CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

JAKE

What the fuck was that in the elevator? Amelia’d been about to pass out. I get that some people aren’t fans of tight spaces, but that was almost a full-blown meltdown.

After the world’s fastest shower, I head to the parking lot. I pull my car up by the entrance of the stadium and leave it idling, waiting for her. If she argues about me sticking around instead of heading to her place while she takes the subway, I’m ready for it.

A few minutes later, she emerges with a group of colleagues, her expression stoic. She says something to them, even throws in a smile, but once they’re gone, her mask slips. She heads straight for me, no furtive glances to check if anyone’s watching. I open the passenger door without a word and circle back to get in on the driver’s side.

She’s still in half her costume, the bandages covering her face partially unraveled. Her head’s bowed, and dark strands have escaped the remaining gauze strips, sticking out in wild directions. I reach over and tuck a lock behind her ear, then carve my fingers around her neck. Sticky, clammy, with bits of hair. Her pulse is a dull thud under my touch.

Another shudder racks her as I put the car in drive and proceed to the exit, signaling to turn at the gate.

“What happened back there?” I ask, keeping my voice mild.

“Nothing. It was an…unexpected situation. I’m fine. Shall we?”

I snort. “Try again.”

She exhales long and heavy, her fingers knotting together in her lap. I wait, giving her space. The car ahead inches forward, and I press the gas, matching the slow crawl of traffic

“It was just a silly thing when I was a child,” she mutters, avoiding my gaze. She’s fiddling with the bandages at her wrists.

I offer a gentle “Yeah?”

“It was Boxing Day. Gran was swamped with dining requests.” She tugs at the edges of a loose strip, fraying it further.

“Go on.”

Voice tinged with reluctance, she continues, “I wanted to be helpful. Take a tray up to the top floor for her. But rather than using the stairs, I opted for the old dumbwaiter. I knew it was a lift for food, and don’t lifts carry passengers, too?” She casts me a wry sideways glance. “I crawled into it, barely fit—had to kick the outside lever to get it moving.”

The knot in my stomach tightens; I can sense where this story is headed. Amelia exhales, hunching over as if she’s trying to make herself smaller, take up less room, retreat. She seems to shrink, retreating inward as if to escape the memory.

“Got stuck halfway up. There I was, on my hands and knees, barely able to move.” Her laugh is humorless, painful to hear. “I still hate the thought of being trapped. And the smell of mushy peas.”

I slide a glance at her, and she meets my gaze with a half-hearted smile.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to get over it?” she asks, almost defiantly.

“Why would I?”

“Gran told me to buck up and carry on. Wanted to make me resilient, I suppose.”

Gran sounds like a piece of work. Jesus, she was a kid.

“Still, it’s kind of funny, don’t you think? Ben always thought it was funny.”

We stop at a red light, and my grip tightens on the steering wheel and I’m imagining it’s fucking Ben’s neck.

“Ben, the pencil-dick boyfriend?”

“Ben, the pencil-dick ex -boyfriend.”

She’s embarrassed. I can tell because she’s clamming up and going Mary Poppins on me. I hate it. “Hey, we’ve all got something we’re afraid of. If I’d seen a rat back there, I’d probably have jumped on your head.” I shudder in disgust. “Remember how I dragged you across the street like we were being chased by fire-breathing dragons the first night we went out because we spotted one of those little nightmares?”

A hint of a smile blooms on her lips, and I want to throw a fist in the air. “You’d think living in New York it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But I was kinda a stupid kid. Some boys and I snuck onto an abandoned farm upstate, got in the barn, and climbed up to the loft. Naturally, there were dares tossed around, and I decided why not prove my worth by jumping into a bale of hay? Didn’t break any bones—but landed right on top of a rat’s nest. The thing ran after me.” I cringe at the recollection.

“Oh my goodness. Did it bite you?”

“Nope, but try explaining that to my mom. I despised shots, but she insisted I get the rabies vaccine. ‘After all, I wouldn’t want to risk infecting my sisters, would I?’”

“And of course you did. You’d do anything for them.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t do enough.” My words hang heavy in the car. All these years later, and my intestines still knot up. “Yvonne got involved with a dickhead in high school who spread rumors about her being easy.”

My jaw clenches as I stare straight ahead. “Of course, I confronted him. Guy ended up pummeling me and went on to say nastier shit after. I hated that I couldn’t make it better for her.” Old helplessness bubbles within. I’m not that boy anymore, but part of me still wants to track down that asshole and do some real damage. Too bad he vanished long ago. Plus, since I’m the bigger person now, I can only hope he steps on LEGOs at least once every day for the rest of his life. Fine. Twice. “He was her first boyfriend. Her initiation into the world of pencil dicks.”

Amelia looks at me sympathetically. “I suppose there are lots of pencil dicks out there.” She turns away, staring out the window. “Ben was my first.”

For a moment my mind blanks, but as reason kicks back in, a new equation forms. If she and Ben had a thing right until she moved here…that means I’m only the second person she’s slept with. Yvonne works fast, but even she couldn’t have found a whole stable-full of studs to service Amelia before we started our arrangement.

