Chapter 22
I MANAGE TO steer clear of Rudy all the way to Wednesday.
It’s a pretty impressive streak, considering we live next door to each other and he’s been very serious about trying to get a conversation going.
I wanted to use this time between Saturday and Wednesday to figure out what it is I want from him.
Which is exactly what I did. It’s just that the thing I want from him also happens to terrify me—and not just because he isn’t the kind of man I thought I wanted.
I want something more than what Kate claims he’s willing to offer.
Situationships and one night stands are not for me.
Not that I never tried. I definitely embraced the YOLO lifestyle in university, bringing guys home with me after parties every so often.
But those nights never lived up to my expectations.
They always left me feeling empty and weird, instead of satisfied and adored.
It was never a thrill like it is in the movies.
Nope, that’s not what I want anymore. And what I definitely don’t want is to fall in love with a man who doesn’t do relationships.
So when I spot Rudy standing by my door on Wednesday after work, all I want is to turn around and run away as fast as possible. But I can’t. Not because of some convincing speech on his part or a puppy dog pout on his face, but because my coat gets caught on the banister.
I swear under my breath as I try to wrench myself loose, but it’s too late. He’s seen me.
Emma? His voice sounds surprised and a little insecure. Are you okay? He walks over, surveying my sticky situation. Here, let me help.
He leans in to scoop an arm around my waist as he unhooks my coat from the railing.
When he stands up again, his stubble unintentionally brushes along my cheek.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep inhale. He smells like fresh aftershave and coffee beans.
Quality coffee beans. It doesn’t help that I—miraculously—didn’t give into my caffeine addiction at any point today.
I take another deep breath in through my nose, then slowly let out a shaky exhale. Mmm, Bleu de Chanel has nothing on this scent.
Thank you, I say, coming to my senses. When I try to walk around him, he puts himself in my way.
He’s so much taller than I am, that I can’t even see my door from here. I look up, right into Rudy’s eyes. His expression is tense, but I can tell he’s trying to put on a relaxed face. He gives me a forced playful smile.
Listen, Emma . . . he sighs, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he searches for the right words.
I’m sorry about Saturday, okay? He tucks his hands into his coat pocket, giving his head an apologetic shake.
I got carried away. It’s obvious you’re having regrets, so the whole thing was clearly a mistake.
I promise not to kiss you again. Raising three fingers, he gives me a cautious smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Girl Scout’s honour, he adds. That should give me some sway with you, right, Bluebird? He shoots me a wink.
I attempt to smile at him, ignoring the twinge of disappointment I felt at hearing his promise.
Damnit.
Why did he have to be so gorgeous and charming? Couldn’t there just have been a little old lady living next door to me?
Great. I’m glad we’re on the same page, I finally manage to squeeze out.
The corners of his mouth shift down for just a moment before he quickly recovers. His playful grin makes a comeback, but it seems even less sincere than before.
Exactly, he replies. I really just want to keep watching Money Heist and it feels kind of like cheating to do it without you. He nods toward his door. What do you say? Netflix and chill?
There’s a moment of silence between us where I try to keep myself from laughing. It takes Rudy a few seconds to realize what he just said.
Jesus, he finally says. That’s not what I meant. I mean . . . I mean . . . He lets out a huge sigh as I watch him squirm, utterly amused. Rudy at a loss for words is about as rare a phenomenon as a sex-addicted panda.
Wanna watch a show and eat some pizza? I hop to his aid with a grin on my face and he bursts out laughing.
Ah, twist my arm, he replies, leading the way to his apartment.
It’s not long before we fall back into our old routine—the one we had before our rooftop patio kiss.
Every day after work, I flop down on his couch, we order food, and we binge Money Heist. And once we run out of episodes, we start Breaking Bad, which is even more suspenseful.
I love our evenings together, but even though things between us seem to be back to their pre-Halloween incident state of normalcy, nothing feels quite right.
Anytime I stretch out and my legs accidentally touch his, I’m quick to pull them back.
Whenever our hands collide reaching for the last slice of pizza, we both splutter, politely offering it up to the other.
