Page 190 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

But I fucking own her too.

When the electricity that zaps all my energy subsides, I turn, placing my lips to her ear. “You’re mine. You understand me, sweetheart? You’re mine, and I’m yours. There’s no one else anymore.”

Dipping her head, she brushes our cheeks together and tightens her arms around me. “Only us,” she whispers.

“That’s right. Only us.”

CHAPTER 18

Marlow

“I’m nervous.”

Jackson pulls me to a stop on the sidewalk outside Nick and Natalie’s brownstone. With our arms stretched between us, he asks, “Why are you nervous?”

I step closer, finding it hard to keep any distance from him. “Because I’m friendly with your sister, but that was when she thought I wasn’t dating her brother.”

“I’m confused. Why would Natalie not like us dating?”

I watch a car drive by, unable to express why my stomach is twisted. When I look at him, into his caring eyes, and the way he holds my hand, I know I’m not escaping this conversation about my fears.

He pulls me until we’re wrapped around each other. Looking down at me, he says, “It doesn’t matter if Natalie approves. None of their opinions matter when it comes to us being together. But if it makes you feel better, I prepped her ahead of time and sent a text.”

“Jackson?” I don’t even know what I’m asking. I don’t know if I feel prepared to face the family this soon after we made a commitment.

His hands are under my coat, holding my waist. There’s not an ounce of disappointment, only sincerity in his eyes. “If you want to go, we’ll go. Seriously, Marlow. I don’t want you to feel pressured like you’re having to perform or be someone else. That’s not what this should be. We can always come another time when you’re ready.” He smiles, and in the shadow of a family gathering, there’s such a boyish charm, something lighter, more playful today than usual.

I can’t be responsible for taking that away from him.

Leaning toward the steps, knowing he’d never let me fall, I tug him with me. “Come on. Let’s go visit the family.”

He knocks on the door but then enters the code and opens it. I step inside the large home. I’ve been here a few times over the years. Natalie St. James, now Christiansen, is an amazing woman. Independent but lives for her family. A smart businesswoman who created her own empire when she decided she didn’t want to go into the family’s brokerage business. She's a sensational party planner involved in so many great causes, from supporting the arts to helping children in need.

She’s perfect and one of the few people who makes me feel a bit of a failure in life. That’s not her issue. It’s mine. On the upside, I love when I get to see her because she’s always inspiring.

Her home is no joke. I have no idea how much they paid in this market, but it looks to be worth every penny. Beautiful décor—understated with a neutral palette, preferring to let the natural light and sunshine flood the space. The enormous windows to the back allow nature to collaborate with the indoors.

My favorite part is the art. I can only dream to have this kind of collection one day. We pass what I swear must bean Ian Candor from his last renaissance before he gave it up permanently and became a teacher, finding more joy in the classroom than alone in a studio.

Natalie rushes out from the kitchen with a dish towel in her hand. She’s dressed in black ankle pants and a red blouse, and her leather flats look buttery soft and comfortable. She’s always been fashionable, but I’ve noticed it’s developed in a new direction—high end, but with practicality built in.

Is that what happens with age, new stages in life, marriage, and kids? Her style is still intact, but running after a little one could be dangerous in five-inch Louboutins. The latter used to seem almost foreign, but the idea isn’t so odd anymore. They’re actually kind of interesting when I think about it.

Slow down, Marlow. Take one stage in life and one obstacle at a time.

She throws her arms around me. “It’s so good to see you again, Marlow.”

The warm welcome puts me at ease, and I hug her back. “You, too. Thank you for having me.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Taking my hand, she pulls me with her back into the main living space. “Tatum, Marlow’s here!” she shouts after cracking open the door to the backyard.

If there was ever a living icon of fashion in my eyes, it’s Tatum Devreux. Even after having a baby, she hasn’t changed. Dressed in Yves St. Laurent, the New York Collection, her black and shocking pink suit with matching heels are stunning. I could shop fashion before it hit the runway. Designers even sent clothes for me to wear sometimes. I try not to let jealousy ruin this beautiful day.

I feel underdressed in fitted jeans and a sweater. I mean, sure, I look amazing, but not next to them. Even more impressive is how she’s running around in those heels. “I was under the impression this was a casual get-together.”

“It is. Please don’t worry. I’d rather my guests be comfortable than ready to leave.”

“What the hell?” Jackson says.

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