Chapter 2
Jonathan
I can’t stand her. She’s too perfect. Like, painfully perfect. No one is ever good enough for her and let me tell you that kind of energy? It kills the mood real fast. I don’t care how desperate a guy might be, perfectionism is the ultimate boner killer.
Not that I’d know anything about desperation. Sex comes easy to me. Women come easy to me. I’m good-looking, fit, healthy, charming and did I mention I’m funny? Everyone says so. Even the people who don’t like me, which admittedly is rare, struggle to explain why they don’t like me.
But AJ? Oh, she has no problem telling me exactly why I annoy the hell out of her.
I do it intentionally. It’s fun. We butt heads more than ramming bulls.
We’ve worked together for the past six years at Vivid, one of the top-rated marketing agencies in New York City.
Technically, we’re on the same team. But in reality?
We’re constantly locked in battle. Fighting for clients.
Competing for campaigns and one-upping each other every chance we get.
And man, when one of us wins? We gloat. Big time.
I’ve always been the more ostentatious one in our dynamic.
Like the time we were both assigned to represent competing celebrity-endorsed seltzer brands.
My team’s seltzer campaign outperformed hers, by a lot, and naturally, I made sure she felt it.
I filled her office with congratulatory balloons.
Dozens of them actually. Floor to ceiling.
She couldn’t even reach her desk when she walked in.
Then I paid Tim from the cleaning crew twenty bucks to come in, pop a few and say, “Oops, sorry. These were meant for Jonathan.”
Wow, was she pissed. She’s surprisingly kind of adorable when she’s pissed. Not so much right now, though. Not as I look at her and notice the shimmer of unshed tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.
We all heard what happened. Left at the altar.
Damn that’s brutal. I wasn’t invited to the wedding, obviously, she hates my guts.
But most of the office was there and the stories spread fast. They said you could hear her crying from outside the venue.
That she never even came out to face anyone.
Apparently, her ex didn’t even have the balls to tell her himself.
He called his best man then bailed, leaving the poor bastard to deliver the news to AJ. I mean… what a fucking prick.
So yeah… seeing her tear up after running into that guy at the bar?
It kind of makes me want to deck him. Not because I’m some knight in shining armor or anything.
Please. Nevertheless, landing a solid punch on that asshole’s face would arguably make me feel better and let’s be honest, AJ would enjoy it too.
If I wasn’t wearing my Tom Ford three-piece suit, I probably would’ve.
I’m not about to risk bloodstains on custom tailoring, let’s be serious.
I’m not a metro guy or anything, I just have taste. Expensive taste. Designer clothes, a ridiculously fast sports car and an upscale apartment with a view. Thanks to my high-paying job and a very generous trust fund, I can afford the finer things in life. Why not? You only live once.
I know I shouldn’t have messed with AJ or tricked her into kissing me again, even so…
wow. That kiss was sensational. Who knew AJ could kiss like that?
Certainly not me. Look, I’m a man, so undeniably, I’m attracted to all walking, talking women.
But with AJ, it never even crossed my mind.
Mostly because she hates me with the fire of a thousand suns.
Trying anything with her would’ve been like reaching for a cactus and expecting roses.
But then she kissed me and I kissed her back.
So, sure, sue me for wanting to plant one on her again. Well… I guess she actually could sue me. Though now that I’m reviewing facts, it wasn’t against her will. She could’ve pulled away at any time. So why didn’t she?
The fact that I’m sitting here thinking about this after she left is unsettling.
I don’t like when I don’t have my shit together.
And that kiss, those kisses, have me completely flabbergasted.
I can’t even join in on the usual shit-talking my coworkers are doing because all I can think about is whether she made it home okay.
What if she walked into traffic because she was depressed?
Fuck. Why do I even care? She’s made my work life miserable from the moment we met.
Things got even worse after she became the jilted bride.
It was like she developed a hatred for any man who so much as breathed in her direction.
Which, okay fair, however… ease up, we didn’t all leave you at the altar, AJ.
Maybe I should call her? No, stop it. She probably has my number blocked. I’m sure of it.
I do know where she lives from the annual Christmas party she throws every year.
My invitation somehow always gets misplaced, regardless I show up anyway.
Mostly to piss her off. Partly to see if any of the perky interns want to make a bad decision before the ball drops and they swear off terrible men like me for good.
Enough, I huff. She’s fine. Drink your drink. Pick up the random hottie at the bar and go have fun. Put the kibosh on obsessing over AJ and her feelings.
I shift on the bar-stool, suddenly too aware of how loud everything around me is.
The clink of glasses, the low buzz of conversation, the sound of Jerry from the office lying through his teeth to two new interns about once being on a commercial shoot with Jennifer Aniston.
I glance at the door, next at my drink, then at the girl at the end of the bar giving me the kind of look I usually don’t ignore.
Yet I can’t stop picturing AJ’s face and that flicker of hurt in her eyes.
“Carl, cash me out.”
Screw it! I’m going to check on her.
* * *
When I pull into AJ’s picturesque little neighborhood, it hits me like a scene straight out of Leave It to Beaver.
Not that I ever actually watched that show.
I’m not ancient, but even I know it’s the go-to reference for overly wholesome, squeaky-clean suburbia.
Of course she would live somewhere like this.
