Page 70 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

Closing my eyes,I let the sunshine warm my cheeks as the wind whips in through the window. It’s not like the doom and gloom in New York. I love fall there, but for a few days, it’s nice to escape to somewhere sunny that’s forgotten what season it is.

I reach over and rub the back of Nick’s neck, teasing him with the tips of my nails. I can tell by how he leans into the caress that he missed me as much as I did him. “It’s funny how I never imagined you driving or what you might drive. I drive so little that I’m not sure my license is even valid.”

“In LA, you need a vehicle to get everywhere.”

“You look good in this one.”

“I bought this 1974 Range Rover with my own money during my sophomore year in high school. I worked on it some, but never got it running because I was too busy with my studies to mess with it. My parents had it fully restored as a graduation gift, adding in the drop-top in the back for my surfboards.”

“I like the green color and the truck. It’s nice. It’s very you—rugged and adventurous but has style and class.”

He reaches over and rubs my thigh. “You think so highly of me.” He slides his hand under my skirt. His eyes may not be on me, but I can see his chest rise with deeper breaths.

“You’ve not given me a reason to think otherwise.”

“You’re the only one. My dad’s still mad at me for not delivering a file before I left New York.” The tips of his fingers find the edge of my panties. “You’re very distracting, beautiful, especially in the morning. I almost missed my flight.”

“Hope you didn’t get into too much trouble.”

“I sent it that night when I arrived back in LA, but I’m not sure he’ll ever let me live it down. I know hard work is the way to win him over, so that’s what I’ve been doing.”

“I noticed. I’ve been missing our late-night video chats.”

“That’s why I’m so glad you’re here.”

I drag my nails into his hair and slide down in the seat to put his fingers a little closer to where I want them . . . “Me too.”

He takes his eyes from the road, and his gaze lands heavy on me, his intentions clear just from a look that pins me to the seat. When he continues driving, I make a suggestion instead of waiting for an invitation. “Are we meeting your family first or . . . because I have an itch that only you can scratch.”

His signature smirk, the one full of confidence, lifts the edges of his lips, and he turns back to me. “I’ll take you to meet my family tomorrow. I can’t wait to be alone with you at the beach, or should I say inside making love while listening to the ocean waves crashing just outside the windows.”

“Romantic and sexy. I like your style.” I can’t wait for that either, but the traffic here is insane, so it seems I’m going to have to. It takes more than an hour to get there, but the house is perfect. The little three-bedroom love nest is not too big but has all the necessities, keeping the attention on the ocean with an entire wall of accordion-style sliding glass doors bringing the outside in.

While Nick opens the place up, I snoop around, finding hints of his family everywhere. From the matte silver frames on the white oak bookshelves in the living room to the monogrammed towels in the bathrooms, it’s a well-appointed home with no detail left unfinished. Joining him on the patio deck, I ask, “How long has your family owned this place?”

“Twenty years or so. It was a shack they got for a steal. My mom poured her love of decorating into it and had it redesigned and renovated. Like me and my SUV, they appreciate designs of the past, taking old things and making them new again.”

“Like the apartment in Manhattan. It’s an old building with new amenities.” I laugh. “My mom is the opposite. She loves cutting-edge fashion and anything straight off the runway. She considers it art and collects everything from clothes to shoes and accessories. She wears them once or twice but then packs them away in archival storage containers.”

“What does she do with them? Will she sell the pieces one day or—” Maybe he felt he was overstepping some imaginary boundary with me because he stops mid-sentence and returns his gaze to the crashing waves. Before I can say anything, he turns to me, and says, “I’m not really a collector. I just buy what I like and what I need.”

I shouldn’t be offended, but I can’t help but get defensive. “Like I said, it’s art. She just doesn’t share it with the world. It’s not on display for everyone to see, but she shares it with me, teaches me how to wear something properly.”

“You have your style, and it’s unpredictable like you. I like the way you look. I like how you dress for celebrations, Tuesday night, or even for me, but I really like that you dress for you and what makes you feel good.”

“Why do you sound upset?”

“I’m not upset. I’m just . . .” He runs his hands through his hair and then turns to face me. Moving closer, he fills the space that existed between us and kisses my cheek and then my lips. “I want to be with you,” he whispers.

“You’re with me. I’m right here.” Cupping his face, I ask, “What happened?”

“They want me in Seattle.”

The news smacks me, sending my head to jerk back. “I thought, well, we . . .” I struggle to gather my thoughts on this. “You said you’d commute from New York. I even looked up flights from Newark and JFK. You can take the red-eye or an overnight to lessen the time away, but you don’t need to be there. I need you with me.”

As I start to move away, my worries becoming a reality, he grabs my waist and keeps me there. I ask, “When did you find out?”

“This afternoon. You were already on your flight.”

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