Page 143 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

I look through the glass door, spying Marlow at the center of the party.

Will breaking down that final barrier, the one we’ve kept in place to protect ourselves from us becoming real, change anything?

Marlow refuses to discuss relationships. I’m not sure if it’s because her life is up in the air at the moment, if she doesn’t want anything serious with me, or if the idea scares her. And I haven’t really pushed because the idea of doing the one thing I’ve never done—been serious about a woman—scares me a little.

I’ve always been underestimated, called a rich kid who was given everything. I was given a damn good start, but I worked my way from the mailroom to being a venture capitalist. I continue to work hard because one fuck up and it could all be gone overnight.

The transition through my career stockbroker to a financial advisor with CWM has been very calculated. Being in my position, being an investor, takes more than money. It also takes most of my attention. Am I willing to divide that at a time when the path I’m choosing potentially comes with more risk than reward?

Timing matters, and I’m not sure Marlow and I will ever be on the same page.

Cammie announcing two minutes drags me from my thoughts to see her leading Cade inside where the masses have gathered to celebrate together. Tealey and Rad are right behind them, but Rad stops to ask, “You coming, Jackson?”

“No.” I peer into the crowd, disappointment . . .reality, settling in when I don’t see the one person I was hoping was coming to meet me. “You guys go on.”

Couples move closer, arms around each other, and the music fades under the sound of the countdown.

As my friends disappear into the center of the revelers, I turn around, resting my forearms on the ledge again. It’s not so bad to have the city before you, the lights bright and the sound of horns below adding to the melody of the end of another year.

With the doors left ajar, I hear Morgenstern announce into a microphone, “Ten. . .nine. . .”

“Hope the invitation still stands.”

I turn back, surprised by that voice—the only one I wanted to hear. Marlow—that dress showing off those hourglass curves of hers, long hair freed from the clip holding it up earlier, andhigh heels that make her legs look a million miles long—with a tentative smile as if she didn’t know I’d be waiting for her.

“With me, the invitation is always open.”

“Thought you might have other plans by now.” She looks around, and I suspect it’s to make sure no other woman is out here before taking a few steps closer. As if she doesn’t know me at all . . . or maybe she knows me too well.

I’m not sure. Our arrangement hasn’t really been defined before.

She’s gone on other dates.

I have.

For some reason, we keep meeting in the middle.

“Eight . . .seven. . .” Morgenstern continues.

My heart starts to beat faster. Being alone with her always does that to me. “No plans.”

Coming even closer, she maintains a few feet between us. “That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d have plans with me.”

“Six . . . five . . .”

“I always have plans for you, but most are not appropriate to discuss in public.”

“Four . . . three . . .”

“Good,” she replies, raising her chin. “I have no interest in discussing it when we could be?—”

“Two . . . one . . .”

I take her hand and pull her into my arms, our mouths crashing together under the sound of the city coming alive at midnight. Our lips caress and then open, our tongues eager to reacquaint themselves.

Kissing wasn’t always on the table with us, but tonight, our guard is lowered and our bodies are hungry for the connection. Marlow will blame the champagne. I’ll blame my weakness for the stunning beauty.

Either way, I cup her face and then look into her eyes. As she searches mine and curiosity overtakes her Bahama blues, I ask, “Want to go to my place and ring in the new year?”

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