He takes a moment to register the invitation then rushes over to join me as if I’ll rescind my offer if he takes another second. I scoot the rest of the way in to make room for him, before giving the driver the address forPivoine,a Michelin starred small plates restaurant listed inSpitfire.
This is my first Thanksgiving in New York, since I move every six months or so, andSpitfirehas always been a pleasure read for me. Not a guilty pleasure—I don’t believe in feeling guilty about one of the few things that makes me happy. Now that I have a chance to use their renowned “Feast in The City” list as a guide for my clients and not pay a dime for any of it, I sure as hell will.
“And you?” I ask my companion.
“I’m headed that way too.”
“Great. Now look out the window until I tell you it’s all clear.” That’s all the warning I give before stripping off my dress.
“Woah! What the hell are you doing?” he yelps as I lift my hips, skimming the cranberry knit fabric up over my thighs. He’s turned a deep crimson, eyes plastered to the ceiling.
“Changing. I warned you.” In one swift motion, I fling the dress over my head and to the floor. “It’s not like I’m naked.” Without my dress I’m still in a shapewear bodysuit and my fleece-lined leggings. Call me high maintenance, but I’d prefer not to freeze my ass off. “And you’re the one who got into my taxi. This is less than I see on the L train most days.”
Bending over, I pull out a vintage tweed Balmain dress, sticking with the same leather, knee-high Stuart Weitzman boots. It’s one of three combinations I have for the five dates I have today, and I’m thankful that this next stop is known forits small portions so I won’t explode. The dress is old—from my mother’s closet—and can now be considered rare instead of last season.
It’s a relic from a time when such luxuries were standard finds from mid-week shopping trips. Those types of things change when the SEC and FBI swoop in one day and change everything. But it’s been six years since finding out my dad wasn’t the person Mom or I thought he was, and there’s no use in dwelling on it. I’m just one more girl with daddy issues, big whoop. Still, I’ve never been able to shake my affinity for high-end clothes, it’s just that, now, I appreciate them more and have to buy them second-hand.
“I’m sorry if I’m not desensitized to pretty New Yorkers suddenly stripping next to me,” he mumbles.
Poor guy. I might kill him with the mere suggestion of nudity.
“Ahh, you think I’m pretty? Not a New Yorker, though; I’m from Texas.” I grunt a little as I work the unforgiving fabric over the modest swell of my chest and down my waist. I damaged my corduroy pants last week doing a similar quick change and would love to not need a repeat. “I promise you, this is not the worst thing that’s happened in this backseat.”
Our driver gives us a grunt of affirmation.
“You can look now,” I say, adjusting the skirt to where it hits mid-thigh, “but you need to pay the price of taking advantage of my cab haling abilities.”
“Wait, w-what?” he stammers, looking at me, still red. Actually, redder, if possible. This can’t be healthy. He should probably get his blood pressure checked.
“Do you get laid often?”
He goes non-verbal, opening and closing his mouth, but nothing comes out. Sue me for having some fun after having to play it all prim and proper all day. And it’s not like I’ll see this guy again.
“I’m not offering. It’s just you’re having a very strong reaction to the sight of my shoulders. Honestly, you’re attractive. Got that tall, nerdy, and bashful thing going for you.” I scoot toward him. “All I was going to do was ask if you could zip me up. Can you manage that?”
“Yes,” he says in a gust of relief. His fingers fumble with the zipper for a second, and when he attempts to pull it up, it’s apparent that he’s trying to touch me as little as possible.
“You have to hold the top bit together.”
He does, fingers feather-light where they brush against the nape of my neck, ruffling the ends of my blunt cut blonde bob. Then with a tug, he secures me in, just as we pull to a stop. Shoving my discarded clothes into my bag and tossing my coat over my shoulders, I head out and towardPivoine,with its floor to ceiling windows and lush interior shrouded by a wall of plants.
When I reach for the door, a hand darts forward, blocking my way and grasping the brushed brass handle.
I look up. There, next to me, is the scandalized man from the cab.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I don’t realize I’ve said it outloud until Andrew, my final date for the day, asks, “I’m sorry, is everything okay?”
“Yes. I just need to head to the washroom.” I give him a smile then nod toward his sister and her fiancé on the other side of the table. “So sorry to stall such a great conversation; I’ll be right back,” I say, already pushing out of my seat.
This is the easiest meal of the night, especially since I’m supposed to play the part of a woman he’s already broken upwith. Andrew just didn’t want to disrupt the holidays and the plans he already had before the breakup. That’s where I came in.
But Andrew and his personal drama aren’t on my mind since Cab Guy has just walked in, being led past us by a hostess. This is the third time—well fourth, if I’m including the time I ran into him after I met with Porter, but that was pre-cab—he’s shown up after me and each time he managed to look more disheveled.
I nearly run into the hostess trying to return to her station with how quickly I round the corner. There I discover a row of small secluded candle-lit booths. Cab Guy is in the one furthest down the line.
“Are you following me?” I demand as I slide in across from him.