“Did you love him?”

“I thought we’d take over the inn together. Kids, dogs, the lot. I didn’t realize I wasn’t his first choice. I was the fallback plan.”

A surge of protectiveness swells within me. “Ben was stupid enough to abandon you and get someone else pregnant, so he’s clearly a dumbass you shouldn’t pay attention to.” Fuck Ben. Amelia should never doubt how amazing she is. That she ever felt less than incredible ignites something fierce in me. She’s no one’s backup option, and I’m going to make sure she knows it. She’s getting my A game, every single time.

Cars finally start moving, and I shift the Ferrari into gear. My hand slides onto her thigh, and I tangle our fingers together. We pass the sign for the Apollo Theater, and I give her a sideways glance. “So, have you hit the Apollo yet? I mean, it’s basically music history’s version of Disneyland.”

Her face lights up. “Obviously! It was one of my first stops. Did you know Ella Fitzgerald was discovered there?”

“Get out,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I knew it was iconic, but never would have guessed that.”

“It’s the birthplace of legends.”

I squeeze her hand, grinning. “Tell me you got on stage for amateur night.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “God, no. I’m strictly a spectator. Nobody needs to witness me butchering a Beyoncé song.”

“Shame,” I tease, my grin widening. “Next time, you’re coming with me. And when I get up there, you’ll be mesmerized by my amazing vocal cords.”

Her laughter fills the car, and it’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. “You sing? Oh, this I have to see.”

“Just you wait, Sweets.” I wink. “You’ll be fangirling before I’m done.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t resist launching into a spiel about “real” artists, passion dripping from every word. The way she talks about the city, its music, so completely in love with it, I’m hooked.

An idea strikes. And for once, it’s not about rushing her into bed—yet. I’m grinning like an idiot, already imagining her reaction. She’s so caught up in her lecture that she doesn’t notice when I veer left onto the FDR instead of driving down the west side of the island. A few turns off the Lower East Side, I’m parking on Rivington, my surprise ready to go.

I grab my sunglasses, round the hood, and tug Amelia out. “C’mon, Sweets.” I guide my mummified girl under a green and white striped canopy, and into a pinata—which is effectively where we are. It takes a moment to adjust to the fluorescent lighting as the scent of my childhood hits me.

Amelia’s gaze darts about, drinking in the explosion of vintage candy. “What is this place?” Her voice is laced with awe, like we’ve stumbled upon a hidden treasure trove.

“Economy Candy,” I respond. “It’s New York’s oldest candy store. Been here since before the Great Depression.” It’s pure sugar carnage, as if a sweet bomb detonated, scattering colorful debris in every direction.

Metal racks packed tight with goodies climb nearly to the ceilings and bins in the center overflow with Pop Rocks and Nerds and Pixy Stix. Giant lollipops dangle overhead, and a scale by the window allows customers to shop by the pound.

This place is all retro charm with ancient sticky floors and classic coin-operated machines by the register. No fancy packaging or artful displays here, nothing that resembles designer shops like Dylans, or the M&M and Hershey’s stores in Times Square.

“How in the world did I not know this existed?” It’s as if she can’t decide where to look first.

Her gaze flits around before she walks to a nearby shelf. “My god, they have Maltesers. And Cadbury Flakes! Smarties—you can’t even get those in the UK these days.” Her finger runs down the yellow wrapper almost reverently.

“So? What are you waiting for?”

She bites her lip.

“Come on,” I coax. I nudge her with my shoulder. “You know you want to.”

She gives me a sidelong glance, but then leans into my side. “Maybe.”

I grab her with one hand and push a blue shopping basket at her so I can toss in the items she’d just been eyeing.

For a second, she’s torn, but quickly gets into the swing of things and scoops up a handful of Bazookas. “God, Gran would die,” she says gleefully. My chest eases at seeing her smile again.

I watch her, hands in my pocket, as she begins to traverse the store, speeding up as she ducks in and out of aisles. Every time I catch a glimpse of her, the basket is fuller and fuller, until it’s weighing her down. “Stocking up for the apocalypse?” I joke, approaching.

“Of course.” She smiles gratefully as I grab it from her, but her brows furrow as she looks me over. “You’re not getting anything?”

I shake my head. Amelia’s expression is so woebegone on my behalf that I say, “How about a Hershey’s Bar?”

“You heathen.” She huffs, then rummages through her basket and retrieves an oval can of Maltesers. “Try this instead.”

She pops the lid and presses a piece to my lips. “Ahh,” she commands.

I dutifully open my mouth, even though candy’s never been my thing. Just the idea of all this sugary stuff makes my teeth throb.

Flavors burst on my tongue—rich, creamy milk chocolate that melts into a crunchy malt center, with honeyed undertones. It’s unexpectedly good.

She can tell, and is so thrilled at my enjoyment, I can’t help it—I tug her behind a stack of Twizzlers and capture her lips with mine. She gasps in surprise, and the soft moan she lets out goes straight to my cock. I ignore it and frame her face with my hands, resting my forehead against hers.

Amelia smiles against my lips before drawing back, her eyes bright on me. “See, I know what you like.”

You. I like you.