Page 147 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

“Do you like it?”

I move to the couch to settle in for a bit. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”

“Lactose intolerant people don’t like it.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I bet a lot of them do like it, but they can’t have it.”

She goes quiet. I listen to her breathing like a fucking stalker—it’s airy with a musical quality to it. And then I hear it—music playing in the background. “Are you listening to classical?”

“Yes. Do you like it?” she asks as if she’s on to something.

“Sometimes.”

I can imagine she’s rolling her eyes. “Me too.”

The upbeat tempo is famous. “Is that Vivaldi?”

“Yes. I was listening to Puccini earlier, but he gets intense. I needed something happier.” The sound of her shuffling through papers, keys, or coins and other odd noises cut through her words. “Back to the ice cream. What’s your favorite flavor?”

This I know. It’s remained the same since I was little. “Rocky road.”

“Wow. I misjudged you, Mr. Christiansen.” I like when she calls me that, but keep thatliketo myself. “I really had you pegged for a vanilla guy.”

“What’s with you pegging for anything—vanilla ice cream or matcha green tea?”

“You’re right. You’re unpredictable.” Why does she not sound convincing? “What are you doing right now?”

“Talking to you. Ba dum dah. I’ll be here all night, folks. Don’t forget to tip your bartenders.”

“You’re a funny guy when you’re not in business mode.”

“What can I say? Numbers aren’t that funny.” My cheeks ache. I didn’t realize I was smiling this whole time until the pain set in. This friends thing I have going with her isn’t so bad. Not like I had a lot of other choices. I have Nick and Jackson. But even with them in the picture, I like my relationship with Juni.

“Very true. Now back to ice cream.”

She has me craving a sweet treat. I look back at the kitchen, mentally tallying what will satisfy the craving. “You were saying?”

“Meet me outside the building in ten minutes.”

“What? Why?” I spy the hands of my watch. “You know it’s after eleven, right?”

“And it’s a Monday night. We can come up with a million excuses, but all we need is one reason to have fun.” A door squeaks, and I have a feeling she’s getting a head start.

Popping off the couch, I rush to my room with the phone in my hand. “What’s that reason?”

“Life, Andrew. We’re going to live like we don’t have work at eight in the morning.”

“But we do.” I drop my night pants and pull a pair of jeans on over my boxer briefs.

“No buts, just adventure. You have eight minutes left.” The ding of an elevator overrides the last word.

Fuck.I snag a T-shirt and pull it over my head. “What happens if I’m not there?”

“I leave without you.”

“Ah, fuck it. I’ll be down there with time to spare.” I hang up and finish grabbing my shoes before I rush to the bathroom and run my hand through my hair. I look like shit, but I don’t care.

Hurrying back into the living room, I grab my keys and tuck my wallet into my pocket as I head out the door. With only five minutes left, I debate if I should take the elevator. It’s too damn slow, and currently, the number is stuck on the second floor. I can cover seventeen flights much faster.

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