Page 28 of Pretending I'm Yours

I’m not Cinderella.Or Rapunzel. Or Sleeping Beauty.

I’m an independent woman who stands on her own two feet. I make my own money and solve my own problems, all while looking out for my family and friends.

I’ve never needed a prince to swoop in and save me, which is a good thing since, thus far, princes have been inveryshort supply in my life.

But as Anthony and I are whisked south toward the East Village in another cozy cab he didn’t hesitate to pay for and he singlehandedly wrestles the picnic basket and blanket, my suitcase, and my backpack up the stairs to his fifth story walk-up, leaving me with nothing to worry about except Pudge in his carrier, I can’t deny that it feels good to be taken care of.

It feelsgreatactually.

Stepping into Anthony’s adorable apartment with its brightly colored décor and cinnamon-scented air feels even better.

Though I have to confess his home isn’t anything like I imagined it would be on the way over.

Anthony’s personal style is the height of classic luxury—all cashmere, leather, and tailored wool—while his East Village walk-up exudes bohemian charm. Exposed brick walls holdmismatched floating shelves filled with well-worn books, their spines cracked and loved. A Moroccan rug in deep jewel tones covers weathered hardwood floors, and fairy lights twinkle along the exposed beams of the ceiling. The whole space feels like somewhere you’d find by accident and never want to leave.

Like a hobbit cottage, but big enough for two humans and an extra-large cat.

“I love your place,” I breathe, taking in the eclectic mix of vintage furniture as I wander through the small kitchen into the living area. A leather armchair that’s seen better days sits beside a pristine mid-century modern coffee table. Art prints—everything from Monet to abstract pieces I don't recognize—create a gallery wall that somehow works despite its randomness.

“Thank you,” he says with a slightly uncomfortable laugh. “It’s kind of a hodge podge of everything.”

“It’s great,” I assure him, understanding how awkward it can be to show your home to someone new. I put Pudge’s carrier on the ground, setting him free to explore, while I set up his portable litter box in the far corner by a vintage record player stand my friend, Elaina, would kill for.

Pudge inches slowly from his cozy cave, visibly relaxing once he’s glanced around to find no menacing radiators or other looming threats. He does a circle of the room, sniffing until he seems confident that he’s the only furry creature nearby before leaping up to investigate a burgundy velvet armchair near the sealed-up fireplace.

He circles three times, testing the fabric with gentle flexes of his claws, before settling in like he owns it.

“He won’t damage the fabric, don’t worry,” I say, smiling as Pudge begins to purr. My anxiety-prone cat looks more at home here than he has since we left Maine. “He’s very good about things like that. Leave anything halfway edible in the trash, andhe’ll find a way to get into it and leave a path of destruction all over the kitchen, but he’s never shredded the furniture.”

“I’m not worried,” Anthony says, glancing Pudge’s way. “It’s just nice to see him so relaxed. Poor guy. That radiator was a nightmare, wasn’t it, buddy?”

Pudge makes a grumbling sound of agreement before closing his eyes, making us both laugh.

“Now, how about we get the people something to help us relax?” Anthony asks, arching a brow. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink after all the excitement.”

I exhale a sigh of relief. “Yes, that sounds good, thank you. I know it was just a car backfiring, but my nervous system is positive we barely avoided violent and certain death.”

Anthony nods seriously. “And the only thing worse than a violent death is a violent and certain one.”

I fight a smile. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Never,” he says, his lips hooking up on one side. “I find you completely charming. Even the fact that your backpack weighs nearly as much as your suitcase intrigues me. What do you have in there? Your entire rock collection?”

“Gold bars,” I riff as he moves into the kitchen. “Gold bars and pirate treasure from off the coast of Maine. I don’t have a local bank in New York, so I figured I’d pay the rest of my deposit on the apartment in gold and jewels.”

He makes a considering sound as he opens one cabinet before closing it and opening another. “Decent plan. But I doubt you’ll get a good exchange rate from the bankers around here. They’re a soulless lot.”

“I think all bankers are.” I run my fingers along a shelf of leather-bound classics on the mantel, recognizing some of my favorites. I grin as I come across a well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice. “You like Jane Austen?”

“Hmm?” He turns, blinking for a moment before his gaze flicks from my face to the bookshelf and back again. “Oh. Yes. I um…I mean, I haven’t read any fiction for a while, unfortunately, but back in school I burned through all the classics. I read a few grade levels ahead of the rest of my classmates and had a great English teacher who kept me stocked with reading material.”

I amble over to join him in the kitchen as he pulls a bottle of red wine from a storage nook below the cabinets. “Really? You were a book nerd?”

He smiles. “Huge book nerd and teased relentlessly for it. Even the fact that I was good at soccer couldn’t keep the other kids from calling me four eyes.”

My brows lift. “You wore glasses as a kid, too? Mine were an inch thick before I got contacts.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “No, actually. I’ve never worn glasses.” He shrugs. “But kids, you know. They don’t make a lot of sense. I never understood them. Even when I was one.”

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