Perhaps it was the jetlag, but something about his words seemed sweetly poetic. He waved, then turned on his light andsped off. I picked up my suitcase, swearing that it had got a few pounds heavier since I’d last touched it, and headed towards the apartment block entrance, hitting the buzzer as directed in the welcome email RJ’s office had forwarded. With a click, the door swung open to reveal a spartan lobby comprising a neat corner desk and a sluggish ceiling fan.
Eyes burning with tiredness, I followed the smiling concierge to an open-space studio flat. The room had high ceilings and bright white walls with the only sign it belonged to a film company a framed poster of the 1957 classicThe Sweet Smell of Success. A large bed was tucked up against a heavily draped window with a Juliet balcony that overlooked the street and down a tiny hallway was a little kitchenette and a practically microscopic bathroom.
Once the concierge was done showing me around, I went straight to the bed and flopped face down. From outside the window, I could hear the eerie wail of a siren, the gentle thrum of traffic. The bed was plush and comfortable, stacked with a mound of pillows. Although my case needed unpacking and the shower was calling, I allowed myself to sink into the soft bedding. It had been a long day; how harmful could a little rest be?
Chapter Eight
So, this was jetlag then. I’d woken at 3 a.m., slumped across the bed still dressed in my travel clothes. I’d crawled under the covers in an attempt to get back to sleep but some strange barrier had prevented me from dropping off. Eventually, I’d stopped trying around 5 a.m., drinking bad instant coffee I’d had to make using the microwave, watching the sunrise change the shadows of my room.
Eventually, I’d showered and dressed in my usual uniform of dark trousers, loose shirt and some of my favorite jewelry to try and pep myself up. But, thanks to the jetlag, I felt little better than a bag of crumpled laundry. My eyes were gritty and my head fuzzy as if filled with cotton wool. I needed a pint of proper jet-fuel coffee and some fresh air.
It was a little after 9 a.m. when I managed to drag myself outside. The Manhattan morning was mild with the slightest chill, but the pale blue sky promised a warm day ahead. RJ Films was in a penthouse office off Chelsea Park, a short walk north of my flat. I wasn’t due to arrive until 10 a.m. but I was oddly wired despite my exhaustion and couldn’t spend a moment longer inside my tiny flat. The jetlag gave mysurroundings a strange and surreal air, as if I were viewing the world through slightly too-strong glasses. I walked towards Tenth Avenue, which was solid with traffic and as I turned to walk north towards Chelsea, a bike courier sped past, missing me by millimeters.
“Watch out!” he yelled, as if me walking on the pavement was the most unreasonable thing in the world. By the time I had found words to retaliate, the cyclist had already disappeared down the street. Once my breathing returned to normal, I resumed my journey up Tenth Avenue. The buildings here were mostly low-story red-brick tenements and small businesses, with a few taller, more modern tower blocks here and there. I walked past multiple sandwich shops, a carwash, an upscale gallery and some kind of international school in a building that appeared to be made entirely of opaque black glass. There were a few coffee shops dotted around that smelled tempting, but I was anxious to find the office first. Besides, the walk was exciting. Even though my mind was foggy, I couldn’t ignore the overwhelming feeling ofspace. The broad avenue and wide pavements, the open sky above. As I dodged the busy New Yorkers going about their day, I felt this undeniable sense of possibility shining through the jetlag like a laser.
Soon enough I was at the Hartnett Building, a converted warehouse of neat brick, with faded signage still visible just along one side. I was twenty minutes early and I debated with myself whether I should show up now, all keen, or play it cool and arrive on exactly on time? But my stomach rumbled; I’d yet to have breakfast. Luckily there was what looked like a decent coffee shop right across the street from the Hartnett Building – Have a Java. The name was corny but the sight of fat pastries in the window sealed the decision and within seconds I’d placed my order. As I waited for the barista to finish making my coffee, I shoveled a silky, flaky croissant into my mouth.
