Page 5
Chapter 5
Harlow
I can’t believe I’m meeting a stranger in a hotel lobby.
It’s so Pretty Woman of me.
This is what I get for running my big mouth, anticipation and uncertainty making me want to run up the emergency stairwell and back to my room.
This is crazy, right? Tell me I’m crazy, I texted in the group chat earlier, after I’d let them all know that room service had arrived and dropped off a letter from an Andy last night.
Me:
His name is Andy.
Except he doesn’t look like an Andy to me.
At all.
Ava:
You’re not crazy. But I’d be lying if I said I’m not Shocked he actually messaged you.
Portia:
Yeah, I thought for sure he was full-on going to start avoiding you. Like, hide behind the ficus tree they always have in hotel lobbies.
Me: You guys are assholes.
None of them had shared these doubts last night, half convincing me that he was going to show up at my door in the middle of the night like a creep for a booty call.
Portia:
What are you worried about exactly, he said you were going sightseeing? He must not visit often.
Ava:
Total tourist.
Me:
Do I have to remind you that I myself am also staying in a hotel and could be considered a tourist?
Danny:
You’re right. One meeting does not a local make.
Me:
So what should I do about this???
Portia:
What should you Do ? Girl, you get your ass down to the lobby at 10! Then you abort if he’s a creep, send an SOS if you need an emergency interception.
Ava:
She means intervention.
Portia:
Whatever, you get what I mean.
Portia:
Are you dressed yet? Cuz it’s 9:40.
Me:
No? Yes? I Don’t Know !!!! I’m spinning in circles.
Ava:
What are you wearing? It’s, like, bumming around town, right? So, like, cute sneakers and black jeans?
Me:
I don’t have black jeans!
Portia:
Ugh, you’ve been on this earth long enough to know black jeans are a staple.
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes and sighing.
Me:
I don’t have time to argue the semantics, okay? Stay on topic. Things I brought that are not work clothes: mom jeans, white shorts, a white T-shirt, and a vintage Van Halen T-shirt.
Ava:
Throw on the white shorts, concert tee, sneakers. And Go .
Me:
Hair up or down?
Portia:
Down! Let him see it blowing in the wind. Men love that shit.
So that’s what I’m wearing when I venture down into the lobby twenty minutes later, half expecting to bump into him when I climb into the elevator, pleased to be the first one of us to arrive when I step into the lobby.
Or maybe he isn’t going to show up?
Crap.
I look at my watch.
10:02.
He’s late, but not by much. Still, this was his idea—shouldn’t he have arrived first?
Then.
I lock eyes on the elevator when the center doors slowly open, and he steps out, eyes trained on the entrance of the restaurant and then my face.
Andy.
Andy, Andy, Andy.
The name still does not match the visual—at least not in my head—but regardless, he’s a sight for these tired eyes.
I didn’t sleep much, tossing and turning, nerves keeping me awake most of the night—nerves, plus the sirens below on the street certainly weren’t lulling me either.
Andy is in his navy ball cap again, and as he gets closer, I search beneath the brim of it for hair, my friends’ words about his potential baldness rearing their ugly head.
Bald men do not scare me!
His sunglasses are hooked to the collar of his tee, the shirt he’s sporting today dark blue—highlighting his tan skin—layered under a light denim long-sleeve shirt.
A furry handlebar mustache is stuck jauntily beneath his nose.
Um.
Okay. I didn’t realize we were playing dress-up, but dang he’s cute.
Way better looking when he’s not dripping with sweat the way he was yesterday.
“Good morning.” He’s giving me a sheepish grin beneath that mustache, and as someone who’s a sucker for a crooked smile, I feel my insides go weak and pray that my knees don’t give out on me.
“ Hi. ” Guh. “Um, Andy.”
He looks as awkward as I feel, motioning toward the door. “I, uh—called down and asked if they could throw together some coffee to go, and a breakfast sandwich or two so we wouldn’t have to dick around trying to find breakfast. I’m not sure when things open around here.” He hesitates, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to say dick around , sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I smile. “I have a brother.”
“Older or younger?”
“Older, but only by a year—we’re Irish twins.” I haven’t seen Kyle in a really long time. He lives in Switzerland for his job, usually only bopping home during the holidays if he comes home at all. He loves it in Switzerland—met his wife there—so I doubt he’ll ever move back to the Midwest.
Which leaves me to take care of our dad, but that’s a story for later.
“My name is Harlow by the way,” I volunteer, beating him to the punch because he doesn’t know my name yet. “Harlow James.”