In a city that never sleeps, where the best kind of chaos happens at 2 a.m., AJ somehow found the one pocket of New York that feels like it should come with white picket fences and fresh-baked muffins.
It’s so her. Frustratingly neat. Frighteningly calm.
Annoying in that specific AJ way that makes you want to understand it more, even as you swear you never would.
I slide my car into a spot lined up evenly with the freshly power-washed sidewalks and step out, starting my walk toward her door.
There are maybe ten little cottages in this neighborhood and I would bet good money AJ bakes cookies for all of them and offers to watch their dogs when they go on vacation. She’s such a damn Goody Two-shoes.
Just as I hit the lock button on my key fob, AJ walks out of her house with a trash bag in hand, sniffling like she’s been crying for the last hour. Which, she probably has.
“Jesus Christ!” she yells, nearly dropping the bag. “Jonathan! I almost threw this trash bag full of photo frames at you!”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you tried to hurt me, AJ,” I shoot back with a laugh.
Even though I’m, in reality, being serious.
One time, during a team meeting, I stood up to give some insight about a new client.
As I went to sit back down, boom. Chair gone and I hit the floor like a sack of bricks.
Not to my surprise, who was sitting across from me with the most innocent face on Earth?
AJ. I know she slid her scrawny legs under the table and kicked my chair out from under me.
No one else would’ve risked it. She’s bold like that from time to time.
In the moment, I was furious. Mortified even.
But looking back? Okay, yeah, it was kind of funny and honestly… well played.
“What are you doing here?” she demands, tightening her grip on the trash bag like she’s ready to use it as a weapon. “Please don’t tell me you’re hooking up with the new neighbor, Isabella.”
Isabella? Now that’s interesting. I shake it off. Focus, Jonathan, one woman at a time.
“As exciting as that sounds,” I say, “I’m here to make sure you didn’t jump off your one-story roof.”
She glares.
I keep going. “You know you’d only break a leg and then I’d spend the next six weeks making fun of your bulky cast and refusing to move out of the way when you tried to hobble around with crutches.”
“Ha. Ha. You’re so funny,” she says, totally unamused
“I try,” I shoot back with a bow of my head.
“No, I’m fine. You can go now,” she says, waving me off like a fly and heading toward the dumpster.
“You said picture frames,” I say, eyeing the trash bag. It’s lumpy and suspiciously bulky. I reach over, yanking it from her grip.
“Hey! Give me that back!” she snaps.
“What’s in this?” I ask, already half-knowing.
She huffs. “If you must know everything about my life, it’s old pictures of me and Marcus.”
I squint at her, confused and maybe pitying her just a little. “And you’re just now throwing them out? Didn’t he leave you like… three years ago?”
“Almost four,” she says, equal parts sarcastic and tragic.
“My God, AJ. Yeah, okay here, get rid of them,” I say, holding out the bag like it’s radioactive.
She snatches it back, turns to walk away, then stops. She turns again and starts walking toward me.
“Why are you realllllly here, Jonathan?” she asks, her voice suspiciously sweet as she steps closer like a predator circling prey.
Suddenly, I get the unsettling feeling that this may be how I die. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned or a woman who’s also your work nemesis and has spent six years low-key plotting your demise.
“I told you. I wanted to see if you were okay,” I say, instantly regretting ever thinking showing up at her place was a solid gesture.
“There’s always some ulterior motive with you, Slack,” she says, eyes narrowing.
Ah. There it is. She only calls me Slack when she’s about to unleash hell.
I put my hands up in mock surrender. “I swear.” Now realizing I’m starting to sweat under my jacket, despite it being a breezy seventy degrees and unseasonably cool for summer in the city, I clear my throat.
“I’m only making sure my favorite sparring partner is okay and will be at work tomorrow to bask in the glory of my marketing genius.
” I’m clearly talking about the fact that we have a new partner joining the firm.
Silent partner, technically. I’ve already put together a short but highly impactful presentation to impress them.
“Trust me, Slack,” she says, staring deep into my soul like she’s trying to melt me from the inside. “I would never miss an opportunity to blow you away with my presentation for the new partner.” She smirks.
Yes, there she is. Okay, so no jumping off a building tonight.
“You know,” I say, grinning, “after that kiss tonight, when you say ‘blow’ you get me—”
“Gross! Stop!” she shrieks, swinging the shiny black trash bag toward me like it’s a weaponized pinata. It nearly clips my shoulder. “Now leave me alone so I can finish Love Island and drink my wine in peace.”
She stomps off to the dumpster, flips the lid open and a wave of New York City smelly garbage hits me square in the face. She doesn’t even flinch. She slams it shut with the kind of energy that says she’s imagining it’s my face.
From across the street, a voice calls out. “You okay, my dear?” It’s her neighbor, some angelic older woman yelling from her front window like it’s a sitcom.
“Yes, Shirley! I’m okay. Thank you!” AJ waves, like she didn’t just threaten me with a literal bag of broken memories.
As much as everyone loves me, they love AJ just as much. Which is wild, considering we are walking, talking opposites. I stare at her for a few more seconds, then turn to head back to my car.
“See you tomorrow, AJ,” I call out over my shoulder.
Then I feel it while walking to my car, that skinny, Oura-wearing middle finger of hers slicing through the air, sheer heat shooting straight into my back. God, she really is the sweetest.