ll show you.” She punches in a code that releases the lock. I tug the door open and follow her inside.
The lobby is nice, with enough elbow room for a conversation on the couch, inviting dark wood walls, and neutral-hued furniture. It’s way nicer than my place, and it’s the freaking lobby. The elevator is already waiting for us. Not a surprise at this hour.
As soon as the door closes and we’re tucked inside, I lean against the wall opposite her.
Her smile has mine appearing in natural reaction, and that glint in her eye tells me she’s up to no good.
“You know,” I start. “I barely avoided getting arrested earlier for loitering. I’m not looking to go down for breaking and entering. Want to fill me in?”
She flies across the elevator. Her palms land hard against my chest, and she fists my coat in her hands.
Her hair falls back when she looks up. She’s not like any girl I’ve ever known.
Oozing confidence like she has it to spare, Sosie takes no prisoners when she’s excited about something.
All seems to be her driving force. I don’t mind going along for the ride.
Someone has to keep us out of trouble. Who knew that would be me?
She laughs, letting the good times roll. “No one is getting arrested. My dad owns an apartment here.”
People with money are so strange. “Do I want to know why your dad specifically owns the apartment and not your mom?” Why would anyone need an apartment when they live thirty-something blocks—oh shit. She’s nodding as if she can tell it’s dawned on me.
Raising her eyebrows, she nods. “Probably not.” The door opens on the tenth floor, and we feed into the hallway.
I only see three doors, and she’s heading to the farthest from where we arrived.
Punching in another code, she shoulders the door open and walks in like she personally owns the joint. I suppose she does in a sense.
Maybe that’s where the confidence comes from. Who needs worries when money can solve all your problems?
The apartment is dark, which shouldn’t surprise me since it’s just gone 4 a.m., but she doesn’t rush to turn on the lights.
Instead, she pushes a button on the wall that begins drawing the wall of curtains open wide.
“Wow . . . so this is what a few mil can buy in this city? That view is something.”
We’re not that high, and not in the tallest skyscraper in the vicinity, but the views of the surrounding area are remarkable.
While I stand at the window, light filters into the apartment, enough to see her slip from the coat and drape it and the scarf over the back of a leather chair.
Seems we’re staying a while, so I’ll remove mine, too.
“Drink?” she asks from the kitchen.
“Sure.”
Hidden by the steel door, she hums and peeks around it at me. “Whiskey, beer, or wine? There might be scotch, but I’d need to check the cabinets.”
I’m surprised to hear the offering and turn back. “Are we drinking? Not that I’m opposed.” It’s been a long day and a longer night, so a drink might hit just right.
“We should celebrate.”
I haven’t forgotten, but her birthday hasn’t seemed like a topic she cared much about. “We should celebrate your big day.”
“Oh God, no.” Her hair swings above her shoulders from laughing. “How boring would that be if we spent our lives celebrating ourselves all the time?”
I chuckle. “Never thought of it that way.” I come to rest my hands on the counter and study her profile.
Her eyes widen when she sees something she wants, and the long lashes that frame them when she pulls a bottle from the fridge. Pursing her lips with a tilt of her head, she says, “Don’t read too much into it. I just don’t think the world revolves around me.”
I could argue she’s wrong, but I know she won’t believe me. “We hit the jackpot,” she says, waggling a bottle of champagne in her hand. Twisting the wire cage off the top, she leaves it on the counter before taking hold of the cork and removing it like a professional.
Not her first rodeo. “Like a pro,” I say. “You make it look easy.”
“I’ve opened a few bottles of champagne in my life.” Her tone is so matter-of-fact, like this is an everyday occurrence.
“To drink? It’s Bollinger. It won’t be missed?”
Setting the bottle of expensive champagne in front of me, she says, “Yes, of course, to drink. What do you think, I bathe in the stuff?” She shrugs. “It’s not a bad idea, but not on the agenda for tonight.”
“Next time.” I smirk.
She laughs. “Yes, next time. And no, it won’t be missed. It will be restocked before my dad even notices.”
I’m no champagne expert, but I feel like this bottle would be missed right away. But if she doesn’t care, I’m not going to. Let’s drink the good stuff.
“We should drink from proper glasses.” She hops onto the far counter, propping herself up to grab two crystal flutes by the stem, then lunges to land on her feet again.
“I could have gotten those down.”
Waving the flutes in front of her, she replies, “So could I. See?”
“Maybe I should call you champ?”
The glasses are set before me, and she asks, “Would that be shamp or champ?”
I fill one glass and then the other. “I’m thinking champ.”
“I’ll give it a spin, though I don’t know if I feel like a champ.”
“You are in my eyes, Champ.” I set the bottle down, then chuckle. “Yeah, that doesn’t work at all.”
I lift the glass to hers before she takes a sip, the crystal producing a sharp note when they tap.
“To . . .” I search for the words that fit the occasion.
I’m pretty sure what I really want to say will only scare her away.
What girl wants to hear about a guy catching feelings after only a few hours? I’m sure she prefers the bad-boy type.
I’ve pulled some outrageous stunts for kicks and done plenty of shit to survive, but I’ve also worked hard to leave that behind and make a better life for myself.
Getting into university changed all that.
My background—deadbeat dad and absent mom—paid off when it came to getting a free ride.
A sinking feeling hits my gut. I would have chosen having parents in my life over that, but I had no say in the matter.
“To us,” she fills in where I left off, like it’s a foregone conclusion.
Her eyes stay locked on mine as she takes a sip like this is something that happens all the time, like it’s a given that there is an us in the fucked-up equation.
I’m not even sure how I ended up in her life.
Or did she end up in mine? Whatever the universe had in mind, I’m glad to be a part of the plan.
I take a gulp, then another. I’ve not drunk a ton of bubbles like this, but it doesn’t taste any different from any prosecco I’ve had, which has been left over after parties. But what do I know? I’m most likely the first person in my family to drink champagne.
Dragging her hand along my abs when she passes, Sosie strides into the living room, sits in a chair, and spins to face the window. She props her feet up on the sill and sips her champagne, looking every bit the natural in this setting.
Effortlessly gorgeous with her hair tucked behind one ear.
A shine that the champagne left behind on her lips.
At ease in her own skin. The deep V of the fuzzy black sweater that covers her gives a peek at the top she’s wearing beneath.
It’s the skin of her collarbone that I’m only given a glimpse of that tempts me to undress her.
Not liking the distance between us, I return to the window and sit on the wide ledge of the windowsill, more interested in the view of her than New York City.
She’s brighter and more vibrant to look at.
Stretching out my legs, I take another sip, watching her over the lip of the glass.
When I lower it, her eyes still stare ahead as if she doesn’t mind me admiring her for so long.
I say, “Nice place.” I’m not sure if calling a place her dad owns as an escape from his family “nice” is appropriate, but the apartment didn’t choose this life.