In a New York Minute(43)

Cleo tilted her head, confused. “No clue.”

“Lola.”

“Oh my god, she’s always got some scheme going on,” Cleo said with what could only be described as a loving eye roll.

“So now I have forty-eight hours to put something together.” Saying it out loud made it feel real, and my stomach bubbled with nerves.

“Fran!” It was all she needed to say. I could hear every bit of excitement she felt for me in just the way she squealed my name. “This is huge. Just make sure Mercury isn’t in retrograde when you sign the contract.”

I chuckled. “There’s not even a contract yet, Clee. Don’t worry.”

“And just think of how much one-on-one time you’re going to get with your Hot Suit,” she teased.

“Oh my god, come on,” I said, but, oh, I was thinking about it. That, and the way the sound of his voice had made my knees feel weak, like the time my mom took me to the top of Rockefeller Center when I was a kid. I didn’t just think Hayes Montgomery was nice. I was heading very close to crush territory, just like Cleo had suggested. Or maybe I was already in it.

“It would be a big deal to get this contract,” I said, before I took a sip, smiling as I imagined what a job like this could do for me. Not only would it get the word out about my design work, but it would do the thing I needed most: pay the bills.

“Oh, you’ll get it. No doubt in my mind,” Cleo said firmly, like there was no other option. “Let’s hurry up and find you an outfit so you can get to work.”

Besides, just the thought of Hayes and me together was ridiculous. This was one of those completely unattainable crushes that never led anywhere but sucked up all your time and energy. A possible job was way more important than some hot guy. I was going to land this thing, I decided, determined. Hayes and his enchanting eyes be damned.

*



I made it to the front of Hayes and Eleanor’s new building fifteen minutes early. I had planned to give myself some time to reapply my lipstick and check over my pitch document, work through my nerves so that I could be calm when they arrived. Instead, Hayes was already standing there, waiting for me. “Franny, hey,” he said with a wave.

I tried to give him a once-over without him noticing. He was dressed almost identical to when we first met, head to toe in navy, with a light-blue shirt underneath his jacket. The crispness of his clothes only made the sharp angles of his face more pronounced, and the combination caused the back of my neck to heat up, a sauna made entirely of nerves…and pheromones. When I looked up, his eyes caught mine, but he looked away immediately, as aloof as ever.

“Hi,” I replied as he opened the door of the building for me.

“Wow,” I said, looking around the lobby. “This is great.” It was more than great; it was sleek and sophisticated, a modern mix of wood, metal, and huge floor-to-ceiling windows. Not to mention it was right in the middle of the West Village, blocks from the Hudson River. I tried to keep my drooling to a minimum and attempted to play it cool.

“This way,” he said with a tilt of his head as he led me to the elevators. “How are you doing?” he asked politely as we stood across from each other on the way up.

Was he nervous? That seemed unlikely. But why else would he be acting like we were meeting for the first time?

Then I remembered what he had said that night we walked to the subway together: “I just felt very out of place.”

Hayes was awkward. Something I’d interpreted as haughtiness at first. But now that I could see it for what it was, it was kind of charming.

“Good, thank you,” I replied. “I’m—”

Thankfully, the doors dinged open just then, saving me from myself.

“Wow.”

Walking into the space was like diving into the ocean with your eyes open for the first time. It was vast, bright, and beautiful. Light carpeted the floor, beaming in through a giant wall of industrial windows facing the Hudson.

“Hayes.” I turned to him, my mouth wide, voice filled with glee. “This is beyond.” I was unable to hide my excitement. There was no point in trying to play it cool. I could have gushed more: the high ceilings, the exposed beams, the raw brick. It was untouched, unmarked, a dream canvas that had my creative brain itching for what felt like the first time in forever. Sitting here empty like this was a disgrace to its beautiful bones. They longed to be caressed and loved, draped in art and color, and filled with life.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” he said, hands in pockets, watching me.

“Cool?” I repeated back to him, horrified that he’d choose such an ordinary, boring word to describe something as beautiful as this. “That’s like saying LeBron James is just okay at basketball. This place is a dream.”

I bent to touch a hand to the floor—real wood, probably original. I sighed with pleasure. “These floors are amazing. I am sincerely attracted to them.”

He let out a “Ha!” at this, and I looked toward him, grinning.

“I’m not kidding,” I insisted. “I would date these floors.”

I walked to the wall of windows, and he followed a few paces behind. The view stretched deep into New Jersey and then down the river, toward where the Statue of Liberty stood, still and stoic.

“It’s weird—I can actually see my old apartment from this view.” He pointed south toward Tribeca.