NYC is no joke. You gotta be tough to live here. You gotta have a kind of armor on at all times that says, Don’t make eye contact with me. Don’t even fucking look at me. It’s the attitude on the streets, and I am nothing if not full of attitude.
But in my downtime, it’s a different story. When I’m alone, I can relax and act not so tough and just be myself.
I walk my tired body home but appreciate the bright lights all the same.
I may rag on it, but NYC is my home, and it always will be. I’m happy here, happier than anywhere else in the world.
And just as I start to lower my guard because The Bradford is in full view, that’s when it happens…a limousine pulls up, and the window rolls down, and it’s him.
My heart beats a little faster in my chest. My breathing becomes unstable.
He says through the window, “Hey, don’t I know you?”
I look into his deep hazel eyes and nearly melt.
“Um, no, I don’t think so.”
“Sure, I do. We’re neighbors. You live in The Bradford, right?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, trying to pretend with all my might that I haven’t spent countless nights trying to see if he’s home.
“Well, listen, can you do me a favor?”
“Maybe,” I say walking to his limousine.
I know he’s a not a monster. I’ve seen him many times. He looks safe enough.
“I have this business function to attend, and my date canceled. Think you could come with?”
He can’t be serious.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I am. My name’s Paul, and I live in that building right over there,” he points to the place across from mine. “Come with me?”
I’m not gonna deny this smoldering man. And I am dressed for any occasion in my black Valentino dress. But first thing’s first.
“Okay, I’ll go with you. But first I need to go change my shoes. These heels are killing me.”
“I’ll be waiting right out front.”
I can feel his eyes watching me as I cross the street and go into my building.
This is fucking crazy. If I hadn’t spied on him a million times already, I wouldn’t even consider this. But as it is, I kind of do know him—and I’m dying to actually get to know him.
So I swiftly enter my building and ask the doorman as I go, “Hey, do you know a Paul? Lives across the street?”
“You mean Paul Armstrong? Sure, moved in a couple months ago. They say he’s richer than anyone, old money.”
“Hmm, thanks, that helps a lot.”
Paul Armstrong. What a name. I take the elevator up to my place and hurry in. I run to the closet and put on my most comfortable yet classic come-fuck-me boots. Then I hurry to my vanity, tousle my hair with some spray, smear on some lipstick, and then I’m back out the door.
I turn around to lock it, and I see Emilia and Evan in a heated moment. When did they become a thing?
I try not to look, but he’s got her pinned against the wall between his arms, and they’re fighting about something in heated tones.
Should I say hi?