Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(6)

A stranger. So? The city is full of strangers. That’s why she moved here, leaving behind a town populated by know-it-all busybodies.

Anyway, it’s not the middle of the night, and the driver is here, and what’s going to happen?

You’re going to make it to the Marc Jacobs show, something you’ve been waiting for all summer.

After the show there’s an after-party to launch Jacobs’s new signature fragrance. It’s the hottest ticket in town tonight, and Allison Taylor is invited.

No way is she going to miss this—or arrive looking like a drowned rat.

She puts her dripping umbrella on the floor as the stranger climbs in after her and closes the door.

“I’m going to Brooklyn—take the Williamsburg Bridge,” he tells the driver, “but first she needs to get off at Thirteenth and West.”

“Wait—that’s way out of your way,” Allison protests.

“It’s okay. You’re obviously in a hurry.”

“No, I know, but . . .” Jacobs is notorious for starting late. She can wait for another cab.

“It’s fine.”

“Never mind,” she says, unsettled by this stranger’s willingness to accommodate her. What, she wonders uneasily, does he expect in return? “Listen, I’ll just—”

“No, I mean it. It’s fine.” He motions at the cabbie, who shrugs, starts the meter, and inches them out into the downtown traffic.

Alrighty then. Allison faces forward, crossing her arms across her midsection.

She tried to let this guy off the hook. It’s going to take him forever to get to Brooklyn with a West Side detour, but . . .

That’s his problem.

And mine is solved.

Allison leans back, inhaling the fruity cardboard air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror and the faint cigarette scent wafting from her backseat companion. Unlike some reformed smokers, she doesn’t mind it. In fact, she finds the tobacco smell pleasantly nostalgic, sending her back to college bars and rainy, lazy, coffee-drinking afternoons in Pittsburgh.

Sometimes—wrong as it is, weak as it is—she finds herself craving a cigarette, even now.

When she first got to New York three years ago, she quickly went from mooching happy hour butts to a two-pack-a-day habit. Smoking helped mitigate job stress, city stress, love life stress—and kept her thin. In her industry, that’s crucial.

Then her old college roommate Becky came to New York for a job interview and they got together—Becky’s idea, of course. Though they’d been friends in college, Allison had closed that chapter of her life and wasn’t anxious to revisit the past. Nothing against Becky, but for Allison, moving on meant leaving people behind. It was an old trick she’d learned from her childhood friend Tammy, who certainly had the right idea. Life was just easier that way.

As they caught up over drinks, Becky watched Allison light a fresh cigarette from the stub of another, and said, “Wow, I always thought you were too much of a control freak for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean chain-smoking. Cigarettes can kill you, you know.”

Allison shrugged. “We’re all going to die someday.”

“Maybe, but—”

“Maybe? Not maybe, Becky! Everyone dies. It’s a fact of life.”

Becky gave her a long look, then shrugged. “Whatever. All I know is that you’re an addict if you smoke like that, Al. And addicts aren’t in control.”

She was right, of course. Jesus. The moment she heard the word addict, Allison made up her mind to quit.

But she waited until after Becky had flown home to Pennsylvania. Waited because she hates I-told-you-so’s, and waited because, yes, she likes to be in control. Likes, wants, needs . . . she needs to be in control.

Who’d blame her? After all she’s been through in her life . . .

“So . . . I’m Bill.”

She turns to look at the man who commandeered her cab—or vice versa, depending on how one chooses to look at it.

“Allison.”

“Nice to meet you, Allison. What do you do?”

“I’m a style editor at 7th Avenue magazine. How about you?” she asks, noting that he has green eyes. Nebraska-field green eyes.

“Finance,” he tells her. “I’m an investment banker.”

Ah—forget the field. Those are money green eyes.

This guy couldn’t be more not your type.

Allison has nothing against money, of course—but she’s completely clueless about finance. Then again, she also knows nothing about science, yet she was head-over-heels in love with a biologist for almost a year.

And look how that turned out.

Justin was the one person in New York who got to know the real Allison—at least, as much of herself as she’s ever shared with anyone. She’d dated here and there in college, but those relationships were superficial and physical.

With Justin, she eventually learned to let her guard down a bit. She shared things with him she’d never shared with anyone. Yes, and as soon as she was comfortable with the idea of someone having access to her past, her apartment, her innermost thoughts—bam. It was over.

Their June breakup was abysmal. Cheating, lies, accusations . . .

Thank God she’s finally over it. Over it, and moving on.