Page 36 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

My other hand tightens around the brown paper bag, crinkling in the quiet of the office. We both glance down, but I use the time to look her over. The tail of her white shirt hangs loose in the back over a baggy gray skirt, leaving no figure to be found. I already miss her sexy little body I was eyeing the other night when she was revealing her shoulder and those great legs. And I haven’t been able to get her ass off my mind all day. Hence, the special delivery, which now feels like an utterly ridiculous idea as I stand in front of her.

When her glasses slip down her nose, she’s quick to adjust them with her index finger. Turning shyly to the side, she takes them off and tucks them in her pocket. With her other hand, she takes the key, the tips of her nails scraping gently across my skin. “You didn’t have to bring it all the way to Brooklyn.”

“No trouble.”

“Thanks,” she says. “The girls helped me finish packing last night. It’s only a day early, but I’m looking forward to sleeping in your bed.” Embarrassment flashes through her eyes. “My bed. The spare bed.”

Chuckling, I hold up the bag to help her out. “I also brought you lunch.”

She blinks twice as her brows rise in surprise. “That’s so sweet, but you didn’t have to do that.”

“I heard you were working through lunch.”

“Just making up the hours I needed to leave early this week. How’d you hear?”

“Jackson ran into Marlow last night.”

“Ah.” Tugging at her skirt, she seems to give up on the ill-fitting garment and reaches for the bag. “What did you bring me, Rad?”

I’m about to respond, but she closes her eyes and takes a deep inhale, exhaling with a moan that has my body unable to decipher between her craving the food or having her in my bed. Dirty thoughts I shouldn’t be having rush my veins.

I’m surely going to hell.

She’s way too nice to get mixed up with the Bachelor of the Year three years running. I can’t even act right when I’m near her anymore. I went from zero to sixty for her, and she’s looking at me like I’m a dead end.

“Hope you like hot and sour soup.” I already know she loves that soup because she always orders it when we eat at an Asian restaurant. I’ve also eaten enough meals with her to know the two foods she hates—mushrooms and anchovies. Every week when the group meets, she chats with the server about what to try that doesn’t include those two ingredients. “I told them to hold the mushrooms.”

She shivers while scrunching her nose, being utterly adorable. “I hate those little fungi.” Taking the bag from me, she says, “How’d you know?”

“I don’t like them either,” I lie.I love mushrooms.

“Do you have time to come back? I can show you my fancy cubicle.” She waggles her hips.

“Absolutely.”

We only travel about ten feet before I’m in a cubicle not much bigger than my desk. Two chairs are squeezed into the space, so I angle to sit.

Perking up, she asks, “You got the contract yesterday, right?”

“I did. Thanks for sending the retainer. I have my assistant gathering records so we can start laying the groundwork for the divorce.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me every time.”

“I’m just grateful.”

“I’m glad you came to me.”

When a door grates against its hinges, she stands up and looks around, then sits back down. “If my boss stops by, pretend we’re working together,” she whispers. “There aren’t many people I dislike, but Lowell is at the top of the list. The city placed him here two years ago because they want a business degree judging how we operate. We have a very tight budget. I get that, but sometimes someone needs more than food assistance and a pat on the back.” She leans forward in her chair, sliding across the cracked plastic mat.

My idea of what she did for a living felt distant from my life, never touching my shores, but seeing her office and hearing her stories puts it in perspective.

She’s even more amazing than I knew, and I already thought highly of her.

She continues, “Our job can entail taking five extra minutes with someone to help prepare them for a job interview or find other financial resources. Lending a nonjudgmental ear can change a person’s life. He doesn’t get that. He only understands dollars and cents.” Waving to clear the air, she takes a deep breath and raises her chin. “And he refuses to pay for some of my extra hours. If anyone can relate to long and demanding days, though, it’s you.”

“I hate it sometimes, but it comes with the territory. I’m also compensated for the work. You’re not.”

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