“I’m Andy.”
“It’s good to officially meet you, Andy.” I don’t know what to do with my hands. My Midwest manners dictate I shake his hand, but Andy has his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. “Do we shake hands now, or no ...”
Stop talking, Harlow.
And just as I’m about to say something else that’s stupid, I’m saved from being more awkward by a woman appearing from the restaurant carrying a fancy hotel-logo-printed bag, presumably filled with the goodies he has promised.
“Breakfast is served,” she says with a smile, handing it to Andy.
My eyes bug out.
“You actually had the restaurant throw together a breakfast for us?” I don’t remember seeing breakfast sandwiches on the room service menu and can’t believe he had the foresight to feed me. “I thought you were joking. I would have been totally fine grabbing a street-cart breakfast sandwich or dashing into Starbucks.”
“Is this okay?” He has his nose in it, peeking inside. “I figured it would be fun to hit the ground running and wasn’t sure if you’d be hangry. Ten in the morning isn’t exactly daybreak. But if you’d rather go sit somewhere and eat ...” His voice trails off. “Stardust Diner or something? It’s nearby.”
He named the famous diner where a majority of the servers are aspiring to get to Broadway, and sing selections from musicals while you eat. I hear it’s pretty cool, loud but cool. I’ve never eaten there but will save it for another day—it’s gotta be a tourist trap.
“No, this is great.” No guy has taken the initiative to order breakfast for me before without me hounding him about it first—not one I’ve been with romantically, anyway. Not that this is romantic or a date because basically I coerced Andy into spending time with me today, never thinking he would follow through.
When he smiles down at me, I can’t not look at his lips, even though he has that stupid mustache stuck to his face. They’re full and pouty, just the right amount of—
Stop internal dialoguing, Harlow.
Pay attention.
Focus!
“What’s the plan?” I chirp cheerily, my voice a tad too high pitched to sound natural. I clear my throat. “I know I said you owe me a meal, but what’s this you meant about exploring the city?”
Andy fiddles with the brim of his ball cap, and I catch him checking his reflection in the clear glass of the lobby doors. “Have you ever done one of those hop-on-and-off buses?”
“Actually, no.” Nor have I wanted to. It feels way too touristy, and I’m trying to blend in here and act local—not jump on a bus with one hundred other people and drive around the city, gawking at the sights. “This is only my second trip to New York.”
“Me either,” he says. “But I’ve always wanted to.”
Oh.
He has?
I muster up some excitement. I’m not sure what I was expecting us to do this morning, but a bus tour wasn’t it.
Picnic in the park?
Sure.
Going to the pier?
Sure.
Shopping? Hell yes.
I glance toward the revolving hotel doors, through which taxis and cars and buses can be seen on the street, the city getting busier and busier as each minute ticks by.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“If you’re cool with that?” His eyes are bright and sparkling.
Am I cool with that? Not my first choice. Still, I like to go with the flow, and since I have no ideas of my own, bus tour it is.
“Let’s do it.” I nod, having made up my mind. “We have breakfast. It’ll be fun to sit and watch the city pass by while we’re eating doughnuts.”
Andy does that gentlemanly thing with his hands, the nonverbal after you , so I can go through the round revolving door first, pushing on the heavy glass until I’m deposited onto the sidewalk.
The street is already coming to life.
It’s the weekend, so there aren’t as many commuters speed walking to work; instead, passersby are walking with their heads bent, eyes glued to their phones, coffees in hand, walking shoes on.
Lazy Saturday.
Andy seems to know the way, leading us down the sidewalk. We don’t say much as we walk, and once we’re at the light, he hangs a right.
We walk.
Walk some more.
And suddenly we’re at Times Square, the lights of the billboards bright and glowing and massive, even in the morning light. There are already hordes of people everywhere—tourists taking photos, selfies, watching the street dancers and artists as they set up.
It’s a spectacle.
I stare.
I didn’t make it to Times Square on my first trip here, but it’s more crowded than I would have expected at this time of day. I look to my right and see the Stardust Diner, line halfway down the block.
Wow.
We easily spot the tour buses, and Andy makes a beeline for the queue, taking his phone out of his back pocket and holding it toward the woman with the scanning device.
He already purchased tickets? Look at him go being organized!
I’m impressed.
We’re handed two pairs of blue earphones and two city maps and wait for our turn to enter. Andy avoids eye contact with the woman, nodding his thanks instead of telling her, and I notice that somewhere during our walk he slipped on his sunglasses.
