Page 44 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

He grinned.

‘I’m liking this,’ he said. ‘No, actually, I’m loving it. It feels like a weight’s lifted from my shoulders. I could even get it printed as a little book for their wedding gift – something else I’ve yet to get sorted.’

I looked at him for a moment, my head cocked, considering all the small things I’d learned about this stranger in the last twenty-four hours.

‘You don’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys leaving things to the last minute?’

‘That’s an accurate assumption. But it’s been… a tricky year. My head’s not been in the game.’

‘Yeah, not the best year for me, either.’

A moment of eye contact ended as quickly as it started. But it still managed to wordlessly communicate that both of our hearts were bruised.

‘Well, shit, I need to get drawing!’ Ethan said, breaking the short-lived spell of silent understanding.

He jumped up, briefly brushing the creases out of his jeans and hoisting his rucksack onto his back. I did the same, albeit in a much slower fashion. I glanced at my watch. It was approaching eleven – the end time we’d agreed for our speechwriting session. But the truth was, I didn’t want this… collaboration – or whatever the hell it was – to be over just yet.

‘So, I’m guessing you don’t need any more of my help?’

‘I mean, I’m finally feeling ready to tackle this beast, thanks to you. But… if you’re at a loose end it would be awesome if you could…?’

‘Sure!’ I said, probably too enthusiastically, since he’d not even finished the question. ‘You’re basically my New York tour guide now, so if you’re happy for me to keep tagging along for a few more hours…?’

Ethan cleared his throat earnestly, as if it would help him assemble the right combination of words.

‘Yeah, I would, actually. Plus, I think I know somewhere we can go so we can both get some work done, since you mentioned you had your own speech to finish. And I promise you there’ll be no eggs in sight.’

Chapter 10

According to Ethan, we were now walking up Fifth Avenue, where his ad agency was based midway between Washington Square Park and the Flatiron Building. Ethan had seemed a bit embarrassed about his idea to head to his office at first, but the plan sounded ideal to me: I’d be able to set up my laptop while he worked and get some words down for the speech I was meant to be working on while I was on this trip, while being on hand to help Ethan out with any captions or structural speech stuff. Plus, if I positioned myself strategically, I’d be able to secretly watch him while he was working and familiarise myself with whatever his ‘concentrating but happy’ face was.

As if that weren’t enough, Ethan had told me there were free hot drinks and limitless snacks, the location of the office meant it would be easier to meet up with Mum and Anneka after their shopping spree, and I’d be able to connect to the building’s superfast Wi-Fi to stay in touch with them. It was win-win, with an extra cherry-flavoured win on top.

As we ambled north, Ethan talking non-stop about all the ideas that were flying into his vision for his cartoon-based story, it dawned on me that I would normally be gasping for some alone time by now. But being in Ethan’s company was stimulating in a good, non-overwhelming way, and I wanted to keep that feeling alight for as long as possible.

We came to a stop outside a Dunkin’ Donuts branch and he beeped an unassuming doorway next to the shop’s main entrance with a keycard.

‘Handy for doughnuts,’ I quipped, nodding towards the fast-food outlet.

‘Ha, yeah. It’s a pretty sweet space upstairs, though – I think you’ll love it.’

‘And we’re definitely allowed in on weekends?’ I asked, as we walked into the building.

‘Yeah, it’s a co-working set-up so it’s open twenty-four-seven and I can sign you in as a guest. It’s all legit, don’t worry.’

Given that the last time someone had said that equivalent phrase to me (Mum, yesterday, before it’d emerged she hadn’t actually booked the foraging tour) I’d ended up trying to stave off hypothermia in Central Park, it went against my instincts to take his words at face value. But, unlike the psychological repository of evidence I’d spent decades collecting against my blood relatives when it came to anything about trust and truth, I had no reason to disbelieve him.

An unassuming corridor filled with lifts – elevators – greeted us inside. He beeped the control panel with his pass, slipping a lanyard over his head, and summoned a lift. A pair of elevator doors opened instantly with a chime, and Ethan stepped inside, placing his hand against the opening to make sure I made it inside in time.

As I mentally filed his chivalrous gesture alongside all his other qualities, I momentarily forgot to think about my feet, causing one to trip over the other and plunging me face-first directly into Ethan’s chest, pressing him firmly into one of the corners of the confined space while the lift doors casually dinged closed behind us.

‘Fuck, sorry!’ I said, re-transferring my weight to my own body as opposed to his.

‘Not a problem; are you okay?’ He held me gently on each of my upper arms, as if I might tumble again at any moment. Which, let’s be honest, I might.

‘Yeah, my brain must still be lacking in oxygen after… earlier.’

Is he looking at my mouth again?