Page 24 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

Glancing down at the shirt, I’m reminded of when we found these from a street vendor in Times Square. I love my I’m-a-PhoebeFriendsshirt despite its thin fabric and threadbare hem . . . I just don’t love that I chose to wear it tonight. It’s not my fault, really, considering Cammie was wearing something equally comfortable. How was I supposed to know Mr. Eligible Bachelor of the Year, or whatever that award is, would show up on my doorstep. “Marlow bought these for us.”

“Let me guess. She got Rachel, Cammie got Monica, and you were left with Phoebe?”

“You’re very good, Counselor.”

“Thanks. It’s really just that Marlow is predictable.”

I’ve always considered that part of her charm. She’s . . . reliable that way, which allows me to manage my reactions to some of her outlandish ideas. Like the time she talked us into pretending we worked for the hotel where Chris Hemsworth was staying so we could try to meet him. If our street clothes didn’tgive us away, the lack of key cards and ability to explain what we were doing to the manager did.

When Chris saw us being berated by the manager, he came over and said we were with him. We scored a meeting, a photo, and he had his driver take us back to our dorm. “I’d say she’s predictably unpredictable.”

Narrowing his eyes above a slight grin, he asks, “Marlow or Phoebe?”

“You’re probably right on both.” I hold up a finger. “Also, I like Phoebe. She’s great—funny and artistic. I’m okay with being a Phoebe in my trio. But whatever.” I wave away the nonsense filling my brain.

As if he’s afraid to take another step, he remains standing near the door.

“The futon is covered, but you can sit here?” I pop up and offer him the end of the bed. “Or I have a chair over there if you’d like?”

“I’m good.” After he takes in my tiny apartment, his brown eyes land back on mine.

I don’t make apologies for what I can’t afford, but a tinge of embarrassment winds its way through my veins. He lives in the lap of luxury, and here I am, not even making ends meet in my one-room apartment. I shift under his curious gaze and look down.

“What brings you by?”

Bending, he catches my eyes. “You okay, Bell?”

There’s been no judgment on his behalf. There never has been, so I’m not sure why I would feel even a hint of shame. I raise my chin and nod. “I’m fine.”

“I wanted to see how the packing was going.” He can easily see over my head to scope out the place because he’s tall like that.

Tall and dark.

Handsome.

Intelligent.

I digress . . .“I’m almost done.” I move to the kitchenette to busy myself. “Make yourself at home. It’s a mess in here, so you’re welcome to sit wherever you find space.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says as he walks toward the window. Moving the curtain to the side with his fingers, he spreads the blinds and looks down the street.

Rad Wellington is too big for this space. He’s meant for wide-open lofts, penthouses, and rooftop terraces. It’s utterly fascinating to see him in my apartment. The entire place could fit in his spare room. Makes me wonder how it will feel to be living in his space—airy and spacious or like I’m staying in an Airbnb, where it gives the façade of feeling at home. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here, huh?”

Glancing back, he says, “I don’t know that I’ve ever been here.” He moves around a stack of boxes and finds the end of the futon in front of him.

I get two bottles of beer from the fridge, and when I turn back, I catch him searching the apartment. I’m assuming over the lack of space a man his size requires. “It’s a . . . cozy place.” He’s polite enough to call it cozy versus tiny. “Why haven’t I been here before?”

Shrugging, I set the bottles on the counter and dig through a drawer for the bottle opener. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s completely out of your way?” A draft breeze runs across my bum, and I lower my arms, realizing I’ve been flashing him my ass. I duck behind a smaller stack of boxes and tug at the hem of my shirt. With my shorts being closer to him than me, I’m stuck.

His eyes narrow as he runs his fingers through his hair. “What are you doing?”

My spine stiffens. “Just standing here?”

Touching his chest, he angles his head. “Are you asking me?”

“The English language deems that it was indeed a question, but I didn’t mean to pose one.”

Scratching the bridge of his nose, he furrows his brow. “Why are you hiding behind those boxes?”

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