Page 198 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

I sip a mimosa and then finish my bacon and eggs before moving that plate to the side and making the small side of pancakes the star of the show. To be honest, I’m exhausted, but the last thing I should be doing is thinking about why. I was worried when our conversation turned to forever and marriage last night. But somehow, we got over that bump. And the sex afterward was sensational. He’s glorious in bed. Attentive. Passionate. All that intensity turns into hot, provocative—I don’t notice them staring until the conversation stops, and I look up with pancakes shoved in my mouth. I chew and then wash it down with more liquid. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Tatum says, “I never thought of Andrew that way.”

“What way is that?” I brace myself because I’m not sure if she’s going to compliment him or go for the jugular.

Sitting back with an all-knowing grin, she says, “Don’t get me wrong, he’s gorgeous, like his brother.” Her eyes momentarily connect with Natalie, who grins like a woman comfortable in her own skin. To me, Tatum says, “But the glow of your skin, your hair . . . You even cleaned your plate. Everything about you is . . . enviable.” Leaning forward, she adds, “You looked beautiful last night, but today you look?—”

“Like you’ve spent the day at the spa and had the best massage of your life,” Natalie says.

I sort of did if three orgasms relax your soul.

“I need to meet someone.” Finishing her mimosa, Tatum sets the glass on the table, and adds, “Sex with Andrew must be incredible.”

Cookie raises her hand. “Check, please.”

30

Juni

Cookie insisted. . .

That I stay the night.

We have coffee together in the morning.

And to hear all about me, my childhood, and my family.

Drew called it. We found a list she created the night before for herself, so I had time to prepare—run, hide, or stick around and participate. He was kind enough not to hold it against me if I chose to leave.

I stayed.

She certainly loves to check things off lists and did with each item we accomplished. While Drew worked out at the gym at five in the morning, I got up shortly after to get in that bonding time.

I could handle the first two no problem. She even came down to the apartment after coffee to hang out and proceeded to pick out my outfit.

She has great taste—a spring pink, short-sleeved sweater, and though it’s still before Memorial Day, white pants because in LA they wear white year-round. In reality, I don’t think Cookie makes excuses or justifies anything she does. If it makes her happy, she goes with it. She’s easy-going like that.

Tucking my hair behind my ear, I walk into the living room where she’s been looking around. I told her she was welcome to. Holding a gold frame, she shows me the photo. “This might be my favorite.”

Out of all the framed photos my grandmother kept of her glamorous life, the photos of my mom, and eventually some of me, she chooses the one of me on my sixteenth birthday. The sun was setting at the country house in the Berkshires, and tall trees filled the background. It’s a simple close-up photo, but you would have thought a professional photographer had captured the moment.

“I remember that day,” I say, staring at a girl so different than how I feel today. Taking the frame from her, I admire the innocence in my eyes. “I had really hit my stride back then. I knew what I wanted and how I was going to achieve it.” Setting it back on the bookcase, I add, “Funny how life can have a totally different plan.”

“Plans are plans. Nothing more. They’re not set in stone or carved into the universe. They’re just ideas until they’re set in motion. Women go through many moon phases as well. Some things are meant for us, and some things aren’t despite the plans we made.”

“There are plants that only bloom at night. I always thought it was because they craved the moonlight.”

“The moon is a powerful force.” She sets her empty mug in the sink, and asks, “It’s not?”

“No, they open when their pollinators are most active. How romantic is that?”

“Very. It’s as if they sense their soul mate and bloom for them.”

She gets it. I knew she would. “You can leave the mug there. I’ll deal with it later.” Noticing the time, I ask, “Would you help pick out jewelry to go with my outfit? We can finish talking in the bedroom.”

She’s not flashy, though she has a rather large diamond ring, diamond tennis bracelet, and diamond earrings. She’s wearing a fortune, but each piece is tasteful that nothing overwhelms, and she’s the one who stands out.

I pull out my most prized treasures, gifts from grandparents to mark special occasions and others I inherited. Continuing our conversation as she looks at the tray of brooches and pins, I say, “My life was set in motion from the first word I’d ever spoken.”

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