I stare at the ceiling, grimacing. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to be a normal person all of a sudden. When I risk a glance at Michael’s face, he’s regarding me with that same look of amusement in his eyes.
“She wasn’t really my type,” he says at last, loosening the button on his suit jacket. He drags a hand through his hair, messing it up. It’s longer on top, I notice, and God, it looks even better all tousled like that. What I wouldn’t give to thread my hands up into it.
Fuck. I should not be out in this corridor alone with him after drinking. I’m going to say something stupid and embarrass myself. Wait, I already have.
I force myself to clamp my lips together and just shut the hell up. My phone buzzes in my hand and I glance down to see a message from Cat saying she’s on her way home.
Good. Okay. Michael will leave in a second and until then I need to just zip it.
But he doesn’t leave. He’s still studying me, apparently debating whether or not to say anything more. Eventually, he lets out a long sigh. “It was a set-up. I don’t know why I bothered.”
I suppress an eye-roll. Honestly, this guy. First he makes someone else take his kid trick-or-treating so he can go on a date, and then she’s not good enough for him? No doubt he’s got exceedingly high standards and this poor—probably quite attractive—woman had no chance of meeting them. I feel indignant on her behalf.
“What was wrong with her? She wasn’t beautiful enough?”
“Oh, she was beautiful,” he says. “But that’s the problem. You women all think that if you’re beautiful you can get away with anything.”
A dart of irritation shoots through me, quickly chased by confusion. “Uswomen? Why amIbeing brought into this?”
“Because—” He rakes his eyes over me with a smirk, and I shrivel a little under his glare. Iknewhe was one of those men that didn’t respect women. It was clear from the start.
“You’re all the same,” he mutters, shaking his head. And before I can say anything in response, he steps past me, taking the stairs two at a time, until he’s out of sight.
And I’m left, for the second time this evening, staring after him in shock.
10
Romance.
Mel said I should find something I enjoy writing and do it. I’ve been lacking direction in my writing, feeling like I need something to help me focus, and a romance novel might be a good place to start.
I’ve wanted to write one for years—hell, I’ve read enough of them—but I’ve never had a good reason to finally sit down and do it. Now, maybe I do. Because I suddenly find myself overcome with inspiration. Inspiration that has come from an unlikely source: my rude neighbor.
Well, okay. A good portion of my inspiration has come from my fantasies about him, which are based entirely on his good looks and have nothing to do with his personality. I’m pretty surethat’snon-existent.
But I’ve also been thinking about what he said, about how he shouldn’t bother dating because women are all the same, or some crap like that. He’s clearly a cynical, misogynistic asshat, and that further inspired me. Because while the men in real life are always disappointing, the men in romance novels are not.
Okay, I know. These books are full of mush that isn’t realistic, or whatever it was my mother said. But isn’t that the point? It’s escapism. There’s only an issue if I believe that it could bereal.
I’m thinking about this as I dress for my first day of work at the bookstore a few days after Halloween, Stevie watching me from her spot on the sofa. She’s come to like curling up at my feet when I sleep and it’s adorable. I might not have a man right now, but her tiny, furry body keeps me company. I can see why Cat loves her so much.
Grabbing my bag, I give her a quick cuddle, then slip out into the cool morning air. An elderly lady is slowly coming up the front steps. She looks to be in her eighties, in slim-fitting navy pants with a finely-knitted shawl sweeping down over her shoulders. Her long gray hair is pulled back with a shell hair clip and long earrings dangle from her ears. She has an air of elegance about her, even if she is slightly stooped.
“Good morning,” I say as I pass.
She stops and glances at me, a smile warming her creased face. “Well, good morning.” She pauses as if thinking, before adding, “No one says good morning anymore.”
“You’re right. Not here in New York, anyway.”
“Oh, you’re from out of town!”
I nod. I guess you could say New Zealand is “out of town.”
“Have you moved into the building?” She raises one gnarled hand to gesture to the apartment building behind me.
“I’m staying with a friend. Do you live here?”
“For thirty-seven years now.” A light breeze blows past, loosening a few wisps of hair around her face. She turns and, clutching the handrail, begins to take another careful step up.
