Page 33 of When Hearts Ignite

“So…he never has fun or…dates?” I gnaw on my bottom lip. Why did you ask that? It doesn’t matter to you.

“He’s fun when he wants to be, and I guess we have a good time hanging out at family gatherings. Hold on a second.” Millie clears her throat and I glance up, finding her eyes narrowed at me. “Why are you asking me if he dates?”

“Just curious about the boss.” I pour myself another drink and take a sip from the cup, hoping my face isn’t flushed.

“Hmm…” she muses, trading glances with Belle and Taylor. “Not buying it. But to answer your question, I’ve never seen him with a girlfriend. Not that I blame him. Any woman he brings home will probably be crucified by his mom. Mrs. Kingsley gave Adrian so much grief when he fell in love with Emily and, from what I heard, that also happened to their oldest sister, Jess, as well. I don’t blame him for trying to stay single to avoid his mom’s wrath.”

Somehow, I don’t think his mom is the driving factor of his bachelor status. I don’t know how I know that, but it’s a gut feeling. A sixth sense. There’s a sadness radiating from him, like he’s hiding his scars behind fancy suits and dollar signs. My heart clenches at the thought.

A waiter brings the bill to the table and Millie snatches it, waving her wallet in my face before slapping a card on the tray. “This is an apology from me for keeping the secret from you guys and also to celebrate Taylor’s admission!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come out with us? We’re just heading over to Millie’s classmate’s party near our apartment.” Belle arches an elegant brow in my direction while she gathers her things and Millie scribbles her signature on the receipt.

I shake my head. “Nah. I’m good. You girls have fun. I’m just going to walk on the High Line and enjoy the night before I head home. Tay, stay at their place if it gets too late. Don’t want you walking around our neighborhood in the middle of the night.”

Taylor salutes me. “Yes, ma’am.”

I’m hoping some evening air strolling along the famous manicured pathways will somehow get me out of my strange funk and back to reality once more.

Inhaling deeply, I breathe in the cool evening breeze, which has a hint of humidity after the brief showers yesterday. The sunset is fading in the sky, a deep swath of navy chasing out the remaining streaks of pink and oranges. It’s an impressionist’s dream. A flock of pigeons lands on the side of the pathway, eagerly pecking at leftover breadcrumbs or food scraps from earlier in the day.

The skies are clear tonight, the city having been cleansed from the rain, and I can even make out some stars vying for attention away from the artificial lights of the skyscrapers. The atmosphere is chill. Relaxing. A brief respite from the chaos and hectic lifestyle of the Big Apple.

Strolling on the High Line, a public park built on an old, elevated rail line, after grabbing a bite at the bustling Chelsea Market, is one of my favorite things to do whenever I have time to make it out here. The city is teeming with nightlife, cars and buses whizzing underneath us on the ground level. Tourists and other like-minded New Yorkers gather on the sidewalks or in clusters around the large art displays and sculptures peppered throughout the park or listen to live jazz in a clearing ahead.

It’s the epitome of why I love this city, the way the cultures blend like paints on a canvas, and mix into something new, how there’s something interesting for everyone, whether it be art, music, sports, or food. Anyone can have an adventure when walking on the streets and people watching, taking in hurried businessmen checking their watches or flagging down a cab, tourists with their cameras out, taking photos of everything under the sun, and local kids biking down the sidewalks.

I listen to other people chatting in groups beside me or on the phone as I amble on the structured pathways toward The Shed and Hudson Yards, marveling at the greenery and trees planted on the path, as if suspended in midair when looking from the ground level, an oasis in the middle of the city that never sleeps.

Foreign languages reach my ears, too many for me to attempt naming, and I can’t help but wish one day I might travel out of the country and see the world myself.

My heart feels light as I push my worries out of my mind and think about the possibilities ahead of me. As long as I ace the internship, my future is secured. And someday, I’d be able to travel and take Taylor and Mom with me. We’d pay off the loan, move to a better neighborhood, and Taylor would have her career in dance. Mom wouldn’t need to work anymore and hopefully, she’d realize she doesn’t need a man to complete her life.

I’d finally find the answers to the secrets Mom keeps under lock and key in her heart. And perhaps that gaping hole in mine would finally be filled, and I’d be at peace.

Inhaling another deep breath, my body thrums with excitement, my nose practically smelling the sweet breeze of change in my near future, and before I know it, I’ve reached the futuristic Bloomberg Building of The Shed, a structure made mostly of glass planes with a large moveable shell of an exterior, which looks like translucent clouds tethered to a metal frame in a quilt-like pattern. It’s apparently made of some sort of Teflon-based polymer, which makes it much lighter than glass so the entire shell can move, transforming the building into various arrangements for indoor/outdoor use, concerts, exhibits, and other events.

It’s one of my favorite buildings near the High Line because if something so large, so immovable, can still transform and surprise everyone, then who says a girl from the South Bronx can’t do the same?

My mouth parts in wonder as I marvel at the structure, lit up brightly by spotlights, with glittering fireballs of light taking over the nighttime sky and the full moon gracing us with her presence as the backdrop.

There’s magic in the air tonight.

Perhaps it’s the honeyed scent of gardenias wafting in the wind from an extravagant display of white blossoms by the doors in front of the building. There must be an event there tonight.

Perhaps it’s the faint strains of a string quartet playing a lively tune reaching my ears, such that when I close my eyes, I can almost imagine myself as the main character in a movie, the plucky girl standing in the middle of a bustling city, refusing to let life get the best of her, twirling circles in the night, executing a pirouette here, a chassé there, muscle memory from Mom’s lessons a long time ago, and feeling the night breeze on her face.

It almost makes me believe anything is possible and someday—

“Grace? What are you doing out here? Spinning around in the middle of Hudson Yards?” A deep and husky voice interrupts my daydream and apparently…twirling.

A voice I’d recognize from anywhere.

My feet grind to an abrupt halt and the world swirls around me. I pitch forward, my arms outstretched as the center-of-gravity shifts from below me and a pair of muscular arms clad in the softest black fabric wrap around my waist, stopping my would-be embarrassing face-plant to the ground.

I blink, my eyelids fluttering open, and I see the unmistakable face of Steven Kingsley looking down at me with the full moon shining brightly behind him.

For a moment, I think I’m hallucinating and perhaps I had too much to drink earlier tonight. My breath lodges in my throat, my pulse thundering in my ears, and I can only stare at the man holding me in a position resembling a low dip in ballroom dancing like a scene from an old Hollywood movie.

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