The Love of My Lives Collection

Chapter 1

“I’m Josie Cavendish and you’ve been listening to Open House on Talk New York. That’s all for today. If you have any real estate questions, email the studio—”

Ting-ta-ding.

Dammit. A text. Loud. Right next to the on-air mike.

I remove my headset and enter the production booth, wincing slightly as Abby, my producer, makes a “doh” face.

“Josie, seriously? Two years doing this show and you don’t turn your cell off?”

“Sorry, Abs. I’m a mess today.”

She wags a finger. “You’re forgiven — this time. Hopefully listeners think it’s someone texting for your real estate wisdom.”

“Ha. I doubt it, but thanks. It’s my brother; he’s leaving for Australia. I’d better call him.”

I hit David’s UK number as I step out onto Second Avenue. It’s a bright November day in Manhattan. A plastic bag blows around my feet, and to the west, above a row of shabby concrete buildings, the tip of the Empire State is glinting in the sun.

“Happy birthday, sis! Get my text?”

“Yes. Right as I was signing off the show. I forgot to turn off my phone, so half of New York heard it.”

“Oops. How’d you manage that?”

“I’m a bit delicate today. Heavy night. Drinks after rehearsal. I stayed behind for another with Peter.”

David groans. “The bloke you’ve been pining after? From your choir. Isn’t he attached?”

I huff down the phone. “Okay, for one thing, I’m not pining. And he’s probably breaking up with her. But I’m not holding my breath. What about you, loser? Any unlucky women fall for your questionable charms recently?”

He laughs. “Hundreds, but, you know. Nobody special. Not that I need anyone special.”

“Absolutely. Me neither.”

“Right. So, birthday girl, how are you celebrating?”

“Dinner with Suzie and some choir peeps. We’re going to a posh restaurant in SoHo.”

“Please. Hardly the real Soho. Anyway, hope they let you in. Be a shame to be turned away on your birthday.”

“You’re hil-a-rious. Gotta run. Take it easy.”

“‘Take it easy’? They’re turning you into a Yank. Resist!”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, kiddo. Happy birthday. I’ll call you when I get back. Have a good one. Love you.”

“Have a brilliant time. Love you too.”

I hang up, suddenly uneasy. My brother’s words have hit a nerve.

Having feelings for someone who’s unavailable doesn’t mean I’m pining. Does it?

Peter’s been living with Michelle since long before we met, slightly over two years ago, when he joined our choir. That didn’t stop me developing a huge crush on him. How could it? He’s just so . . . lovely.

And, last night, in the bar after rehearsal, when he looked at me, there was something different about it.

I first felt it a few weeks ago, when we were rehearsing our duet, gazing into each other’s eyes, singing words of love.

It’s acting, I told myself, a performance.

But yesterday, from the other end of the long bar table, he looked at me the same way. . .

I had been chatting with the altos when I got the text.

Stay behind tonight? I need to talk to you. :P

What could he want?

I hardly dared think it was what I’ve been hoping for — that he and Michelle had finally split and he’d realized what was in front of him.

Me.

I smiled at Peter, giving him a tiny nod. He responded with a double thumbs-up.

Once the choir had dispersed, I moved to the bar to finish my wine. A male hand with freckles and a smattering of fair hair appeared on the counter beside me. Peter squeezed right up against me, maneuvering his lanky frame onto a stool.

He pushed his black-framed, geek-chic glasses up his nose and wiped away a lock of sandy hair. “Finally, I get you alone.” He signaled at the bartender, ordering a beer.

“What’s up? You’re coming to my birthday dinner tomorrow, right? What couldn’t wait?”

Peter took a slow sip out of the cold bottle and looked at me. A thrill ran from the back of my neck down my spine. In two years of friendship, we’d never been on our own in a bar. So intimate. Like a date.

“I needed to talk, alone. We’re always with other people.”

“Not when we’re rehearsing our duet,” I replied.

“No. I think it’s been spending that time together that has changed things for me.

” He paused. “Michelle and I had another of our fights. She said I’d rather be with my band or choir friends than her.

And I admitted that’s true. Then she said, ‘You’d rather be rehearsing with Josie, too, wouldn’t you? ’”

Peter took another swig of beer. “And I admitted that was also true. I don’t know when it happened, Josie, but things have changed for me.

