Page 118 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

“As did your chest.Oh no!”I reach for his shirt but stop shy of rubbing the fabric that’s now covered in makeup that conveniently matches my face. Covering my mouth in horror, I say, “I’m so sorry.” His expression hardens as he stares at his shirt, but he doesn’t say anything.

As for me, I think all of Manhattan can hear me swallow. I add, “I’m sorry. I can’t fix it, but I can have it cleaned. Again, you probably have your own dry cleaner, but you can send me the bill. Or I can just buy you a new shirt. That won’t help you right now, but?—”

“It’s okay.” Nothing about his tone has me believing it’s actually okay, but he’s kind enough to pretend. “Two out of three leaves me one ahead.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking I’m bad luck for you.”

His eyes are more golden when he looks in my direction as the sun awakens the avenue. The hard lines of his forehead finally soften, and he says, “I don’t believe in bad luck. Things happen for a reason.”

“So I was meant to ruin two of your shirts in two days?” I laugh. It’s light but releases some of the guilt. Only some of it. “Look, I feel awful. How can I make it up to you?”

“No need.” He checks his watch and then glances over my shoulder. “I hate to cut this short, but I need to get to the office. Can I buy you that coffee?”

I’m quick to the door and open it. “I should be buying you a coffee.”

Andrew’s hand covers mine, and I find my breath escaping me. His body is close, all six-two, maybe six-three of him, shadows mine. “After you. I insist.” His voice is low, as if a secret was shared, and those butterflies are awakened.

I slip my hand out from under his, careful to only steal a glance at him. “Thank you,” I whisper before entering the coffee shop. When I look forward, Barry’s eyes are on me, and a smile on his face, but they’re quick to dart behind me to Andrew. His smile disappears. If there was a way to steam milk with fury, he’s mastered it.

As Andrew and I wait in line for our turn to order, I ask, “Are you sure you have time for this? I don’t want to keep you. It was only a playful joke anyway. My feelings won’t be hurt if you need to leave.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No,” I reply with a light laugh. “Like I said, I just feel bad. First the shirt and now I’m keeping you.”

“The line is moving fairly quick. I should be fine.” We both move forward, and as I study the pastry counter, silently debating between the chocolate croissant and the banana muffin, he says, “You look very nice.”

Instead of looking up at him, I look down at my clothes. It’s not a shining star of an outfit or anything, but I guess it’s flattering. Over my shoulder, I say, “That’s very kind of you to say.” Keeping my voice down, I say, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Confidence is built into every syllable this man speaks. And although I’m fairly certain he’s hard to catch off guard, I’m thinking I’m doing a fine job of it.

Turning all the way around, I take him in from feet to neck and then spend a little time on his face. “You look very nice too, Andrew.”

He chuckles, and says, “Thank you, Juni. Speaking of, that’s a very interesting name.”

“Thanks. My mom loved it.” Sure, he did the polite lead-in comment like so many do, but I don’t feel like delving into my past right now. My name is too tightly woven into that topic. So I leave it be and find relief that we’re called to the counter.

I expected Barry to greet me, but I get the new barista—Jen. Barry doesn’t even make eye contact with me, much less with Andrew. Apparently, I’ve gone and destroyed his dreams of us being together. I can only hope the poor kid will go on to find his soul mate in another customer.

I order, and then say, “I’m buying.”

“No, she’s not.” He leans in, and the magic of his smile makes Jen blush. “You see, Jen, Juni here won a jinx yesterday, and I owe her a coffee. So this is on me, okay?”

Jen gives him a wink. “I’ve got your back.”

“I knew you would,” he adds. “Also, make that two muffins, and I’ll have a regular coffee.”

“Your name?”

“Andrew.”

He pays, and she slips his credit card back to him like she’s slipping her digits across that counter. “Thank you, Andrew.”

I move along. When he joins me near the pickup counter, I say, “Don’t let me keep you.”

His chuckle is loud, completely not appropriate for a coffee shop or anywhere inside at this hour. By the evil glares we receive, I think he’s woken the dead, or maybe their caffeine finally kicked in. From where he stands beside me, his elbow fans out to tap mine. “You’re not jealous, are you, Juni?”

“I barely know you.” I kind of hate that he might be right. Yet here I am, completely lost as to why I even care.

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