Page 8 of How Freaking Romantic

Silence descends and the city blocks dissolve as the car turns, cutting across Central Park toward the West Side.

I keep my gaze forward, but I can still see Nathan out of the corner of my eye as he unbuttons the front of his blazer and pulls out his phone.

The screen illuminates the serious line of his brow as he stares down at it.

He is too big for this space. I feel like the world has shrunk, but he’s remained the same size.

“So,” he murmurs, his attention never leaving his phone. “Healthcare rights law.”

I don’t acknowledge that he’s spoken, just stare out the window.

He continues, undaunted. “Do you have a job lined up yet?”

“I’m applying.”

“Where?”

“A few firms in the city.”

“Land and Associates?”

My body tenses as my eyes snap back to him. “How did you know that?”

A shrug. “It’s the best healthcare law practice in the city. They handled that class action lawsuit against Glazer Pharmaceutical that went to the Fifth Circuit last year. And I know Marcie Land. She’s a friend.”

It’s hard to describe all the emotions that hit me at once. The shock, the excitement… then the crushing disappointment. Because I also remember who I’m talking to. And how he has even more leverage over me now.

“Too bad she wasn’t there tonight,” he continues. “I would’ve introduced you.”

I laugh; the sound is cold and clipped. “And said what, exactly? ‘Hi, Marcie, this is Bea. She recently stormed into my office and nailed my balls to the side of the building.’?”

He doesn’t fight his smile this time. It broadens slowly across his face, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. A fucking dimple. It softens his hard features and sends something electric through my pulse.

“Is that what happened?” he asks.

“It’s what would have happened if jail time hadn’t been a mitigating factor.”

“Well then, God bless the New York penal code.”

“Right,” I say sarcastically. “Because you have so much respect for the legal system.”

He only stares at me, waiting.

“Your essay,” I answer his unasked question. “?‘The Evolving Ethics of Family Court’? As if you have any right dictating that to anyone.”

“I’m not sure your ethical standards work as the benchmark here.”

I scoff. The sound comes off much more drunk than intended. “Give me one good reason why not.”

“How about storming into the office of another attorney with the intent of nailing his balls to the side of his building.”

My mouth falls open and, in the half second it takes me to snap it shut again, he turns back to his phone.

“God, you really are an asshole,” I finally manage to say.

He doesn’t look up from the glowing screen as he murmurs, “Because I appreciate irony?”

“No, because you destroy people’s lives for a living and think it’s a joke.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, but he doesn’t reply.

I glare at him, that familiar anger enveloping me like a warm blanket. “You aren’t even going to pretend that it’s not true?”

“I don’t destroy people’s lives, Beatrice,” he says. “I’m there to help pick up the pieces.”

“And divide them up evenly, right?”

“If that’s what’s best.”

“And how do you know what’s best?” I ask, turning in my seat to face him fully. “How can you tell what’s fair and what’s right when you’re only getting one side of the story?”

He finally looks up just enough to raise an eyebrow at me. “What’s fair and what’s right aren’t always the same thing.”

“Why the fuck not?” My voice is loud enough that the driver’s eyes dart to us from the rearview mirror.

Nathan frowns again, that disappointed look. “You’re studying to be a lawyer. You know how this works.”

I want to blurt out that I know only too well how this works.

That I have an expertise honed over decades, starting when I was six and watched my mom launch a vase at my dad’s head and scream, “I want a divorce!” The next morning, we were gone.

It was a cycle that would be repeated for years: a whirlwind romance, a quickie wedding, a traumatic divorce.

To be fair, some were worse than others.

But regardless of the emotional impact on those involved, I was always an afterthought.

The auxiliary family member meant to pick up my mother and dust her off.

The one who would be fine, who wouldn’t remember.

And somewhere along the way, that had hardened into a callus around me, protective but also so confining I wanted to scream.

I never do, though. And I won’t give this man the satisfaction of starting now.

“You’re right,” I say, donning my sharpest smile. “Thanks so much for your professional insights, Nathan.”

