Page 7 of Love Around the Corner

“You don’t need your phone. The reception’s crappy on the train.” Alfie stuck an ear bud back in and offered the other to Novak. “Here. Wanna share?”

His look of horror was hilarious. “I doubt we have the same musical taste,” he managed to choke out.

Alfie considered correcting him, opened his mouth to sayActually, I’m listening to a bookand then changed his mind. He didn’t need to prove anything to this snob. “Suit yourself,” he said, and plugged himself back in.

He stayed like that until the train reached the city and he got too excited to concentrate, not even on Austen. Novak seemed wound equally tight, his legs crossed as he gazed out the window, fingers laced tight around his water bottle. A million miles away. Alfie wondered what he was thinking, then remembered he didn’t care.

He glanced at his phone: 6.15pm. Right on time.

The train slowed as they reached Penn Station and the volume of chatter from the kids around them rose in equal proportion. Alfie got to his feet, pulled his coat down from the rack, and after a hesitation retrieved Novak’s too. He handed it over and Novak snatched it with a glare.

Okay, maybe Alfie had earned that. Hehadbeen kind of a dick about the coat.

They had to wait a few moments before they could leave, while the kids got their collective shit together and made their way off the train. It left time for Alfie to say a conciliatory, “Have a good evening.”

Novak returned a tight nod. “You, too,” he said, but his attention was fixed on the doors as if he were desperate to escape. Alfie shared the feeling. An hour on the train with Leo Novak was an hour too long.

But he played the gentleman, standing back to let Novak out. He followed him off the train, watching as Novak hauled the strap of his messenger bag over his head and walked with neat, quick steps along the platform and into the station. The crush of the city soon swallowed him, and then Alfie was alone and free to concentrate on the night ahead.

He pulled away from the stream of people, stopping next to a coffee stand to check the map on his phone. It was a fifteen minute walk from the station to the Whiskey Jack, which was fine: he needed to move after sitting cramped in his seat for an hour and to shake off his nervous tension. He’d still get there in plenty of time—he wanted to be the first to arrive.

“Okay Alfie,” he said, pocketing his phone. “This is it: the moment of truth.”

Shoulders back, he headed out into the crowds and towards the rest of his life.

Chapter Three

Leo stared at himself in the washroom mirror. Or, rather, he stared at his bowtie. Was it too much? Carter had noticed right away. He’d laughed. Not out loud, but Leo had seen it in his dark eyes, a bright twinkle of mockery.

No surprise there—Leo had always been a joke to men like Carter.

He dithered, pushed his hands through his hair to sweep it back from his forehead. Quirky was one thing, but he didn’t want to look like he was trying too hard…

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, and tugged off the tie, opening the collar of his white shirt instead. Yes, better. That was better. More neutral, given he had no idea what to expect from Camaro89.

Shit, maybe Dee was right and meeting up without exchanging even the most basic detailswasstupid. Camaro89 could be literally anyone. A murderer or a gangster. Christ, he could be aRepublican.

No. No, that wasn’t possible. They’d talked enough for Leo to know he wasn’t any of those things. Have a little faith. He checked his watch and grimaced to see it was already six-thirty. He’d have to walk fast to make it on time, and the last thing he wanted to do was to keep Camaro89 waiting, even for a moment. It would be awful to be sitting there, waiting, and thinking Leo wasn’t coming.

Shoving the tie into his pocket, he hurried out of the restrooms and through the station.

Of course, the city was even more manic than usual—Christmas shoppers bolstering the holiday tourists to make the streets impassable in places. But he managed to dodge, squeeze, and push his way down to W 23rdStreet and saw the sign for the Whiskey Jack lit up ahead of him, the High Line stretching out almost directly above the building.

His heart thumped, knocking against his ribs as he slowed his fast walk. He was breathing hard and didn’t want to turn up gasping for air, although he was so nervous he didn’t seem able to catch his breath. He stopped twenty yards from the front of the pub, an unprepossessing building with offices above, and made himself take a deep shivery breath.

According to his phone it was 6.54pm. He blew out his held breath, fingers tingling, and a silvery shot of adrenaline fired behind his breastbone.

Okay, this was it. This wasit.

Hands shaking, he fumbled his beat-up copy ofPersuasionout of his bag and started walking toward the bar. The sounds of the city were muted, as if he was listening to them underwater. All he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears, his own ragged breathing. His knees felt rubbery, his gut twisting into knots, his lungs hopelessly short of breath. He felt like his whole future was pivoting on the next few moments.

He approached the door.

He fixed his eyes on it.

He walked past it.

Shit.

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