Page 284 of The Winslow Brothers

“I can’t deny,” I say with a knowing quirk of my brow as Lou steps inside and the door falls closed behind her, “if there’s one thing that’s better about LA, it’s the weather. There’s no snow. No cold winter nights that make me feel like my boobs are about to vibrate right off my body.”

Lou laughs. Lydia rolls her eyes and pointedly glances at my attire.

“I told you heels and a dress weren’t a good idea.”

“In my defense, I’m wearing a jacket.” I glance down at my shiny black stilettos, bare legs, electric-blue shift dress, and cream fake-fur shrug. “And you told me to dress for a nightclub. This is certified nightclub attire. Saying a dress and heels aren’t a good idea while also saying nightclub attire creates a glitch in the matrix.”

“That is a joke of a jacket, and you know it. Fifteen degrees doesn’t care about the matrix or Keanu Reeves. Fifteen degrees cares about no one.”

I laugh. “I’m not talking aboutThe Matrixwith Keanu.”

“As far as I’m concerned, there is no matrix without Keanu.”

I shake my head with a defeated grin. “Next time, I’ll make sure I have a parka on hand for the nightlife tundra that is New York in the winter. Maybe I can dress it up with some gold hoops or something.”

“Stop being so grouchy.” Lydia laughs and nudges me playfully with her shoulder. “And don’t even try to act like you’re not happy to finally be back home. I can see it in your eyes, Rae.”

“I would’ve been happier to stay in tonight and, you know, be all warm and cozy in my new apartment while I unpack all the boxes that have swallowed my living room.”

Despite what my father so obviously wants, all thanks to Lydia and Lou, my new home is located on top of their bakery, Little Rose Bakeshop. A quaint one-bedroom apartment in Nolita that showcases the kinds of hardwood floors and big windows New York landlords would charge a fortune to rent.

But not Lydia and Lou. They insist the only rent I pay comes in the form of helping out at their bakery part time. And even that comes with the knowledge that my bakery hours will be second priority to my grad school classes at NYU.

“Does LA only allow boring types? Just to make the celebrities feel more interesting or something?” Lydia teases. “You’ve neverbeen the type of girl who passes up a night out at a VIP club to unpack some stupid boxes.”

She’s not wrong. I’vealwaysput fun above everything else,especially responsibilities. But this year, I’m making a concerted effort to get my shit together. I’m twenty-six, and now that I’ve taken four years off after graduating with my bachelor’s degree from Stanford, it’s time for me to grow up a little and focus on my future and my career.

You can only fly by the seat of your impulsive pants for so long, you know?

And while I would’ve loved to stay on the West Coast and finish my master’s degree at Stanford, the fact that my dad’s position as head of the English Department at NYU comes with free tuition for his daughter was a little too good of a reality to deny.

No one wants to be stuck under the crushing weight of student loan debt. Although, no one wants to be stuck under their pushy father’s thumb either.

Professor Nathaniel Rose’s overbearing tendencies and high expectations are heavy as hell.

Don’t go there, Rachel.

“So…why are we here again?” I question, forcing myself to focus on the present. I hand my coat to the check station from which Lou’s already taken a number for us, pointing my thawing body in the direction of the massive club.

Lydia and Lou turn, arms linked in front of me, but Lydia looks back over her shoulder to talk as she walks. It’s hard to hearher over the growing noise from inside, but I can still make out everything she says…I think.

“Because our friend Sophie invited us. It’s a big night for her and her husband Jude. The official launch party for The Secret Club.”

“And who is Sophie, and what is The Secret Club?”

“Sophie is an event planner…” Her voice fades out as she turns to glance at where she’s going and then back to me. “…known for years,” Lydia explains. “One of our favorite clients.”

“And The Secret Club is a new brand that’s about to be all the rage for couples,” Lou adds, twisting back to smile at me briefly.

Music vibrates the floor, making my feet jostle a little in my stilettos, and I follow my sister and her wife as we make our way into the club’s official entrance.

The place is packed to the gills. People are pretty mucheverywhere—on the dance floor at the center of the room where a DJ booth holds court above them, at the large bar in the front begging for drinks, and all around the dimly lit edges where private booths and tables are positioned.

LA has its share of nightclubs, but nothing compares to what New York brings to the table.

The mere thought makes me smile. No matter how many years I resided on the West Coast, I’ll always be a New York girl at heart. A little rough around the edges and rebellious in a way that isn’t always in my best interest, this city is in my bones. LA is too…uptight. And pretentious. At least, the part of it I knew.

It doesn’t take long before we’ve grabbed some drinks from the bar and Lydia and Lou spot a few friendly faces in the form of ahipster-looking guy with a thick beard and wire-rimmed glasses and a petite woman with a jet-black bob.

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