He goes for the stairs on the bus, and I follow him up to the second level.
Walk behind him down the narrow aisle toward the back.
Glancing around, I see that we’re really high up. It’s pretty great, actually, and excitement begins to churn my stomach.
“I have to say”—I lean forward and talk over his shoulder—“this is way cooler than I thought it would be, and we haven’t gone anywhere yet!”
Andy plops down in the last seat, settling in, bagged breakfast in his lap. I take the seat next to him, our knees touching.
Unfolding the earbuds we were given, we get comfortable, the narrator’s voice already yapping away about Times Square and welcoming us to fabulous New York City. Andy’s leg nudges mine, which is to be expected since he’s a big dude.
Of course his leg is touching yours, Harlow —the guy is like ... tall . And his shoulders are broad, and his chest is firm and ...
Yeah.
All that. I bet it’s all firm.
All of it.
The wind blows a whiff of him in my direction; Andy smells like he’s freshly showered, cologne tickling my nose. Thank God he opens the breakfast bag so we have something to do, the smell of bacon drifting out, and if I have to continue smelling him, I might start flirting, and that would be a disaster.
I’m terrible at flirting.
The last time I tried batting my eyelashes at a man, my top and bottom lashes got stuck together because my mascara was clumpy.
He holds a snack in my direction. “Please tell me you eat bacon?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m from the Midwest, of course I eat bacon.”
I laugh, teasing, taking the bundle out of his hands; it’s warm and smells tantalizing. I unwrap it carefully to find a gloriously flaky croissant filled with eggs, cheese, and meat.
Nom.
I immediately sink my teeth into it with a loud groan.
“ Oh my God this is heaven in my mouth.”
Andy watches, wide-eyed amusement on his face.
I think that’s amusement, anyway. Hard to tell with his eyes hidden behind those designer sunglasses, the ball cap pulled down over his brows. It’s his mouth that gives him away, his smiling, cocky smile, tipping up below that god-awful ’stache.
He wiggles his mouth when he finds me staring at it.
A few moments later our bus lurches forward, easing into traffic while I nibble on my breakfast, trying not to scarf it down. You know, trying to be a lady and polite but failing because I’ve already loudly groaned once and moaned at least twice, and I’m pretty sure bacon grease is dripping out of the corner of my mouth.
Cheese? That too.
Don’t know, really don’t care.
Andy has been given a glimpse of the real me: sassy, honest, real.
Hope he likes it.
He’s noshing on his sandwich, too, so it’s not like I’m dining alone, the world moving around us at a quicker pace than it had when we walked out of the hotel, our bus passing by Madame Tussauds.
A Wicked billboard.
Broadway.
Freaking Broad way!
Amazing . . .
“Where should we get off first?” Andy is studying the map with one hand, sandwich in the other, a free finger tracing the red lines of our route, all the stops numbered.
I lean over to look, and my cheek presses against his denim shirt.
“Is Little Italy on this map? I’ve heard it’s really cool.” I’ve also heard there’s a Christmas shop, and the holidays are my favorite. Any and all holidays, including the made-up ones, like Sweetest Day.
He looks down at the sandwich in my hand, then up at me. “Whatever the lady wants.”
I laugh happily. It’s so hard to take him seriously when he has that goofy mustache stuck to his upper lip.
I take another bite of sandwich and close my eyes. “Mmm, dude. This is so good.”
“Did you just call me dude?”
I mean. Yes?
But not on purpose. “Is that bad?”
Andy goes quiet a few moments while he decides.
Finally he shrugs. “What guy wants to be called dude by a pretty girl?”
Um.
Excuse me, did he just give me a compliment? Without my prompting or fishing for one? Out of the blue while I’m stuffing my face and have cheese oozing out the side of my mouth?
Is he . . . ?
Could he be . . . ?
Is Andy flirting with me?
I have no idea how to respond without sounding foolish. I should be better at this, for the love of God—I’m designing a damn dating app!
“So. Harlow. What do you like doing for fun?”
“I read. Does that count?”
“Do you think it’s fun?”
“Obviously.”
“Then, yes, it counts.”
Good. Because reading is one of my hobbies, nerdy or not. “Do you have a favorite kind of ice cream?”
Andy considers this. “Not really. I don’t love plain chocolate or vanilla, but I’ll eat anything else.”
“Interesting . . .”
“Plain ice cream is boring.”
