Page 7 of How Freaking Romantic

I’ve drunk too much champagne. Or is it I drank too much champagne? Whatever, I’ve had too much.

This is not my fault. Well, technically it is my fault since I am the one who kept grabbing glasses all night, but I needed it to dull the stark realization that the man I verbally assaulted a week ago now holds my career in the palm of his hand.

Because despite the fact that I had been there and watched as Frank and Nathan Asher talked and laughed and reminisced, the reality was still too hard to swallow.

Not the champagne, though. That was fantastic.

But now the bar is closing up and the catering staff have started to collect the empty glasses abandoned around the room. The guests take the cue, practically yelling their goodbyes to one another, promises of calls and meetings that will never happen.

This is why I’m so bad at networking: I can never see past the bullshit.

The veneer of professionalism falls away, and all I notice are dozens of lawyers acting like they enjoy one another’s company, then drinking so much they end up stumbling toward the exit to head home until they do it all again. Every one of these things is the same.

Of course, I’m thankful for the cover right now as I make my way toward the elevators, trying to avoid the one person who somehow keeps popping up: Nathan Asher.

It was an activity that kept me busy most of the night.

As I wandered the party aimlessly and endured numerous mundane conversations with men looking to discuss anything but law, my only goal was to keep a safe distance between Nathan Asher and myself, while appearing to not notice him at all.

But just when I thought I was doing a good job, my eyes would snag on his messy hair, his broad shoulders.

It didn’t help that he stood at least a half foot taller than most of the other people there, a monolith in a designer suit.

I lost sight of him with the first exodus of revelers, but I still make sure he’s nowhere in sight before grabbing my coat from the attendant and scurrying to a waiting elevator.

I follow a few other stragglers out through the lobby downstairs, keeping my head down as I slide through the revolving glass door.

The cold air hits me like a blow, stealing the breath from my lungs as I walk out onto the sidewalk.

Somewhere in my foggy brain I register that it’s colder than it was a couple of hours ago, but I don’t move to close my coat.

Neither do any of the other people leaving with me; they’re too busy laughing and talking and trying to find their drivers amid the line of black cars waiting at the curb.

I reach into my bag, fingers already numb as they probe the darkness for my phone. I finally find it, but the screen remains black regardless of how many times I press the button to wake it up. The battery is dead.

Great. Just great.

I throw it back in my bag and blow out a deep breath that swirls into a cloud in front of me before disappearing. There’s a line of traffic ahead, but hardly any cabs. The ones that do pass have their lights off; either occupied or off-duty for the night.

I know where the evening goes from here: I’ll try to get a cab and fail, because it’s Friday night and no one can ever get a cab on a Friday night in New York.

That means I’ll have to take the subway, transferring three different times before I finally get home to Washington Heights.

Then I’ll head upstairs to my apartment, flip on all the lights, and turn on another episode of The Real Housewives of New York City that I’ve already seen, but I’ll keep on because the sound makes the space feel less empty.

Something to make me feel less alone. It’s a habit now, and I hate that it became a habit so easily that I don’t even remember when the loneliness became too much to bear.

A familiar ache swells in my chest, making those old scars around my heart burn. I’m too tired to battle against it tonight, so I let the pain grow as I walk on the curb, wavering slightly as I watch the thin line of cars pass by.

“I thought you went home.” The deep voice comes from behind me, and it only takes a moment to recognize it. The sound of an anthropomorphized corpse flower.

For a second I contemplate ignoring him, but my champagne brain doesn’t transmute the message in time to stop my head turning just enough to glance behind me.

Nathan is just a few steps outside the building’s revolving glass doors, flipping up the collar of his camel-colored wool coat as he saunters toward the street. Toward me. Had he still been at the party when I left? I hate how foggy my brain is; not quite drunk but definitely not sober, either.

“And I thought stalking was illegal,” I drawl.

