Page 67 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

23

Natalie

Nick.Christiansen.

I bite my lip just thinking about him, wishing I was biting his bottom lip instead. I’d settle for his shoulder or his bicep. Definitely his earlobe, because I notice he shivers and then always kisses me right after when I do it. I don’t even think he’s aware of some of his habits. I hope he never breaks them.

He has me acting like a teen again. The excitement to see him is so overwhelming that I could make a fool of myself in front of all of Manhattan and not give a damn.

And that’s exactly what I do the moment I see him. I set my cocktail down and dash through the crowd. Landing against his hard body, I sigh when those strong arms lift me off the ground. A deep chuckle runs through his chest before reaching my ears, and I can readily admit I’m addicted to the sound.

I’m addicted to all of him.

I’ve never felt sexier than when he looks at me and smiles like I just made his day better. Hell, his life better than before we met. It’s as if the safest place in the world is in his arms because he holds me like I’m precious cargo. Unless it’s sexual and then my body purrs under his touch. When he listens to me, even when I’m rambling, I feel valued by asking questions and participating. I don’t have one-sided conversations with Nick. I feel so much, so strongly that I could probably die happy because he makes me feel more than good enough for the first time in my life. I’m above the bar in his eyes, and he’s tops for me.

And it all came so quickly.

Does time matter when you know it’s right? When your soul feels so connected to someone else that it comes alive for the first time? I’ve stopped worrying about timelines and what’s considered responsible. I act based on how he makes me feel—cherished—and now live accordingly.

“He said yes,” I say when Nick sets me on my feet again.

“Who?”

“Nick, your idea. It totally worked.”

Chuckling, he says, “Can I take credit for an idea when I’m not sure what you’re referring to?”

I take his hand and lead him back to where I left my belongings at the bar. “Our table isn’t ready, so I thought we could have a drink while waiting to celebrate what a great team we make.”

“I’m all for celebrating us, but fill me in on the details?”

When the bartender looks my way, I circle my finger in the air for another round and then turn back to Nick, my gorgeous boyfriend. My happiness can’t be contained, and it’s not just because I made a client happy, but becausewe’reworking. We took a chance on each other, and it’s paying off. I’m not sure I can imagine life getting much better, but when he moves here full-time, I bet he proves me wrong.

I say, “The cookies. You were right. I was definitely overthinking it. Guys aren’t complicated. They love cookies, and I found out brownies go a long way toward earning points with men who can buy anything. Because what they don’t do is think of the simpler things in life, the little joys, the things that make you remember something special from your childhood.”

“And baked goods do that?”

“They did this time, and that’s what counts. My client got the guy, the biggest player in town, and he even asked her to move in.”

“That’s all it took?”

“I’m sure there’s more to the story, but it’s fun to be a small part of making it happen. Who knew baked treats held so much power? Not me, but I do now.”

He leans down and kisses my forehead. “I do love your treats.”

“Stop,” I say, dragging out the O a little longer. Oh, how I love a long and tingly O. Swatting his chest and then pulling him closer, I coo, “Go on . . .”

When two rum and Cokes are set on the bar before us, I’m easily distracted and hand him one. I take the other and tap the rim against his glass. “I didn’t make a lot of money, but I think I’ve discovered an additional revenue stream. All this time, I was catering to the socialites and bigwigs of New York—millionaires, billionaires, and pretty much anyone who can afford my rates—but I was overlooking an important component of the gift-giving business. After discussing it with Tatum this afternoon, we decided we need a mid-range line of services. Sure, I can organize a private jet to the Maldives for the weekend or pick up that Lamborghini someone’s husband has always dreamed of owning. The royalties are phenomenal, but those aren’t as common. So if we hire somebody, we can have them cater to our wealthy clientele but offer them something they’re not used to getting.”

His hand is distracting as it rubs circles on my hip.Such a tease . . .He asks, “And what is that?”

“Home. They’re so used to jet-setting that they’ve forgotten about the creature comforts of home. Stockings hung from the mantel on Christmas Eve, private cooking lessons for a romantic evening in. Or sharing that perfect bottle of Chateau Margaux by the fire on a cold winter’s night. Though that’s one hell of an expensive bottle of wine, you get where I’m going with this. My clients are used to the finer things in life, but they’ve forgotten what matters.”

A spark of pride lies in his eyes. “And what matters, Natalie?”

“Us, and building a life together, family, friends, and being surrounded by the people you love.” I don’t know why embarrassment creeps through me, but I look down at the drink in my hand, wishing the heat in my cheeks would disappear. With my heart on my sleeve, I peek up at him. “Do I sound crazy?”

“No, you sound like a woman who knows what she wants and has a plan to get it.”

---