“Yeah, I guess.” It’s not my first choice, either, but the fact that he considers it boring says a lot about him as a person, doesn’t it? “I’m partial to cookies and cream.”
“Really? Eh.”
He sounds so unenthused, I let out a laugh.
“So.” Andy gets serious. “What did you think when you saw me at the elevators yesterday?”
“You mean, what did I think when I saw you pale as a ghost and dripping with sweat because you were about to toss your cookies?”
“Sure.” He laughs. “If that’s how you want to put it.”
“I was thinking you looked sick.”
“But were you secretly glad you won our bet?”
I shrug. “We didn’t actually have a bet because I didn’t think I would see you again.”
“Good point.”
“But.” I give him the satisfaction, since he’s fishing for information. Or compliments. Or something. “I was definitely shocked to see you standing there waiting to get on the elevator.”
I have a feeling that’s what he was looking for.
I give him a sidelong glance. “What were you thinking when you realized it was me getting off the elevator?”
“I was thinking, Oh shit—I’m going to shit my pants and she knows it. ”
I hold a hand to my heart. “That may be the realest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Wow. That’s sad, kind of.”
Cannot argue with that. “It is.”
I open my lips to say more, saved by the ringing in my pocket, and I know it’s rude, but I pull out my phone to see who’s calling.
Dad.
His timing is terrible.
I ignore the call, stuffing the phone back in my pocket, but it rings again.
Shit. What if something is wrong?
When he calls back a third time, I hold my cell to show Andy the screen. “It’s my dad. Let me get this.”
He grins and nods.
I hit accept and press the phone against my ear. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
“Harlow?” Dad shouts, repeating my name several times. “Where are you? It sounds like you’re standing in the middle of a street.”
“I kind of am in the middle of the street. I’m in New York, remember?” I press the phone firmly against my ear, struggling to hear his voice, fighting against the sounds of traffic.
“Shit, sorry. I should have checked your location first. I thought you were going to be home today.”
“Me not being home wasn’t going to stop you from calling,” I tease, glancing at Andy. “I’m in the middle of Times Square. Doing one of those touristy bus tour things.”
“Times Square on a Saturday?” Dad asks. “Ooh la la, aren’t you fancy.”
“I’m with ... I’m with a friend, Dad, did you need something?” I’m not trying to come off as rude, but I can barely hear the man. I also can’t help but notice that when I say the word friend , it gets Andy’s attention, and now he’s turned to face me so he can eavesdrop.
His brows go up. I can see them beneath the low brim of his hat and above his sunglasses, curiosity radiating from his nosy little body.
He wiggles that dumb mustache again.
“What kind of friend?” Andy mouths to me, and I nudge him to be quiet as my father asks the same exact damn thing.
“What kind of friend? A male friend or a female friend?”
I roll my eyes. “A male friend. Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters, we’re trying to get you married off!” My father shouts so loudly that everyone around us can hear him, despite the horns and traffic.
“Married off?” Andy whispers, pressing himself against the side of the bus, pretending to get as far away from me as possible.
“Dad. Why are you yelling?” I roll my eyes again. “Did you need something? Or did you call to give me a hard time?” There’s no doubt in my mind that he had already checked my location before he called.
He is literally snooping into my business.
But when doesn’t he?
My dad’s favorite hobby is getting involved in my personal life.
Since my mom died ten years ago, he’s become a matchmaking, meddlesome snoop. Basically, he’s both my mom and my dad. Loves giving advice but will not take advice. Loves inviting himself to my house uninvited. Loves fixing things that aren’t broken.
“Just calling to give you a hard time.” He laughs. “You’ll be home tomorrow?”
I nod. “Yup. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Need a ride from the airport?”
“Nope, I drove.”
“Why would you drive?” he begins, sounding indignant, always ready to lecture. “You should have had me drop you off, it’s cheaper. Those airport parking lots are a rip-off.”
I withhold my sigh. “I know they’re a rip-off, Dad.”
“It cost me sixty bucks the last time I flew out!”
“I know that, Dad.” He’s always reminding me about the time he and his buddies went to see the Packers playoffs in Detroit, and even though he carpooled, he’s the one who drove his three buddies, and none of them paid him for gas or for the parking.
Seven years ago.
He loves to bitch and bitch about it and still holds a grudge to this day.
Beside me, Andy is chomping away at his food—working on a Danish with raspberry filling—happily continuing to eavesdrop on my conversation. I mean, it’s not hard—Dad is speaking so freakin’ loud.
