1
MARA
The Boston traffic has reminded me of why I love New York—there are many reasons, but near the top of the list is the fact that I don’t need to own a car.
Since my best friend, Annie, lives a decent ways out of the city proper in the brownstone—practically a mansion—that she and her husband, Elio, purchased together, a car was a necessity for this visit. Elio offered to have a driver come and get me and squire me around, but I declined politely, feeling like that was all a bit… much. Like taking a taxi in New York, but with an added bougie twist that makes even me feel a little uncomfortable, and I’ve never been one to deny myself a little luxury. Besides, it felt a little like having someone watching my every move, waiting for me to be finished so they can take orders from me for my next destination. I like my independence.
So I got a rental. Now, stuck in traffic on my way back out of the city, I’m starting to wish I’d taken Elio up on his offer.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel of my rental car, watching the brake lights ahead of me glow red in the gray February morning, and blow out a frustrated breath. The coffee is probably lukewarm by now—at least the decaf whiteraspberry latte I got for Annie—and hopefully the pastries that I got from her favorite French bakery will be good even if they’re a bit less fresh. I’d hoped that I’d timed everything perfectly for her surprise—an early morning flight from JFK followed by the rental car pickup, and then the detour to the bakery. I just thought that weekday traffic would be better, and clearly, I was wrong.
Blowing out a sharp breath, I tap the car’s screen and change my playlist from the more relaxed, classical music I’d been playing earlier to something more upbeat and pop-heavy. Charli XCX blares from the speakers immediately, and I bounce a little in my seat to the beat of the music, trying to keep my spirits up. I’m tired after the flight and a little off thanks to the upheaval in my routine, but it’s all going to be worth it to see Annie’s face when I show up out of the blue.
She called me a week ago, frustrated and worried, and needing to vent. A few weeks before that, she’d been much happier when she gave me the news that she was pregnant again, barely a year after having her first child with Elio, my adorable honorary ‘niece’ Margaret. But only a short time into the pregnancy, she’s ended up on bedrest. Her body isn’t cooperating this time, she told me, her voice clearly strained.
From what she said, her first trimester has been brutal—constant nausea, dizziness, and an inability to keep anything down, even putting her in the hospital overnight briefly at the very beginning. Her doctor gave her stern orders to stay in bed for the next few days, and as soon as Annie told me that, I knew exactly what she needed to get her spirits up.
A decaf latte and a chocolate croissant, to start, as well as some girl-time that’s much overdue. We’ve FaceTimed as often as possible since college ended and she went back to Boston while I stayed in New York, but we haven’t seen each other in person in far too long. I’ve heard all about her marriage and howshe ended up with her childhood crush after being separated for over a decade, but I want to hear it all again in person, as well as finally meet my little niece.
“I know that, no matter how “fine” she insisted she was, she’s going stir-crazy” in that brownstone with nothing to do but read and watch TV until she’s allowed out of bed. Annie has never been good at sitting still or letting other people take care of her. It's one of the things I love most about her: her fierce independence, that refusal to be anything less than capable. We’re both alike in that way, and we bonded over it when we first met in Art History 101 at Columbia. That initial spark of friendship led to four years of late-night study sessions fueled by cheap wine and music blaring in our dorm room, and it’s never broken, even if she went back home and I went on to grad school.
The traffic finally starts to move, and I ease the car forward, my pulse picking up as I navigate through the narrow streets and out of the city. I should’ve come to visit months ago, ayearago, really, but my life has been so busy that it’s been difficult. I glance at my phone as the traffic picks up pace, hoping that my assistant, Claire, and her backup, Andrew, are managing in my absence. The gallery has been busier than ever the last two years, collecting a string of high-profile acquisitions and a waiting list of clients. I've been traveling constantly—London, Paris, Dubai—chasing down pieces for collectors who have money but not taste, and need someone to tell them what's worth buying.
But I knew from the moment I heard Annie’s voice on the phone that she needed me, and so I got on a plane.
Finally, thirty minutes later than I planned to arrive, I pull up to the curb in front of her large brownstone. It’s absolutely stunning—four red brick stories with black shutters, and window boxes in front of each of them that I’m sure will be blooming with flowers come spring. The front steps are equally well-kept brick, with a wrought iron railing.
I finished my coffee on the way here, so I scoop up the box of pastries in one hand and Annie’s coffee in the other, and step out of the car into the frigid February air. I’m eager to get inside and see Annie’s face when she realizes I’m here, but before I get two steps onto the curb, I stop in my tracks.
The first thing I notice is a black SUV with tinted windows idling just slightly ahead of my own car at the curb. There’s nothing particularly out of place about it, but I have an odd feeling when I see it, like a slight prickling of the hairs at the back of my neck. And then, before I can shake off the strangeness of it, the door to Annie and Elio’s brownstone opens, and a man walks out.
The moment I see him, I feel something I never have before— like the world narrows down to the two of us. Just him and me.
He’s tall and well-dressed, over six feet in a dark charcoal suit that I can tell is expensive and tailored just for him from the way it fits. He moves with a lean grace, like a predatory cat, a leopard maybe, or a panther. Every inch of him exudes confidence and power, a man who very clearly asks for nothing and takes what he pleases.
The kind of man I would typically find insufferable, but for some reason, I can’t take my eyes off of him.
He has a strong face and a clean-shaven jaw, and light blond hair so short it’s nearly buzzed to his scalp. And his eyes?—
His eyes lock onto mine, and I forget how to breathe.
It feels like touching a live wire. Like every nerve ending in my body suddenly lights up, sparking and crackling with an energy I've never felt before. I've had plenty of relationships that were good, even great, had men who made me laugh and made me come and made me think maybe they could be something more than just brief interludes in my life. But I've never felt this—this instant, visceral recognition, like my body knows something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.
He pauses, halfway between me and the house, and I watch his jaw tighten. I still can’t see what color his eyes are from where I’m standing, but I canfeelthe intensity in them. The way he’s focusing on me makes my stomach swoop, something that feels like the buzzing of anxiety but isn’t that tingling over my skin.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The world has gone silent except for the pounding of my heart, so loud I'm sure he must be able to hear it. I should look away, go back to my car until he’s gone, or justwalk past himlike anormal fucking person. He’s just a man, I tell myself. He’s no one important or even anyone I know, so why do I feel like I can’t break the grip his gaze has on me?
My phone rings, shattering the moment.
I jump, fumbling for it in my purse, my hands shaking in a way that pisses me off. I'm not the kind of woman who gets flustered by a man, no matter how gorgeous he is. I glance at the screen, see Claire's name, and answer without thinking, desperate for something to ground me.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice thankfully coming out steadier than I expected.
"Mara, thank God." Claire sounds breathless, excited in the way she gets when something big is happening. "The Monet just became available. The one from the private collection in Geneva. The owner's estate is finally ready to sell, but they want to move fast. Like, this week fast. I need you to?—"
“Claire, I just got into Boston and to Annie’s house,” I interrupt, glancing up at the brownstone. The man is no longer standing there, and my heart gives a disappointed flip before I look toward the SUV and see him sliding into it. I swear I can still feel him looking at me, even through the tinted windows. "I told you I'd be out of town for a few days."
"I know, but this is huge. This could be the biggest acquisition of the year. The owner is asking for?—"
