City Love(49)

The boy takes a step closer to me. I can feel his body heat. I can smell his cinnamon gum. When his eyes lock on to mine, tingles flash up my spine, making me shiver.

“What did you have in mind?” he says.

“Everything.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Yeah, I can come back for these.” I drop my books on a cart. When I walked into the Strand, the last thing I thought I’d be walking out with was a boy. Talk about finding a good deal.

We walk up to Union Square. I have no idea where we’re going. We’re not really talking that much. Hot desire has taken over all rational thought. It’s clear that this will be a one-time hookup, like a one-night stand minus the walk of shame the next morning.

We want each other right now.

The boy stops us at the corner of 15th Street. He slides his hand to the back of my neck, kissing me everywhere but my lips. He kisses my cheek, my jawline, my neck, behind my ear. Shivers ripple through me again.

“What about Park Bar?” I say, pointing to it up ahead on the right.

“I can’t get in.”

“I can get you in. I have a fake ID. Trust me, we can get in anywhere.”

He peers into the dark bar. “Happy hour. Too crowded.”

We keep walking. I slip my hand into his back pocket. He puts his arm around me. This should be a lot stranger than it is. The strangest part is how not strange it feels.

“There’s a Gap three blocks up,” the boy says when we hit 5th Avenue. “I’ve been to that one before. No one checks the dressing rooms.”

“Works for me.”


The Gap is a perfect place for an anonymous hookup. Anyone can sneak into anyone else’s dressing room. Not like at upscale boutiques where you’re hyper-monitored by sales clerks asking how you’re doing in there every three seconds. Sneaking into one of those dressing rooms would be a major coup. If I’m going to hook up with a random boy in a dressing room, the Gap is the place to do it.

We branch off to the opposite men’s and women’s sides of the store. I grab some jeans and a few tops and hit the dressing rooms. No one’s monitoring the entrance. I dart to the back section of rooms and snag the big one in the corner. The boy ducks in, locking the door behind him.

“We’re in,” he says. He throws some tees on the bench.

I’m suddenly nervous. Flirting in a bookstore and kissing on the street is one thing. But being locked in a dressing room with a boy I met ten minutes ago is a whole other thing. Shit just got real. Then I remember that I picked him up. I wanted this. I’m in control and I can have him if I want.

I want.

He pushes me up against the wall, pulling my leg up so it bends around his body. His lips attack mine. I kiss him aggressively, scratching my nails down his back. He grabs my ass to grind against me harder.

We have to be quiet the whole time. Which makes it even hotter.

Intense chemistry is not easy to find. When you do, you have to go for it or you’ll regret missing out for the rest of your life. I want my memories to be filled with amazing adventures. No regrets.

So then why, when we go our separate ways after and I’m walking home alone down 5th Avenue, am I regretting what I just did?

What went down in the dressing room was so. freaking. hot. It was so hot I never even got his name. But all I can think about is Jude. How could I do that to him? Picturing his face when I tell him what happened makes me feel horrible.

Only . . . do I really have to tell him? We’re not exclusive. Far from it. We just met. Jude is free to hook up with any girl he wants. He has the same freedom I do. I’m as free as a bird and flying high this summer. No one can tie me down.

Jude knows all this. Why am I even worrying?

Wandering aimlessly down Greenwich Avenue, I discover a fun retro T-shirt shop. There’s a Princess Bride tee in the window with Inigo Montoya. He’s standing there in battle stance, ready to avenge the death of his father. Above the print it says HELLO in huge, bold black letters. Only serious Princess Bride fans could appreciate the geeky fabulousness of that shirt.

I go in and buy it for Jude.





TWENTY-FOUR

ROSANNA


MY HEART IS POUNDING SO hard as I approach Cafe Lalo that I almost have to sit on the bench outside to avoid passing out. I convince myself to keep walking toward the stairs. D could be here already. He could be watching from the other side of this wall of windows. I want him to think I’m way more confident than I am. And way more certain that I’m doing the right thing. Should I even be here? Should I keep moving things forward, knowing we’re not the best match? Or should I end it before we get hurt?

Everything shimmers at Cafe Lalo. Even the trees outside are glittery with delicate purple lights. I take a deep breath, go up the stairs, and immediately see D when I walk in the door. He looks even more adorable than he did the last time I saw him at Press Lounge. He’s at a table near the front, looking at desserts in the display case. D has the kind of confidence people notice right away. Most people sitting alone would find something to distract them so they look less alone. Not D. He’s just sitting there, calm and still. Completely at ease with himself. Taking in how gorgeous he looks in his lavender button-down with the sleeves rolled up and the kind of trendy jeans I could never afford makes me grateful for Darcy’s generosity all over again. She bought me a beautiful, flowing silk skirt that dances around my knees when I walk. Feeling its slippery smooth material against my skin is helping me pull off a somewhat confident vibe.