Page 159 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

Dressed in jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, she says, “We need to talk.”

I open the door all the way and step aside because Juni’s a sight for sore eyes despite that ominous opening line. She has a flair for the dramatic—as if everything at that moment is the most important thing—so I’m not stressing yet.

There’s no rushing in. She takes her time entering the apartment with wide eyes, studying everything she passes from the artwork to photographs, the furniture and the layout. Again, it makes me realize I have no idea where she lives.

What’s her view like? Which floor does she live on? Does she prefer taking the stairs or the elevator? And when I really get going down this rabbit hole, I realize I don’t know anything about her living situation, not even if she lives alone.

“Do you live with somebody else? Do you have roommates or live with family?” I shut the door but remain in the entry.

The question seems to take her by surprise, her gaze cutting through the distance to reach me. “What made you ask that?”

Signaling to her sweatshirt, I say, “You went to NYU, but I don’t know much else about you.”

“You know more than most.” Her words aren’t clipped, and she doesn’t sound bothered. If I didn’t know that she’d come here to talk about something else entirely, I’d guess this might be it.

I cautiously cover the next ten steps to get closer, but leave plenty of room for her to explore. “You’re really good at hiding and a master at distracting, changing the subject, and easing out of any situation that makes you uncomfortable. Call me selfish, but I’d like to know more instead of less.”

Worry creases her forehead, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “I came here to tell you. . .” Her breathing picks up, and her gaze falls to the floor. Her waterfall reaction has me curious to know how close I am to the cliff.

Is this it?

No more friendship?

“Would you like something to drink? I’m having whiskey.” I find my glass on the windowsill and take a sip.

“Oh, um. Sure. What do you have that has more alcohol than water but isn’t as strong as whiskey?”

“I’m pretty well stocked. Do you like wine? I have white or red.”

“A glass of white, please. Maybe that’s what I need.” I’m not sure I was supposed to hear the last part, but she’s not rushing to hide she said it.

Attempting to read her is one of the hardest things I’ve ever tried to do. I usually have no idea what she’ll say or what she needs. But I’m getting better. “Rough day?”

While I’ve been pretending we can actually be friends, the temperature has risen between us. I feel it, and I have a strong suspicion she does as well.

I’ll still do just about anything for this woman even without knowing much about her. She’s good. Her heart, her energy, and her intentions. In the short time I’ve known Juni, I’ve become an expert witness to it.

I’d kiss her if she asked, take her out if she wanted.

Whiskey has built my confidence.

But it’s as though I can see her clearer than I did in the office or even in the park. She hides more than she thinks I realize. While I pour a glass of wine for her, I say, “You can tell me anything.”

She comes into the kitchen, her fingertips tracing the charcoal veining on the top of the white stone counter. Stopping on the other side of the island from me, she rests her middle against it and says, “I live alone.” She makes it sound like a sentence she’s completing.

I slide the wineglass toward her, thinking this might be good timing. She probably needs something to take the edge off whatever’s hanging over her head.

Taking a drink, she keeps her eyes on mine even when she sets the glass back down again. “I’ll be twenty-six in two months, and I’ve never had a full-time job.”

Not wasting the opportunity, I ask, “How do you survive? How do you live in the city?”

“My parents died when I was seventeen.” Her tone isn’t offish or cold; it’s factual.Damn, that’s heartbreaking.

And now I feel like shit for pressing her.“I’m sorry.” I can’t imagine what she’s had to go through. It’s easy to get caught up in the dynamics of my family—the good and bad, the ridiculous and stress that comes with being the kid of a highly respected couple. But I have Cookie and Corbin through it all. I don’t want to think about a day when I won’t.

“So am I.” She takes another sip and then exhales a deep breath. “They had made a lot of money and had life insurance policies.”

My mind goes to finances. It’s my comfort, the place where I’m at my best. This is a damn nice neighborhood. My apartment went well above eight mil. If she lives nearby, that explains how she can afford it.

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