“You gave it to me in Starbucks, remember?”
“Yeah,” I say, frowning. “But I wrote it on a napkin. And that was like a month ago, and you never did call me about your shirt.”
He looks momentarily caught off-guard. “Oh, well, I kept it in my phone… just in case.”
I stroke Stevie’s head, studying him. Is it my imagination or is he blushing a little?
Agnes starts up the steps and Michael immediately takes her arm, helping her up. It looks so natural, as if he’s done this a hundred times before, and I remember her saying at length what a lovely man he is. I’m starting to wonder if, just maybe, she could be right.
“Thanks for your help, Agnes,” I say as I climb up behind them. I squeeze Stevie again just to reassure myself that she’s still safe in my arms.
“Oh, I didn’t do anything, dear.” Agnes turns at the top of the steps, her eyes sparkling as she looks between Michael and I. “It was all you two.”
15
I’ve found my favorite coffee shop.
A bold claim, I know. Admittedly, I haven’t triedeverycoffee shop in Manhattan, but there’s something about this tiny place—called Beanie—that I love. It’s warm and cozy, the smell of sweet, buttery treats mingling with the powerful spice of espresso. There are only a few small tables, but the baristas are so nice; they’ve already memorized my order and they don’t mind if I sit for hours and write. Oh, and best of all—it’s on our street!
A few days after the close-call with Stevie, I wake early and head to Beanie to write for a couple of hours before work. I’m getting into a bit of a groove with my life in the city now—working at the bookstore, writing before or after work, going for a drink with Cat. My romance novel is coming along nicely, and my blog is doing well. I’ve even got a few followers—beyond Cat, Geoff, Emily, and Harriet, I mean. And I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the fact that people are enjoying what I have to say about being single in New York. Every time I get a comment on one of my posts, I’m inspired to write more.
I slip the door of Beanie closed and take a seat at my favorite spot; a stool at a bar in the window, looking out over our street. Pulling out my laptop, I take a sip of coffee then get to work on another blog post. It doesn’t take long until I’m in that sweet spot where I can write easily for ages, without having to think or try too hard. Flow, I think they call it. It’s so good to get into this space, because—
“Any more runaway dogs?” I hear from behind me.
I flinch. God, there are some real lunatics in this city. I lean in closer to my laptop, avoiding the presence I can feel hovering nearby.
A throat is cleared. “I, ah, saw you through the window and thought I’d come say hi.”
Oh. I think that voice is talking to me.
I look up from my laptop to see Michael gazing at me. He gestures to the empty seat beside mine. “May I?”
Oh, right. He was talking about Stevie.
I give him a small nod, taking in the playful expression on his face. He might find it amusing, but losing Stevie was terrifying. And I’m still a bit anxious after everything I said to him, everything that has happened between us.
He sits on the stool, placing his coffee on the table, and stares out the window in front of us, not saying anything.
I shift awkwardly, my fingers poised over the keys. I can’t keep writing with him right there. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, wondering if he has anything more to say or if he’s just going to sit there, making me uncomfortable. Despite myself, I notice he’s looking very nice in a wool coat, sweater and jeans.
After a while he turns to me. “So, I think I owe you an apology.”
I let my gaze slide back to my laptop and run my finger along the space bar. This should be interesting.
“I think maybe I’ve been kind of rude to you.”
I raise my eyebrows, still avoiding his gaze. I guess I can’t disagree.
“Look, we didn’t exactly meet under the best circumstances,” he points out, and I cringe, thinking of the coffee soaking into his fancy shirt. “But, besides that…” He softens. “I think I’ve been kind of a jerk.”
I twist in my seat to look at him, concealing a little smile behind my hand. “And why was that, exactly?”
He’s quiet, fiddling with his coffee cup as he stares out the window again. “I’ve been in court the past couple of months, dealing with… something.”
I narrow my eyes. “What did you do?”
He snorts as he looks back to me. “Why do you assume it was somethingIdid?”
