Page 32 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

“Exactly. I don’t know how Dad kept a straight face.”

“Me either.” I take another sip of the dirty drink, the liquor harsh when it hits my throat. You’d think I’d be used to it since it’s my third. It’s not smooth like the alcohol I drank in Avalon. I cough, wanting the burning to subside, then try to take a deep breath.

“May I get you a glass of water?” The male voice doesn’t contain the deep tones that harmonize to my heartbeats, but I still whip around, hoping to see the man from Catalina again.

I’m left disappointed. The guy isn’t bad looking with dark blond hair, lighter eyes, and a good build. He’s actually quite cute, but that instant spark I had with Nick doesn’t exist.

At what point do I move on from the best night of my life? When will I forget that I ever met Mr. Smug and Sexy? Is it even possible? I’m starting to believe it’s not, and putting effort into it otherwise is fruitless to boot.

Sitting up, I reply, “I’d like that.”

11

Natalie

Chad was much moreinteresting in the dark bar of The Delilah.

I was also on my third martini when I accepted his date invitation. His good looks can’t make up for the two hours I just lost sitting across from him at dinner. It’d be one thing if I only had to look at him all night, but he lost me when all he talked about was business.

Did I mention Chad is a stockbroker?

That should say everything, but to be more clear:Big ego. Little penis.

Whoever said stockbrokers are sexy was wrong. Come to think of it, though, no one says that. Except, David from my dad’s office once said it to me. Literally, those words. “Women find me sexy because I’m a stockbroker.”

He was being more arrogant than usual because he had scored a date with a model after flashing cash in his profile pic. That was the only date they went on . . . I heard through the office gossip grapevine when I was interning two years ago. But then he tried that same line again on me, flashed his photo, and then asked me out. When I didn’t reply in a timely manner—I was never going to answer—he emailed me the photo “for my personal collection.” Although my dad wouldn’t mind me dating a successful stockbroker, I have a feeling that wasn’t what he had in mind.

Instead of replying to David’s email, I forwarded it to my dad and brother and cc’d David.

He was fired that day.

As for Chad’s penis, I don’t know about the size firsthand, but I can tell by how he loves to brag that he’s pretty proud of himself.

He’s a dime a dozen in this city and boring, much like every other man I’ve dated in the past few months. Is it really a surprise I’m still single when this is the current pool of available men?

No.

Thank God dinner is done, and we can move on with our lives—preferably in different directions. I’ve learned my lesson. Embargos aren’t always so bad. Sometimes they serve a purpose, and mine just became clear—do not force a connection that isn’t there. If it happens, it happens, but being lonely shouldn’t be a condition to lower my standards.

I know magic exists.

I experienced it once on Catalina. But maybe, it’s just not my time. I have my company—at least for now—and a handful of good, trusted friends. And as they say, there are plenty of other fish in the sea. I just need to get rid of this one.Stat.

My mind ticks through this week’s to-dos as we walk down the sidewalk. I glance over, politely pretending to be paying attention with the occasional nod and “ah, I see,” but the latest sell-off that landed him in hot water with his boss doesn’t hold my interest. The bright yellow sign for the corner bodega does, though, luring me to go inside to buy a pen and pad to jot down the extensive list I’ve created.

Disappointment sets in when we pass it. It would be rude for me to make the detour, so I carry on, hoping he’s done talking before we reach the next corner so I can dash off. Friday night is bustling in this part of the city, and the sidewalk is crowded with people going in all directions. When some jerk passing by knocks my shoulder, I’m about to turn around and say something, but then I hear, “Sorry.”

I stop and spin around just in time to catch sight of the back of him. “Thanks.”

A jaw sharp enough to cliff dive off the side.

That grin that would give a rogue a run for his money.

And brown eyes that precariously balance a warm soul and mischievousness behind squinting lids. “Natalie?”

Oh.

My.

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