With you and me, I mean. I realized the thing I most look forward to is rehearsing with you, and going out with the choir, but only if you’re there. You’re the bright spot of my week.”

He put his hand on mine, cool and gentle. “I don’t really see you as just a friend anymore. And I think you feel the same. I hope there’s a chance for something more.”

He was right, of course — there was every chance of more with me. But I’d never have started anything. Not while he was in a relationship.

“You know I’ve always liked you, Peter. I’ve never been any good at hiding it. The entire choir knows.” I laughed. “I think you’ve only just gotten it, though, in the past weeks.”

He squeezed my hand. “I’ve been an idiot, Jose. Michelle and I haven’t been happy. Not for a while.”

“But you didn’t actually break up with her?”

Peter watched a bead of condensation make its way down the bottle. “It’s hard. We live together, our lives are meshed together. But . . . we’re in the process of separating.”

Despite my relief at his words, I didn’t want to make it too easy for him.

“Well, I’m happy to hear that. But nothing can happen between us until you’re moved out. And I won’t make you any promises. I think you’re here to see if I’m available if and when you do break up with Michelle. I won’t be your fallback, Peter.”

I looked him in the eyes a little defiantly and drained the last of my wine. A big, dark-haired guy stepped back into me, nearly knocking the glass out of my hand, and muttered an apology.

Peter leaned in. “Let’s get out of here.”

He paid for our drinks, helped me into my raincoat, and pulled me outside into the cold November night.

“What now?” I asked, my breath fogging in the freezing air.

“Josie, I get it. I need to make a clean break. But you’re not my fallback, I swear. Wait for me to prove it, okay?”

My teeth started to chatter. “Well, don’t take too long. I’m not going to be strung along.”

“I won’t. Man, it’s freezing. You want to share a cab to Brooklyn? Just to talk.”

I glanced across the street at where Electra was chained to a railing. “I’m on my bike, and I don’t want to leave her. Besides, I’m not sure what more there is to say.”

“Fair enough. I’ll talk to Michelle again tonight. Hopefully I’ll have more news tomorrow.”

We crossed the street to Electra. Before putting my helmet on, I rose on my tiptoes to kiss Peter’s cheek. Tenderly, with just a hint of a promise. “Sounds good. I’ll see you at the restaurant. Six-thirty, under my name.”

“Ride safe.”

* * *

Peter texts me before lunch.

Happy birthday, beautiful. Can’t wait for tonight. :P

My heart soars.

Yeah me too :) See you at the restaurant. Jx

Aside from that sweet exchange and a cupcake my co-workers present, along with a tuneless rendition of “Happy Birthday,” it’s a day like any other.

I make another attempt to book Hans Halstein, luxury realty brokerage owner and star of Luxury Listing NYC, as a guest on my radio show.

But his communications manager, one Angela DeMarco, is having none of it.

By the time I post my interview with a city planner on the station’s news website, my lower back is killing me. Oh, for an ergonomic office chair.

It’s 5.37 p.m. — too late to make the hour-long round bike trip to my Williamsburg walk-up and be back in Manhattan in time for dinner. Fortunately, the station has a shower room.

As the warm water soothes my aches, I poke disapprovingly at my rounded belly and dimpled thighs, and let my mind wander to the possibility of things getting heated with Peter tonight.

I really should pay more attention to my ladyscaping.

To shave and suffer the itchy regrowth, to get another excruciating Brazilian wax, or to let it run wild?

I cringe at the thought of Peter discovering my unruly undergrowth.

Stop it. He’s still living with another woman.

I blow-dry my hair sleek and smooth and add a silver-and-black scarf to my gray sweater and black pants. Not very dressy for a birthday dinner, but it’ll do. It’s not like thirty-six is a special birthday.

Out in the bitter night, I ride down Second, negotiating my way through the gridlock of rush-hour New York traffic and thick clouds of steam from subway grates.

I take a right onto 25th, intending to cut through by Baruch College into Madison Square Park.

It’s an intersection I’m always nervous at.

A few years ago, I came off my bike here while swerving to avoid some students and sprained my ankle.

In my peripheral vision, I register a garbage truck exit an alleyway too quickly. A black sedan swings to the wrong side, another cyclist approaches, a screech of brakes—

And this is where it happens.