Page 17 of How Freaking Romantic

I take my first deep breath in what feels like an eternity when we step into the hall. But it’s not until we’re at the elevator bank that I realize Nathan is still at my side, his hand hovering inches above my back as if I might pass out at any second.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping forward to press the down button and give myself a few precious inches of space. “For getting us out of there, I mean.”

“It’s all right,” he says. A moment later, the elevator doors open. He holds one side, nodding for me to go ahead of him, then continues. “I’m not a big fan of hospitals, either.”

I examine the taut line of his profile, but he doesn’t look at me as the doors close and he leans forward to press L .

The ride down is silent until the doors open again, the dull hum of conversations and announcements and the smell of antiseptic welcoming us back to the first floor.

He’s still not looking at me as he walks straight ahead, through the hospital’s sliding doors, and out onto the busy sidewalk.

“So,” he says, adjusting the cashmere scarf around his neck as we stop and face each other. “Are you heading to the subway?”

I nod, a jerky motion.

“Okay.” Then he turns and starts down the road in that direction, slowing his steps just enough until I fall in step beside him.

The sky is a watery gray, the sun hidden behind a thin layer of clouds.

It’s like spring is waiting there, fighting to break through, but the cold still has its hold on the city, forcibly blocking out the warmth.

As if on cue, a chill snakes its way under my worn coat, sending a shiver up my spine.

I pull it tighter around my body and pretend not to notice how the motion snags Nathan’s attention.

“You need a better coat,” he says.

I look down at the faded green wool and smooth out the fraying thread along the seams. “I like this coat.”

“Why?” It’s almost not a question, as if he doesn’t expect a rational answer.

I lift my chin defiantly, ignoring how the motion allows another chill to slip beneath the collar. “It’s vintage.”

“It’s falling apart.”

“Maybe I like things that are falling apart.”

“Is that why you live in that building?”

I blink. He did this a few times in class earlier in the week, too, a sudden redirection in conversation.

No doubt it’s a trait developed in law school, a way to keep your opponent off-balance.

And that’s how I end up feeling in his presence, like my center of gravity has shifted and I can’t get my footing. “What are you talking about?”

“Your apartment building. All the scaffold.”

Half of me keeps forgetting that he’s been there, seen my building in all its decrepit glory, while the other half can’t seem to shake the memory loose. Remember how perfectly his body slanted into yours? How warm his breath was as it filled your lungs? I clear my throat.

“It’s not falling apart ,” I say. He gives me a sardonic look, and I roll my eyes. “Okay, yes, it might look like that, but when I moved in, the landlord said they were renovating the exterior and replacing some pipes.”

“And how long ago was that?”

I shrug, trying to keep my answer as ambiguous as possible. “A few years.”

He shakes his head. “You should move.”

“I know this might come as a shock to a guy who owns a cashmere scarf and probably eats caviar for breakfast—”

“I don’t eat caviar for breakfast.”

“—but there aren’t a lot of housing options for a law student with a part-time job and massive student loans.”

The line between his brows sharpens. “There has to be more than an apartment that’s about to fall down.”

“It’s not just an apartment, Nathan,” I correct him. “It’s a rent-stabilized apartment.”

“No, it’s a future EPA Superfund site.”

My laugh is so loud that it seems to surprise Nathan as much as me. He turns, eyes wide, and then a smile spreads across his face. It’s one of those genuine ones, so uncensored that his dimple cuts deeply into his cheek.

But then my laughter is cut short as a gust of wind whips around the corner, and the dimple disappears.

In fact, his entire expression becomes that unreadable mask again as his gaze travels down to where I’m desperately trying to hug my coat closer to my body.

The audit is so intense I have to look away, pretend that the window of the bank across the street is somehow interesting.

A moment later, I feel something fluffy and warm around my neck. It takes my brain a moment to connect the dots, and even then, I have to look down at the thick navy cashmere now draped over my shoulders, then gaze up at where the scarf is now missing from his, to register it.

“This is your scarf,” I say dumbly, as if this is news to either of us.

“And?”

“And I don’t want it.”

“Okay.” He says it in a way that implies he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push it. He doesn’t make any attempt to take back the scarf, either.

“Nathan, I don’t—”

“How’s the job search going?”

I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t want to give up the fight. But I also can’t make myself remove the scarf. It’s gloriously soft, insulating my neck and sending a warm flush through my body. Or maybe it’s the smell: leather and soap and cedar. So, I just say, “It’s going.”

He hums, a noncommittal sound. “Heard back from any firms yet?”

“Not yet, but it’s a busy time of year. Besides, I have to study for the bar. That’s really my main concern right now. If I don’t pass, then the job search is moot.”

He frowns, a barely perceptible change in his expression that denotes just enough incredulousness. “You’ll pass.”

I scoff. The bar exam takes place in a convention center on the West Side, a huge hall with harsh lighting where a seemingly endless line of folding tables waits for a thousand would-be lawyers to sit in absolute silence for two days.

