Page 101 of Brooklyn Cupid

“Yeah.”

“Like that. Like he’s trying to get used to the new world but it doesn’t stop fascinating him.”

“Really?” My heart warms. “Why won’t he make a move then?”

I can’t stop thinking about our kiss, though we act like it never happened.

“He doesn’t live in the city. This is temporary, remember?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, besides being shady as fuck and hiding things from you, which, to be fair, are none of anyone’s business, he seems like a good guy. I think he’s just too nice to use you for a quick shag. There’s a slight chance he’s a serial killer, too.”

“Ew, B!”

“He fits the type. White male between twenty-four and thirty-four, quiet, intelligent, likable.”

“Stop.”

“He probably just doesn’t want to take advantage of you for a month or two and bounce. But if you get a chance, I gotta admit, Tito was right.”

“About?”

“He’s probably dirty in bed. It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Staaaahp,” I plead with a grin.

“He buys groceries, cleans, inspires your art. Builds shelves for you. Brings presents. Like, jeez, girl, pour some sugar on me.”

I’m so giddy, I close my eyes and repeat her words in my head.

Becky carries on. “He doesn’t come across as a hit-and-run type of guy. Unlike his friend, Rrrroey.”

Just the way she says it, with extra bitterness, so unlike Becky, means Roey must’ve gotten under her skin. Good. Becky needs a shakeup now and then.

“I don’t know, B…” I murmur and sigh.

“Lu, listen.” Becky suddenly sounds too serious, and it must have something to do with work. “I read your new series on Story Den.”

There’s an awkward silence.

Becky usually asks me what I work on. I usually tell her. But I didn’t tell her about theSharkinovel. I knew the moment she read the new stuff she’d know where it all comes from.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on with you and Jace? You, specifically?”

I don’t know what to tell her. Nothing is going on anywhere but my head.

“I don’t know, B,” I say softly.

There’s silence again. Becky is usually pushy, but not this time.

“We’ll talk later,” she says. “And Lu? The new story… I love it. Keep it up.”

I walk back into the bedroom and pull a drape off one of the smaller paintings of Jace.

It’s a colorful impressionist sketch of him shirtless, the New York skyline behind him as he’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking at the viewer.

It’s so alive. So him.

---