He doesn’t reply, just stops a few feet away and stares at me. The streetlamp above sends hard shadows across his face, accentuating the line of his brow, his jaw. It does something strange to my stomach, a contraction of every muscle in my core, and I quickly turn back to the street.

I half expect him to walk away now. He’s gotten his barbs in, and I’ve gotten the last word; we can retire to our separate corners and lick our wounds in peace.

But I don’t hear him move. And suddenly I wonder if that’s the only thing we have in common: we’d both rather talk to someone we hate than deal with whatever is waiting for us at home.

“Do you need a ride?” His voice is biting, as if he’s already regretting the offer.

This time I do ignore him, focusing on the street instead of the towering presence behind me. There are no cars passing now and only a few headlights in the distance, but I still raise my hand high above my head as if I can materialize a taxicab out of thin air by sheer force of will.

There’s one last black Suburban parked a little way down the curb, and I can see the driver watching us. No doubt it’s Nathan’s car and I’ll hear his footsteps heading that way any second. He’ll get in and pull away, and I’ll finally be able to breathe. But there’s no sound. There’s no nothing.

That’s a double negative , the sober part of my brain whispers.

I scowl and turn to look over my shoulder again. He’s still standing there, his hands in the pockets of his coat.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

“Making sure you get a cab.”

“I’m perfectly capable of getting a cab.”

A long moment passes as we stare at each other, like we’re both waiting for the other to do something.

“You can go now,” I finally say, nodding to his car.

He has the gall to almost look offended. “I’m not going to leave you here in the middle of the night. I’ll go when you’re in a car.”

I roll my eyes and turn back around, raising my hand a bit higher.

My gaze stays locked on the horizon, where Park Avenue fades and a thin line of traffic drips toward us.

I can feel his attention on my back, and I know, I just know , he’s waiting to make some snide remark.

After another minute, the silence becomes too much and I whip around.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

A beat. “You’re not going to get a cab at ten on a Friday night.”

Derision drips from his tone, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Wow. That’s really constructive. Thank you for that.”

His full lips contort into something like a frown, and it’s that look from his office again. As if he’s somehow both amused and disappointed in me. “What are you going to do if you can’t find one?”

“I’ll take the subway.”

“If you thought taking the subway was a good idea, you wouldn’t be trying this hard to hail a cab.”

I want to fire back a retort, but the words are cut short as a chill runs through me. That’s right, it’s cold out. I pull my thin coat tight around my body, as if it will trap some warmth, and focus on the road again.

Another minute passes before I hear him take a step toward me, then: “I can give you a ride.”

I let out a biting laugh. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not telling you where I live,” I say, turning enough to glare at him.

“I already know where you live,” he replies evenly. “Josh gave me all your contact information when he came by my office.”

I blink as the anger falters in my chest. It’s like my warm buzz has been doused with cold water—yet another reminder of all our points of contact, how quickly we’ve become linked. I swallow and turn back to the street, raising my arm again. Two cars drive by. Neither of them are cabs.

“Beatrice.”

I refuse to look at him.

“Beatrice,” he repeats. “Let me give you a ride.”

I want to fight. I want to unleash every awful word on my tongue and leave his ego in shreds.

But I’m tired. So tired that all I manage to do is lower my hand and turn to face him fully.

I expect to see that smug grin waiting, the one that tells me that he thinks he won again.

But he only stares back. The hardness in his expression softens to accommodate a bit of apathy, perhaps a bit of resignation. We’re both tired.

“Whatever,” I mumble. And then I start toward the car.

The driver gets out as we approach, opening the back door for us. I slide in first, sinking into the leather seat and God, I hate how good it feels. The heat envelops me, prickling my skin and loosening my muscles.

Nathan gets in beside me, the space just large enough to accommodate his long limbs. He nods to the driver, who’s now in his seat behind the wheel, then turns back to me. “Where to?”

I hesitate for a moment before relenting, giving the driver my address uptown. He nods and slides the car into drive, merging into traffic.