At times our silence is so heavy that my vocal cords feel like they’ve been weighted down.
Despite all that, I still love spending time with him.
He’s easy to talk to and our laughter feels effortless.
In just a short time, he’s become this amazing friend.
And it still blows my mind that he’s the same guy as the complete grouch who gave me such a hard time on the plane.
Things at work are running much more smoothly than they were.
Now that Patrice is actually cooperating instead of sabotaging, things have mostly been going our way—except we still haven’t signed a live band, which I haven’t told Sebastian about.
I’m quietly hoping Rudy will reconsider his ridiculous stance on holiday music.
He dashed that hope pretty thoroughly last night, though, when he dramatically claimed that being forced to sing a Christmas song would spontaneously trigger nodules to form on his vocal cords.
That’s why I’ve decided it’s high time to loop in Sebastian and discuss alternatives.
Grabbing my phone from my desk, I open our WhatsApp chat.
It’s the channel we use for polite chats and restaurant recommendations.
Sebastian has unintentionally become Lockhart & Cahill’s Christmas party rep, which he hardly seems to mind, since he agrees that Christmas is the greatest holiday of the year.
EMMA: Hi! Have any time soon to go over recent developments?
SEBASTIAN: Hey. Sounds good. Grab some coffee near Central Park? I have a client meeting on the Upper West Side soon, but I can find an hour after that.
I confirm and Sebastian sends me the address for a coffee place.
It’s raining as I navigate my way from the subway station to our meeting spot, phone in hand. And by raining, I mean that someone seems to have activated some kind of sprinkler system in the sky. Water is pouring down as people squeal and run for cover.
I hate November.
The coffee shop is literal steps away from the green heart of New York.
The back of the shop is full of cozy little tables, and there’s a beautifully lit bar near the front that spans the width of the huge window.
It allows for a stunning view of the brick-red canopy of leaves that’s covering the tall trees.
As I walk through the door, I’m met by the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee, baked goods, and pumpkin spice.
I take a second to shake out my hair, which earns me some pissed-off glares from folks who got caught in the resulting crossfire of droplets.
I mumble an apology while I take off my coat, realizing it’s not at all water resistant.
The sleeves of my blazer are soaked through—a solid reminder that I need to shop for some new winter clothes soon.
Little clusters of people are sitting around chatting while they huddle over their steaming hot drinks. I spot the odd person working away at a laptop. I bet this is one of those spots where tortured authors gather to type their fingers into oblivion under the pressure of looming deadlines.
On the wall behind the wooden bar is a large chalkboard filled with any kind of coffee order you could possibly imagine, from dirty chai lattes to Irish coffees. And you can pick your beans, too—from Tanzania to Nicaragua, this place has them all.
Scanning the room to find Sebastian, I see he managed to snag a table in the corner. He gives me a huge smile and a subtle wave as I slalom through the other people to get to him.
I see you took a dip in the Hudson on your way here, he jokes, taking in my drenched condition.
I give my head a weary shake. Nope. I’m just finding out that the fall weather in New York is pretty much the same as back home in the Netherlands, I sigh. I drape my soaking wet coat over the back of my chair, then take a seat.
Sebastian gives me an amused look as he watches my every move. Yeah, if you were looking for sunshine, you probably should have requested a transfer to LA. Don’t you guys have an office there, too?
I guess so, but it honestly didn’t even cross my mind to negotiate, I chuckle, remembering how I accidentally agreed to a life-altering job transfer.
In any case, New York really is an incredible city, so I’ll gladly accept the rain as part of the deal.
Plus, I’m pretty sure the odds of a white Christmas are a lot higher here than they are in Los Angeles.
Gazing through the window, I sink into a dreamy state, picturing how beautiful the city will look once it’s covered in a layer of glistening snow.
Definitely, Sebastian nods.
Do you see any servers? I ask, looking around the space. The mouthwatering scent emanating from the bar is fuelling my coffee craving.
They seem to be short-staffed and it’s pretty busy in here, Sebastian says with a shrug. He links his fingers as he shifts his focus to me with a strictly-business look in his blue eyes. Anyway. What was it you wanted to discuss? Did the new venue get torn down, too?