“I’m going to let you go, Dad. If you need anything, text me, okay? I’ll be home sometime tomorrow.” Depending on traffic.
“You need me to feed Kevin? I’ll be stopping by the house anyway.”
Kevin is my cowboy corgi and the coolest dog around. “No, Lydia is at the house to make sure he has food and water and cuddles.”
Lydia is the teenage neighbor girl and loves pet sitting Kevin, not that I blame her—he’s awesome.
“What are you paying her for when I could have given him food and water and cuddles?” he bellows. “Besides, I have to look at that pipe under your sink.”
“Dad. I don’t have a leaky pipe under my sink.”
He pauses. “You do now.”
“Ugh! Dad! What did you do?” I want to tell him to leave my crap alone and stay out of my house, but Andy is attentively listening, and I don’t want to come off sounding like an asshole—but for real, my dad creates problems where problems do not exist so he can feel needed.
It’s exhausting.
I know that if my mother were still alive—and my brother lived closer—Dad wouldn’t feel the need to spend so much time with me, and I would have a little more breathing space. And don’t get me started on what it’s been like since his accident.
That certainly does not help.
“What!” Dad laughs. “I was down there making sure everything was on the up-and-up, and now there’s a leak! I’ll swing by the hardware store and get some metal tape.”
Metal tape? “Dad, no.”
Andy’s shoulders begin to shake. He’s laughing.
Great.
“Okay. I’m hanging up. I love youuuu,” I singsong, punctuating the salutation with a few kisses into the phone.
Dad grunts. “Check in later so I know you’re alive.”
“I will.” I always do.
I disconnect the call. Turn to Andy. “Stop looking at me.”
“What?” He demurs. “That was cute.”
Yeah. So cute.
“He wants to get you married off? What are you, Greek?”
“No. Worse. We’re Polish. And he only wants me to have babies, he doesn’t necessarily need me to be married. He wants grandkids.” Dad always says he’s young at heart and identifies more with kids than adults—which has been the problem in many of his relationships. He hardly takes anything seriously, and some women hate that.
My dad is really ... something.
And that’s putting it mildly.
Steven James is a character.
Let’s see, how do I explain my father? Let me count the ways.
Picture this: a short man with a Santa-style beard.
Big belly, also like Santa.
Raspy voice.
Larger-than-life personality.
Dad loves being the center of attention, which explains the high decibel at which he speaks. Booming voice, as some would describe it.
Constantly making bad jokes. Seriously horrible, bad jokes.
Also? He calls himself Big Steve—sort of like a short super hero?
He will literally introduce himself that way to new people. When I was a teenager, I was so embarrassed by it, but now I’m used to it. He really is larger than life: loud, boisterous—and lonely.
My brother and I are his entire world.
Well, Kevin too.
Since Mom died, Dad really hasn’t dated, and I want that for him more than I want it for myself.
The reality is, Dad could be what’s holding me back from seriously putting myself out there. God, I hate even saying that—it makes me feel like a shitty person and a terrible daughter—but it’s true.
As much as it pains me to say it, it’s true.
Try bringing men around when Dad has this little habit of getting attached to guys who may not be long-haulers. He wants me to date anyone with a pulse and has tried setting me up on so many dates I have lost count—including a few occasions when we’ve gone shopping together.
No one wants to be ambushed at the self-checkout register by Big Steve as he tries to pawn off his daughter because he wants grandbabies.
Deep down in my heart I worry that my dad is going to get attached to whoever walks through my door; dating me will be like dating my father. Uh. Wait—that’s not how I meant it. What I meant was, dating me would be dating us both.
And I can’t have Dad getting hurt by my dumb decisions.
“Is your mom around, or are they divorced?”
I shake my head. “No, my mom died ten years ago, and since then ... you know, he really ... he’s up my ass.” I laugh. “And my brother lives halfway around the world, so I’m the lucky one who gets his undivided attention and help I don’t need.” I take a deep breath. “Did you know I have a leaky faucet? ’Cause I didn’t.”
Andy’s smile is sweet. “My parents are both alive and still married, but with all the travel I do, I don’t get to see them as often as I should. Sometimes they fly to see me where I’m at.”
“Fly to see you where you’re at? What does that mean?”
“It just means that since I moved from Ohio to Washington, they can’t just drive over.”
Ah. Makes sense.
“Do they pry in your business?”
He nods. “Yes and no.”
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean. It sounds sort of cryptic, although I’m sure he’s not trying to be.