The car turns right as I pivot my body back toward the door, staring at the darkened storefronts flying past through the window.

I want to forget where I am, who I’m with, but I can see Nathan’s reflection in the glass.

He’s staring out his window, too, his fingers clasped around his phone, but the screen is dark now.

It’s another long moment before he says, “It’s Nate.”

I whip my head around again. “What?”

“I usually go by Nate.” His voice is clipped, like he’s annoyed. “The only person that calls me Nathan is my mother.”

“Why do you think I care?”

A low, dry laugh. “Never mind.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “No, seriously. Did you think you’d give me a ride home and I’d somehow forget who you are? How much we hate each other?”

He drags his gaze back to me, his face devoid of any means to decipher what he’s thinking. “I have people tell me to fuck off on a daily basis, Beatrice. That doesn’t mean I hate them.”

“No, just that you’re emotionally dead inside.”

“Being able to separate my emotions from my work doesn’t mean I’m emotionally dead.”

“No, but that smile sure does.”

This catches him off guard. “What smile?”

“The one you used with that Ted guy tonight—the one all lawyers use. That fake smile and that fake laugh like you care about what people are saying when it’s painfully clear you don’t.”

That almost frown again, as if I’m the one out of line here. “For someone condemning false niceties, you were more than willing to maintain a civil conversation with me earlier without bringing any of this up.”

“Because I was at a work event.”

“And who in their right mind would make a scene at someone’s workplace, right?”

My eyes widen as a hot flare of anger ignites in my chest. He watches and has the audacity to almost look amused.

“Fuck you, Nathan,” I say, turning back to the window.

He leans back in his leather seat, letting out a low sigh. “Are you always this pissed off?”

Another bitter laugh escapes my lips. “Right. I should just smile and ignore the fact that you’re sitting here talking to me like I’m five.

Or that almost every other man that approached me tonight was more interested in getting me to come home with him than discussing my résumé.

Or that I spent the entire subway ride down here tonight aware of every single person that came in and out of the train because I didn’t want to get assaulted before I had the chance to feel like shit thanks to my would-be colleagues.

Or that if one of those colleagues did decide to give me a job, I’m almost guaranteed to make fifteen percent less than a man doing the exact same thing.

And even then, I’ll have to smile and be grateful. Because God forbid I be angry, right?”

I expect to see that patronizing expression that’s already become so familiar, but the humor has dimmed from his eyes, as if he realizes the rare bit of vulnerability he’s just exposed.

“Bea…” he starts, but my name hangs there as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s debating how to continue. I watch the motion, how his throat bobs and his bottom lip glistens. I wonder if it tastes like bourbon. Like caramel and smoke and heat and—

What. The. Fuck .

I quickly turn away, forcing my attention out the car window. The champagne is wielding too much power, forming thoughts that have no business in my brain. All I have to do is ignore them for a few more blocks.

Turns out, they don’t like being ignored. They poke and prod that small part of me that’s bereft, begging to bait him again. Anything to maintain the embers of anger still glowing in my chest.

I need to get out of this car.

We turn down my block and my hand goes to the door handle, itching to pull it and jump out.

I can feel Nathan’s eyes on me now, too, watching as I sit on the edge of the seat.

Finally, the car slows, coming to a stop right in front of my scaffolding-clad building.

The driver has barely put it in park before I throw the door open, sliding off the leather seat and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

I don’t look back as I slam the door shut.

I concentrate on my steps, short and quick across the pavement.

A moment later I hear another car door, followed by the sound of long, lumbering strides behind me.

I try to quicken my pace, but there’s only so fast I can walk in these heels, so I decide instead to keep my focus on the front door ahead.

I arrive only a moment before he does, his footsteps stopping just a few feet behind me.

I try to pretend he’s not there, but my heart is hammering at his proximity, making my fingers clumsy and my ability to find the keys at the bottom of my bag impossible.

Another minute passes before it all becomes too much and I turn.

“What are you doing?”

He looks back at the car, then to me, like the answer is obvious. “I’m walking you to the door.”