They couldn’t have designed a more intimidating space if they tried. “You don’t know that.”

We stop at a crosswalk, and he reaches up to itch his jaw. Without his scarf, I can see the column of his neck, the dusting of stubble. “Well, if it makes you feel better, nobody thinks they’re going to pass when they walk in that room.”

“Except you, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t,” he says. His head cocks to the side as if he’s reviewing the memory. “But I think that had more to do with the guy sitting behind me who projectile-vomited on my back, so I almost didn’t finish the last essay question.”

My mouth falls open. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “Phones are prohibited in the conference hall, and there’s no clocks, so you need to bring your own watch to keep track of the time. This guy didn’t realize until the final ten minutes that his watch stopped working an hour into the exam, so he was nowhere near finished.”

“Great,” I murmur, almost to myself. “Now I have another thing to worry about.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“But what if I’m not?”

“Bring two watches.”

I shake my head, but I also can’t help my smile. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

I laugh again, and I tug the scarf closer to my body. I’m barely aware I’m doing it, until I notice that Nathan is watching the motion, his smile dimming once again into something unreadable.

“So did you pass the first time?” I ask.

Another nod, this one slower.

I sigh dramatically. “Figures.”

“How so?”

“Star law student passes the bar his first try. Goes on to join one of the top firms in the city. Makes partner in under five years.”

“But you didn’t read that article.”

Shit . I feel my cheeks warm but wave a hand ahead of me, as if brushing away that minor detail. “You know what I mean. It all works out for you. Perfect law school career, the dream job. That ex-girlfriend is probably a supermodel.”

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk as his expression changes, skewing with confusion as he works to keep the lopsided grin on his lips. “Who?”

“Your ex. The one you were talking about back there with Frank and…” It’s only after the words have left my mouth that I realize I’ve not only admitted to eavesdropping, but also to caring about Nathan’s love life.

He stares at me for a long moment as if I’ve grown a second head. Then, slowly, something in his mind clicks into place, and his smile softens. “How long were you out there listening?”

I roll my eyes even as my voice goes up an octave. “I wasn’t listening .”

“Okay.” He says it like he doesn’t believe me and starts forward again. “Well, we weren’t talking about my ex.”

“Oh.” An odd relief unfurls in my chest as I match his steps.

“We were talking about my mom.”

“Frank knows your mom?”

“Not really. They met once at my graduation. But we’ve talked about her a lot.” Nathan lets his gaze skim across the road. A moment passes. “She was diagnosed with MS while I was his teaching assistant.”

I stare up at him for a long moment before I find my voice. “I’m so sorry, Nathan.”

He glances down at my stricken expression, and his brow softens.

“It’s okay. She’s doing really well right now.

There hasn’t been a flare-up in a while, and the last one didn’t stick around too long.

But she was in and out of the hospital a lot before they figured out what was wrong, so I spent more time back home than in the city.

If anyone else had been my supervisor, I would have had to quit, but Frank was great about it.

Let me have extra time off and do virtual office hours. I graduated because of him.”

He turns back to the road ahead. “Anyway, that’s why I hate hospitals.” His concentration seems to snag on a memory, then he shakes it loose before bringing his attention back to me. “How about you?”

The desire to tell him the truth surprises me.

I even open my mouth, ready to share the awful memories of going in and out of them with Josh.

But I can’t. Maybe if it involved a stranger, if it concerned someone Nathan had no chance of ever meeting—but this involves his client.

And revealing the details of Josh’s addiction to his attorney…

the complications of that fall heavy in my gut. So, I shrug.

“Remember that episode of Grey’s Anatomy when the hospital exploded for like the fifth time? I never recovered.”

He chuckles softly, and I can’t help but smile, too.

We walk and walk, and somehow the conversation flows so easily and comfortably that I barely notice when we arrive at the subway station.

I know this is where I should grab the train—I even see the glowing green globes at the subway entrance around the corner—but Nathan is relaying a story about how he met Frank when he was an L2, so I’m ready to ignore it, to keep walking all the way to Washington Heights.

But then Nathan stops. “This you?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” I nod, working to look like I hadn’t noticed.

He nods. Neither of us moves.

“Big plans tonight?” he finally asks.

“Yup,” I say, offering him a sharp smile. The last thing I’m going to admit is that I have a date with my flannel pajamas and Netflix.

His expression has that edge I recognize from that first meeting in his office, even as his eyes flit across my cheeks, my eyes, my hair. “Well, I hope I didn’t keep you too long. Wouldn’t want you to be late.”

I nod awkwardly. “Right. Well, I’ll see you next week. At our meeting. Our work meeting.”

“Right.” The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Have a good night, Bea.”

Then he turns, already starting down the sidewalk. I watch him disappear around the corner before I head down the stairs and get on the subway. It’s not until I walk into my apartment an hour later that I realize that I’m still wearing his scarf.