Nervously, I pick at a napkin. Even though Sebastian actually prefers the new location to the original, it wasn’t exactly peak professionalism that we didn’t know anything about the demolition plans. Correction: that I didn’t know, unlike a certain other person on the team.
Eh . . . I start, sounding hesitant. It’s actually about that band you came out to see a while ago.
He narrows his eyes, clearly getting a sense of where I’m going with this. Yes . . .?
Well . . . They can’t do it. I rush through the words, hoping that will somehow soften the blow.
I never should have invited Sebastian to see New Dawn play.
I should have made sure I could get Rudy on board first, but I honestly expected the sizeable performance fee would be enough to convince him.
Leave it to me to find the last man on earth who wouldn’t throw his misguided principles overboard in exchange for a big pile of money.
Sebastian’s disappointment is obvious—it’s written all over his face. Things aren’t going so well, are they? I cringe at the overt disapproval in his voice.
I’m sorry. Truly, I say, sounding defeated.
I may have forgiven Patrice for her attempts at sabotage, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to strangle her a little right about now.
And why is that? Sebastian asks, as a deepening frown appears on his brow.
Well, it turns out one of the band members kind of hates Christmas, I say, feigning nonchalance. So much so that he doesn’t want to play the gig.
The lead singer? Sebastian asks, suddenly focused on something behind me.
Yeah—how did you know?
Raising his eyebrows, he shakes his head. No, I mean the lead singer works here. He’s on his way over to us.
I spin around so quickly that I nearly give myself whiplash.
It’s true. Rudy is headed this way. He’s carrying a device to take our order and his eyes flash from me to Sebastian and back again.
There’s some kind of shift in his expression, though I can’t quite grasp what changed.
He narrows his eyes as his jaw tightens.
He looks a lot more like the Rudy I met on the airplane and a lot less like the Rudy I’ve been getting to know these past months.
Emma. There’s a flatness to his voice as he greets me with a dry nod. What can I get you?
Oh, um . . . hi, I stutter.
Of all the coffee shops near Central Park, of course Rudy would be working at this one. We go quiet for a moment as Sebastian leans back and gives me a questioning look. I haven’t said a word for about twenty seconds.
Um, I’ll have a dirty chai latte, please, I say, before turning to face Sebastian.
Espresso, please, he says.
Without a word, Rudy nods to acknowledge our order. The way he’s behaving is borderline rude. He’s about to walk away when Sebastian jumps in.
I saw you play a while back, he says. You guys are pretty great.
Another stiff nod.
What’s going on with him?
You have an incredible voice, easy to recognize on the radio. And your whole performance style . . . I think we have the exact same taste in music.
Rudy quirks a corner of his mouth, tossing a quick glance my way. I believe we have the exact same taste in a number of areas.
And then he turns away, heading toward a group of girls who just sat down at another table.
My heart is pounding at a wild pace. Rudy breaks into a wide smile as he takes their order. One of the women gives him a playful look and when she touches a hand to his arm, he doesn’t hesitate to flirt right back.
Can you believe the attitude on this guy?
Sebastian sounds indignant. He’s barely done anything with his life.
Just spends his days serving coffee and fiddling around on stage at a bar.
As he straightens his expensive tie, he glances down at his phone—Apple’s newest release.
We’d be paying him ten times what he makes here.
But he’s too high and mighty to perform at a Christmas party?
Who the hell does he think he is? He fidgets with his fancy watch as he shakes his head.
I’m shocked to hear Sebastian talking like this, but my professional filter stops me from pushing back.
How dare he judge Rudy? It’s not like someone’s career choices have anything to do with the kind of person they are.
I’ll admit that Rudy’s conduct a moment ago was hardly A+ behaviour, but still . . .
When Rudy is all done taking the ladies’ orders, he shoots one last unreadable look our way as he walks away from their table. The women ogle him as he goes, then quickly huddle up. I can only assume they’re exchanging thoughts on the hot barista.
Anyway, Sebastian says, pulling my attention back to the here and now. What alternatives do we have lined up?