“Why?”

“Because I drove you all the way home and my mom would kill me if she knew I didn’t bother to make sure you got inside safely.” His voice is deep and gravelly, and I hate how it vibrates through my body, tripping up my pulse.

“You can do that from the back seat!” I exclaim, motioning wildly to where the car is parked along the curb.

Nathan only continues to stare down at me like I’m some sort of morbid curiosity.

I throw my arms up. “And why the hell do you keep bringing up your mother?”

His brow furrows. “I didn’t realize I was.”

“Right! Sure.” I scoff. “You’re all about the nice mom anecdotes and the rides home, and the proper manners—”

He shifts his weight and puts his hands on his hips as if he’s finally losing patience with me. “Is that a problem?”

God, is it a problem? Why has he gotten under my skin enough that I’m standing here, every muscle in my body vibrating with tension?

I’ve confronted countless assholes like him in the past—I’m good at it.

But for some reason, this one feels distinctly different, like a jigsaw piece that refuses to fit into place.

“No, the problem is that you can’t be patronizing and arrogant and actively work to destroy my best friend, and then decide to be nice!”

His blue eyes widen slightly, and he has the audacity to look mildly annoyed. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t be an asshole and then have manners!”

“Well, I guess it’s a night of contradictions, then.”

I reel back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t spend three years studying law and then be surprised by how it’s practiced, Beatrice.”

I bristle at how he says my name, like it’s an insult. A weapon to be wielded against me.

“You know nothing about me.” I step forward to point my finger in his face.

He leans down so he meets my gaze head-on. “Now you know how it feels.”

Something white-hot is rushing through my veins, something so similar to anger, yet more complex. More faceted. I want to yell, but all my words dissolve on my tongue as I glare at him, at the similar fire burning in his eyes. It looks a lot like hate. But there’s something else there, too.

And then I kiss him.

It’s hard. Lips and teeth and force, no affection, just that deep burning as my fingers thread roughly in his hair.

I was right: his tongue does taste like bourbon, a delicious mix of peat and caramel.

His arms wrap around my body, holding me close while our tongues wage war.

But it’s a battle that only pulls us deeper, under the surface of the anger and frustration, into a pool of something pulsing and alive and all-consuming.

“You’re such an asshole,” I murmur against his lips.

He shifts as if he might lean away to argue the point, but no, that won’t do. This kiss is too good. So I pull him back, my hands desperate and clumsy as I grab his coat to force his weight on me, wedging myself between his chest and the building’s brick facade.

The scaffold above us creaks as if it’s moments away from collapsing, but God, I don’t care.

Right now, the entire island of Manhattan could be swallowed up by the Hudson and I wouldn’t notice.

It’s only his lips, his tongue, his hand holding tight to my waist while the other goes to my jaw, angling my head exactly where he wants it.

A groan escapes my throat and his grip on my body tightens as he murmurs a low fuck against my mouth.

I’m about to tell him to shut up and come inside, but then the front door of the building swings open, followed by the sound of a motorized scooter.

We both still, locking eyes for a moment before turning in unison to see Mrs. Seigel riding out of the lobby onto the sidewalk.

She’s in a nightgown with her bathrobe thrown over her shoulders, and there’s an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips.

She only notices us as she turns to head down the street, eyeing Nathan, then me, and then smiling.

“Way to go, Bea,” she says, pumping one fist in the air as her scooter slowly motors past.

Nathan turns back to me, his forehead creased with confusion, but the reality of the situation hits me at the same time.

“Oh my God.” I push his chest away. “Oh my God. Go away.”

“Excuse me?”

I’m shaking my head as one hand comes up to cover my face and the other flails wildly for the door before it closes again. “What are we doing? What am I doing? Oh my God.”

I am a mess. A total and utter mess, and Nathan is just watching with a hint of a smile as I try desperately to maneuver past the heavy front door into the lobby.

“Good night, Beatrice,” he calls after me as I head toward the elevator.

“Fuck you, Nathan!”

And then the door slams shut behind me.