Happenstance(2)

I do everything halfway. Leaving a project done somewhere in the middle is my specialty. In the closet of my apartment, one would find a half-knitted sweater, an application for culinary school completed to page five out of ten, and a crate full of arrowroot starch and essential oils leftover from the natural deodorant business I semi-started—and by semi started, I mean I bought the ingredients and thought of a clever name.

Pit-ter Patter.

Okay, it’s sort of clever.

At least I will make it all the way home tonight where I will face plant in some tequila.

That I can do without stalling out somewhere in the middle.

There’s no line for the tram, thankfully and when the attendant waves me forward, I jog closer in my thrifted heels, praying the cable car is heated. I step inside a moment later and sigh, finding it slightly warmer than the outside temperature—

It’s also occupied. By three men.

“Oh. Nope.” I briefly register that all of them appear to be south of thirty-five, before I turn around with the intention of getting out and waiting for the next empty car, because frankly, I’d rather swim home in a hurricane than have a conversation with strangers. But as soon as I set foot back on the sidewalk, I see Deputy Mayor Alexander turn the corner with his black ball cap pulled down low on his forehead. He’s surrounded by suited individuals, one of whom appears to be communicating via an earpiece. If I wait for the next car, there is every chance I’m going to end up on the same one as these dudes.

And that cannot happen.

If the deputy mayor and his security team register my face, there’s a good chance they’ll recognize me the next time I follow them. In the spirit of anonymity, I reverse into the cable car holding the three men, exhaling in relief when the door closes and the tram begins to move, carrying us upward and toward the East River.

“What changed your mind, love?” one of the men asks, his accent upper crust British. Deep and polished. “Was it my sheer animal magnetism that drew you back in?”

I knock on the window, drawing the attention of the tram attendant. “Too late to swim?” I call to him through the glass. He either doesn’t hear me or isn’t amused by my joke, because he stares back blandly as we pass. “Note to self: bring an inflatable raft next time,” I mutter, taking my phone out of my purse and scrolling through emails, hoping British will take the hint and leave me alone for the duration of this three-minute ride.

It’s not so much to ask.

Curious by nature, however, I can’t resist a peek at my fellow passengers via the window reflection and…oh.

Okay, wow.

My roommate would refer to these men as contenders.

They’re all appealing in different ways, but they are indisputably appealing. And stumbling across three attractive men on the Roosevelt Island tram is the dead last item on my list of things I expected to happen this evening, right after Zendaya showing up and informing me she’s my fairy godmother. Or a promotion to staff writer at the Gotham Times.

Now that would be far-fetched.

But hopefully not for long.

Because I definitely saw Deputy Mayor Alexander meeting with the union boss who is currently in a very publicized feud with the actual mayor. By all accounts, they should be enemies. Deputy Mayor Alexander is the mayor’s right-hand man. Why is he having clandestine meetings with Crouch, the union boss who smears the mayor every chance he gets?

“You’re staring, love,” taunts the British man.

He’s right. I’ve been staring at him in the glass reflection. Because there is something familiar about him. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. Did he bartend at that hotel where I trained as a concierge three years ago before getting bored and throwing myself into the natural deodorant space? No, that’s not it. Where do I know him from?

“Porn,” he says from his elegant lean against the interior wall of the tram. “You know me from pornography, darling,” he drawls, his mouth spreading into a grin. “The good shit.”

I’m turning around before I can stop myself, because holy hell. He’s right.

That dark blond hair, the incredible bone structure, that bedroom rasp.

I don’t remember his name—I’m not a porn junkie, although I like a visual aid as much as the next twenty-six-year old girl—but I used to have more than a few of his videos bookmarked on my phone. And right now, I’m staring at him with clear recognition, so I snap my gaping mouth shut, turning to gauge the reaction of the other two men.

They’re both frowning at British.

“That’s enough,” says a guy who has the best posture I’ve ever seen. His back is perfectly straight, his arms crossed over his impressive chest. For a moment, I think I recognize him from somewhere, as well, but no. He just bears a striking resemblance to the Duke from season one of Bridgerton. As in, he’s a perfect ten, emphasis on perfect. There is not a stitch of his impeccable overcoat and pleated slacks out of place. I could eat the second half of my pizza slice off his shiny wingtips. This man is exacting and apparently in the habit of coming to the defense of women he doesn’t know. Very Duke-like, indeed.

“That’s enough of what?” inquires British, amusement twinkling in his eyes as he turns his attention to the second man. “Charisma? It cannot be turned off, unfortunately. Women upon women have performed very thorough searches of my person looking for the switch.”