“It’s not a waste of time if you’re in the market for a roommate.” He slides a piece of paper across the table.
I don’t want to be rude—or ruder—so I take it, though I have no intention of moving in with a strange guy I’ve never met before, app background check be damned. I pretend to peruse the specs on his sheet before breaking the news gently. “I wish I could, but my career isbased in Midtown and honestly, I couldn’t afford anywhere in Park Slope.” The words have barely cleared my mouth when I see his asking price. His ridiculously low, must-be-missing-a-zero asking price. “Wait, does that say...”
This time I let my eyes actually take in the information printed in front of me. Words leap off the page. Words like “brownstone.” “Chef’s kitchen.” “Backyard.”
Straight-up real estate porn.
“Okay, now I know I’m being punk’d.” I tear my eyes away from the tantalizing details to study Jack, whom I’m suddenly seeing in a whole new light. An I-could-live-with-this-man-in-exchange-for-a-backyard light.
Jack averts his gaze from mine. “You’re not being punk’d.”
“So you’re a serial killer, then?” I can’t resist going back in for another look at the flyer. Is there anything sexier to a New Yorker than a hot real estate listing?
“Definitely not.”
“But you’re renting a room in a brownstone for a pittance and you just happen to want me to move in with you? Why me?” We all know it has nothing to do with my sparkling personality.
He takes a sip from his coffee, and it seems to give him the fortitude he’s so far been lacking. Jack raises his eyes. “Honestly? You seem like the kind of person who likes to laugh. And I need some laughter in my life.”
And something about those words, the sincerity in his gaze when it finally meets mine, well, it almost comes close to warming my cold, cold heart.
But I can’t let anyone know that.
I toss my hair over my shoulder. “I’m quite witty, as you’ve probably already noted.”
“Hmm.” His answer is noncommittal, but he almost sort of smiles. He folds up his file and stashes it in his bag. “So do you want to come see the place? It’s just a couple of blocks from here.”
“Sure.” Picking up my phone, I snap his photo before opening my group text.
“Did you just take my picture?” The little color there was drains from his face, like I just stabbed him in the chest.
“Yup, and I’m currently sending it to my three best friends. One of whom’s a lawyer, one of whom’s a former athlete, and one of whom teaches middle school. Honestly, I’m not sure which one of them is scarier.” I tap away on the screen. “In addition to your photo, I’m sending them your address and instructing them to call the police if they haven’t heard from me in a half an hour.” I stand and turn for the door. “Shall we?”
Jack sits frozen in place for a minute, like he can’t decide whether he should follow me or run away screaming. He should totally run away screaming. But he doesn’t, rising from his seat and holding the door open for me on our way out of the café.
The air outside is absolute perfection, not too hot, not too humid, one of those rare New York days that tricks you into thinking anything is possible in life. Jack leads me down a block and over a couple more, and my eyes don’t ever stop darting around. Gemma and Harley share an apartment in nearby Windsor Terrace, so I’m not totally unfamiliar with the area, but I spend most of my time on the island Manhattan, almost exclusively in charmless Midtown, and there’s something endearing about the brownstones lining the street on our walk.
After just a few minutes, Jack stops in front of one such brownstone. “Here we are.”
I peer up at the towering building, the perfect slice of New York history. “Which floor is yours?”
He clears his throat. “Um, the whole thing is mine.”
My mouth drops open, and I immediately turn away from the brick-building version of Chris Hemsworth to look him dead in the eye. “You rent the whole brownstone?”
“I own the whole brownstone.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet.
“Shit, dude, you must be a serial killer. Your mortgage must be like ten thousand a month.” And even just from the outside, this place is so good I’m seriously considering moving in. I can brush up on my self-defense skills and sleep with a knife under my pillow.
He stares down at his feet. “I don’t have a mortgage. I own it outright.”
I may be standing in place, but I literally stumble and almost fall.
Jack reaches out a hand, grasping my elbow and keeping me steady, dropping his grip the second I’ve regained my balance. “Do you still want to see inside?”
“Are you kidding me? I’d walk around the block topless in order to see inside.”
His cheeks flush a dark pink, and he turns away to open the iron front gate. “That won’t be necessary.”