“My dad does, and it’s worse since his accident. About six months ago, meddling in my business became his side hustle. He has nothing to do but overthink everything.” I sigh, though he probably can’t hear it over the noise. “And the fact I work from home isn’t helping. He thinks that he can pop in and out all day, every day, whenever he wants.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Well.” I shake my head slowly. “He drives a moped around town, and six months ago, he crashed into the open door of a car that was parked on the side of the road.”
It was horrible.
He got a concussion and injured his spine, spending several nights in the hospital before being released into my care.
He’s back at his house now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t constantly fret over him. The fact that he got a head injury at his age gave me many sleepless nights.
“A head injury?” Andy groans. “Those are no good.”
“That’s an understatement. Scared the shit out of me. Broken bones I can handle, but a head injury? No thank you. Hard pass.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds, and I change the subject and ask one of the most-popular dating-app questions:
“So, Andy. What is it that you do?”
Translation: Are you actually employed?
“I’m in ...” He pauses. Long. It’s a long, long pause, as if he isn’t sure what to say or how to answer. Gives me side-eye, studying my face as if looking for some sort of answer.
I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to see in my eyes, but it’s uncomfortable enough for me to say, “Never mind. It’s not important.”
It’s not like I’m going to see him again after this weekend.
“No, it’s cool,” he says. “It is important. I’m in between gigs right now.” He shrugs. “It’s complicated.”
Oh. Com plicated.
As in, unemployed?
How is he traveling and bopping around the city and staying at a fancy hotel while he’s in between gigs? I know how I’m staying there—hotel points—so maybe that’s how he’s doing it too. But that doesn’t explain how he was able to order a bag of breakfast with the snap of his fingers. It makes no sense, but this is New York City, and like they say, anything is possible.
“Ah, I see.” No judging. “What were you doing before you got laid off?”
Why am I making assumptions? Maybe he didn’t get laid off; maybe he quit. Maybe he got fired. Maybe he’s the worst, laziest employee.
I side-eye him back.
He doesn’t look like a slouch, but maybe he spends way too much time in the gym and not enough time grinding and hustling to pay the bills, eh?
“My contract was up, so it was time to move on, you know? More money, greener pastures.”
So he does contract labor. For what?
“What about you?” He wants to know.
“I’m a designer. I just created an app.” I say it casually. Cringe, knowing how Ava, Portia, and Danny would be disgusted that I was downplaying the whole app-creation thing. They’d want me to stand up in my seat and shout it from the top of this bus!
“You fly all the way to New York to work on an app? What app is it?” He scratches his chin.
“Kissmet.”
“What kind of app is it?”
I puff out my chest proudly. “It’s a dating app.”
“And you’re single?”
“Hey, hey, hey now. Just because I’m single doesn’t mean I can’t create a dating app.” One I’m not sure I will use myself, but whatever. That is not the point.
Or maybe he’s asking if I’m single because he’s both shocked and intrigued at how that could even be possible. Portia said I was one hell of a catch! Ha.
“Obviously I’m not judging you for being single. I’m single, so ...” He clears his throat. “I wouldn’t have asked you out today if I was in a relationship, just so we’re clear.”
Oh.
Well.
I blush. “Being single is my superpower.”
Andy tips his head back and drawls out, “I would never have guessed.”
“You would never have guessed that I’m single?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know—you’re the type of girl a guy would snap right up.”
Take your own advice, Andy, and snap me up, then.
Oh my God, where did that thought come from? Holy shit birds.
No, Harlow.
Pump the brakes.
“I’m from Wisconsin, remember? Small town, no people. No men I’m interested in but all of them football freaks.”
“Football freaks,” he repeats with a chuckle. “I don’t actually remember you telling me you’re from Wisconsin—you told me you were from the Midwest, that’s it.”
“Well, where are you from?”
“Cleveland.”
That’s right. He said something about Ohio.
My eyes get wide; a midwestern boy falling in my lap in the middle of New York City? “Really?”
“Why are you surprised by that?” He laughs.
“Honestly, I have no idea. You seem worldly—and when I think worldly, I don’t think Cleveland.”
That makes sense.
The bus stops, the narrating voice in our ear gives us the destination, and Andy stands, grabbing our bag and our wrappers.
“Shit. This is us.”
This is us? “We’re getting off?”
Like, where even are we? I haven’t been paying attention to the voices in the earbuds—I only want to listen to Andy and hear what he has to say.
I rise, following Andy without questioning him, eyes scanning his broad back, smiling as we descend the steps.