Page 55 of Just My Type of wrong guy

His laugh fills the car, making me giggle too.

“This is one of the only spots where you can literally walk past a building that sold beef a hundred years ago and then pass a store that sells shoes worth more than a car.”

He slows down as the streets grow prettier — red brick buildings, stylish restaurants, and storefronts that scream “effortless wealth.”

“Very cute of you to bring me somewhere I clearly can’t afford to spend even a cent.”

“Alexandra, relax and enjoy checking off your dream list in style.”

A.J. pulls up in front of this gigantic building — RH New York — grabs some sunglasses from the glove box, tosses his hair back, and slides them on like we’re in a commercial.

I’m honestly glad he’s distracted because I need a minute. The place is stunning — classic, massive, and the entrance looks more like a five-star hotel than a furniture store. I get out of the car and freeze on the sidewalk as A.J. hands the keys to a valet. Yes. A valet. At a store.

If I thought A.J.’s building was tall, the ones around me look like they’re trying to kiss the sky. The storefronts shine too brightly for an overcast autumn day, and the blend of horns, hurried footsteps, and overlapping voices creates this chaotic melancholy that makes me feel a little dizzy.

“New York is a lot, huh?” A.J. says, noticing my ‘what even is happening’ face.

“How do people live here without freezing up all the time?”

He laughs.

“You get used to it. Or fake it.” He shrugs, and I turn my gaze back to the storefronts.

“You coming in, or are you just gonna stand there soaking in the city?”

“I’m coming, I wanna see what these ex-butcher shops have to offer. Just not buying anything — this dollar rate is wild.” I whisper, like someone might be eavesdropping on my bank account.

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Oh no, don’t even start, A.J.” I cross my arms, drawing an invisible line between us — the “I buy my own stuff” line.

“No way,” he says with a laugh, pulling out a black card from his wallet.

“Victor’s paying.”

I lean in to read the name. It says “VICIOUS BONDS” where the cardholder’s name should be.

“Corporate card?”

“Corporateblackcard,” A.J. corrects, already walking toward the entrance as a giant smile crosses my face.

“Well then, guess we’re decorating my little nook.”

“Can we go in now, or did you decide to shop online?” he asks, holding the door open with that smug little grin.

“Stop being a dork. We’re only buying what we need,” I say, walking past him. “But I doubt I’ll find my little Pinterest girl stuff in this palace.”

“They have everything.”

“But I want to hit a thrift store, and I suggest you don’t complain,” I say, pointing my finger at him in mock warning.

“I’m not complaining,” he mutters, clearly not thrilled.

“Good. You’d better be excited to carry the bags.” I warn, and he rolls his eyes, but still throws his arm around my shoulders as we head up the stairs. And all I can think is: Mom was right: This city really can make everything feel like a dream.

***

My first few minutes inside the store can be summed up in one word: fear. Fear of breaking something super expensive and having to pay for it, obviously. Just like at Galeries Lafayette, where A.J. took me to see the view of Paris before our lunch at the Eiffel Tower, I walk strictly down the middle of the aisle here. Dead center. No sudden movements.

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