Page 23 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

“Chad Mellington, or something like that.”

“Close enough.”That Tealey’s talked about me has to be a good sign.

He stamps the cigarette on the brick windowsill and says, “I’ll buzz you in.”

I wait only a few seconds before I hear the buzz and the lock release. I pull the door open and enter the building, only to be greeted by the same guy. “She tells me you have a nice place.”

“I do. It’s not too far from Central Park.”

Rubbing his fingers together, he oohs. “Money. She deserves better than this dump.” He pats the wall. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on up.”

I go but stop on the bottom step and turn back. “What’s your name?”

“Meisler. Joey Meisler.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Meisler.”

Nothing impresses this guy. Without another word, he eyes me up and down and then returns to his apartment.

Dilapidated is an understatement. The handrail wobbles, and the stairs sound like they’re about to break under my feet. There’s a distinct smell of old cigarettes and chemical cleaner in the air. On the second floor, the sound of a gameshow blares through the thin and dusty walls as I climb higher. When I reach Tealey’s floor, I glance down the hall to see the apartment number—3B.

There’s no sneaking with floors this creaky, but it’s noticeably cleaner, and the bad odors don’t linger up there. I knock on her door and then shove my hands in my pockets to wait.

The door swings open, and there she is—hair twisted in pink rollers and a T-shirt that hangs to her knees, fuzzy pink slippers, and what appears to be a face mask. Without looking up, she says, “What’d you forget—Oh!”

I smirk.

Her fingers rip the white sheet from her face, and she starts scrubbing her fingers across her skin. “What are you doing here?”

“I was nowhere near your neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by.”

Her shoulders ease as she laughs. “Well then, since you’re here, come on in.”

7

Tealey

“Did I interrupt?” Rad asks, his voice as smooth as jazz, as is his smile that leaves me weak in the knees. It’s probably just the glass of wine I had earlier.

“No. No. Not at all.”What’s a little lie?I wasn’t prepared for Rad Wellington to be standing outside my door, much less showing up out of nowhere on a random Tuesday night. I can’t say I’m bothered by his presence, but a little notice would have been nice.

I take a deep breath and steady myself when he steps inside.

“So, yeah, this is my apartment.” I rush to toss the mask in the garbage. Bending down, I use the side of the toaster to check my appearance.Oh crap!I wipe the food from my face, but when it doesn’t disappear, I lean in for a closer look, only to discover it’s a crumb stuck to the toaster.

I shake my head and quickly swipe over my face again, rub in the serum, and then start plucking the rollers out of my hair. Of all the times I decide to use my spa supplies before the move, naturally, it had to be the night he stops by.

Not that this will do much to make me feel better about how I look right now, but I still try. I toss the rollers in a basket beside the bed and then sit down at the end, trying to act like I’m not freaking out inside. “What brings you by?”

He’s sporting a charcoal-gray suit and white shirt, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck. His dark hair is disheveled, and there’s a distinctive dusting of scruff covering his jaw from a long day’s work. As if he couldn’t get more handsome, he proves me wrong. “I always considered you more of a Monica,” he replies, his gaze skimming over me.

I shift awkwardly, resting one fuzzy house shoe–covered foot on top of the other. “It’s a sleep shirt. Wait, really?”

“Really is it a sleep shirt?”

“No. You think I’m more of a Monica than a Phoebe?”

“Sure,” he replies casually.

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