The shop wasn’t that busy, but I soon became aware the man in front of me seemed to be having trouble catching the attention of the baristas. He kept raising his hand and tutting when no one looked his way. As I chewed my delicious pastry, I allowed my gaze to linger on his broad shoulders and the golden warmth of the skin on the back of his neck.
“Ah, caramel syrup?” As he debated his order with the barista, the sound of his voice made me catch my breath, a drawl so deep it resonated to my bones and my reaction was so unexpected that I momentarily forgot how to chew, inhaling a mouthful of pastry down the wrong way. I did a discreet cough, but all that did was push the flakes further down my windpipe. I coughed harder, thwacking my chest in an effort to dislodge the offending pastry, but it didn’t work. Oh God, I couldn’t breathe! I wheezed, bent over – only to feel a heavy hand slap me hard between the shoulder blades, once, twice. I coughed again and finally, thankfully, my airway cleared.
I straightened up to face my rescuer. “Tha—”
It was him, caramel-syrup-voice-man, staring at me with eyes the sweetest shade of brown I’d ever seen.
He gazed at me with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Pastry,” I spluttered.
The man turned back around and for a moment it seemed as if he had dismissed me but, seconds later, he was handing me a cup of water from the complimentary jug on the counter. I gulped it back gratefully.
“Is that better?”
I nodded, barely able to speak. The combination of that voice and those endless, long-lashed eyes was really something. “Thanks.”
“You are so welcome.” He smiled and I almost dropped the water. It was all too much. The jetlag, the embarrassment.His hotness. My mind scrambled frantically to come up with conversation. Anything to make up for my recent and inelegant display, but the very sight of him was robbing me of every aspect of my vocabulary.Oh hi, I’ve been sent here to salvage my career and don’t worry, I do know how to eat croissants like a human?I decided to attempt a demure laugh, only for a flake of pastry to fly out of my mouth and land on his perfectly broad chest. “Oh God.” I clapped a hand over my mouth, mortified. “I’m so … God, I’m so sorry!” My fate was sealed. He was going to go to his workplace or to his friends and tell them about the strange English woman who spat croissant all over him.
“No problem.” He raised a hand and swiped at the offending flake. The motion caused the sleeve of his denim shirt to slide back, revealing a cheap-looking tin bangle, so completely at odds with the rest of his outfit.
“I don’t spit food on strangers as a rule,” I gabbled, frantically running my tongue over my teeth to check if any more flakes lingered.
His eyes locked with mine. “Oh, so I must be special then.”
Desire made my gut flip, and it took every inch of my willpower not to melt under the intensity of that gaze. “You’re … I mean, obviously, you know …” I’d started talking with no clear sense of destination, what the hell was wrong with me? London Lucie would have jumped on that flirtatious line in a heartbeat. Clearly, New York Lucie was the type of Lucie who just babbled rubbish.
“Caramel syrup latte?” a barista called.
He grinned that devastating grin again as he turned and thanked the barista for the drink. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. You helped me get their attention to fix my order. So, I really should thankyou.” His phone buzzed and, clocking the screen, the man grimaced. “Oh man,” he said apologetically.“I gotta bounce. Nice to meet you though.” He began backing out of the coffee shop. “Maybe catch you tomorrow morning? Same time?”
My brain glitched. Would I have so much as a spare second working at RJF? What if RJ had me chained to a desk for hours at a time? What if I got fired after less than a day, then kicked out of the country? I realized caramel syrup man was waiting for an answer. “That’d be nice.”Was that the best I could do?“I mean, I might be busy, I’m not sure.”Great save. Not.
“Oh, I see.” He chuckled. “A woman in demand, I get it.”
“No, really, I might be busy. I’m not trying to play it cool or anything.”Oh God, shut UP.I pressed my lips together as if that could stop the torrent of drivel that was gushing forth from my mouth. I was supposed to have a way with words, wasn’t that what had brought me here?
He stifled a laugh. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay,” was all I could manage.
