Page 21

Inhaling deeply, I breathe in the cool evening breeze, which has a hint of humidity after the brief showers yesterday.

The sunset is fading in the sky, a deep swath of navy chasing out the remaining streaks of pink and oranges.

It’s an impressionist’s dream. A flock of pigeons lands on the side of the pathway, eagerly pecking at leftover breadcrumbs or food scraps from earlier in the day.

The skies are clear tonight, the city having been cleansed from the rain, and I can even make out some stars vying for attention away from the artificial lights of the skyscrapers. The atmosphere is chill. Relaxing. A brief respite from the chaos and hectic lifestyle of the Big Apple.

Strolling on the High Line, a public park built on an old, elevated rail line, after grabbing a bite at the bustling Chelsea Market, is one of my favorite things to do whenever I have time to make it out here.

The city is teeming with nightlife, cars and buses whizzing underneath us on the ground level.

Tourists and other like-minded New Yorkers gather on the sidewalks or in clusters around the large art displays and sculptures peppered throughout the park or listen to live jazz in a clearing ahead.

It’s the epitome of why I love this city, the way the cultures blend like paints on a canvas, and mix into something new, how there’s something interesting for everyone, whether it be art, music, sports, or food.

Anyone can have an adventure when walking on the streets and people watching, taking in hurried businessmen checking their watches or flagging down a cab, tourists with their cameras out, taking photos of everything under the sun, and local kids biking down the sidewalks .

I listen to other people chatting in groups beside me or on the phone as I amble on the structured pathways toward The Shed and Hudson Yards, marveling at the greenery and trees planted on the path, as if suspended in midair when looking from the ground level, an oasis in the middle of the city that never sleeps.

Foreign languages reach my ears, too many for me to attempt naming, and I can’t help but wish one day I might travel out of the country and see the world myself.

My heart feels light as I push my worries out of my mind and think about the possibilities ahead of me.

As long as I ace the internship, my future is secured.

And someday, I’d be able to travel and take Taylor and Mom with me.

We’d pay off the loan, move to a better neighborhood, and Taylor would have her career in dance.

Mom wouldn’t need to work anymore and hopefully, she’d realize she doesn’t need a man to complete her life.

I’d finally find the answers to the secrets Mom keeps under lock and key in her heart. And perhaps that gaping hole in mine would finally be filled, and I’d be at peace.

Inhaling another deep breath, my body thrums with excitement, my nose practically smelling the sweet breeze of change in my near future, and before I know it, I’ve reached the futuristic Bloomberg Building of The Shed, a structure made mostly of glass planes with a large moveable shell of an exterior, which looks like translucent clouds tethered to a metal frame in a quilt-like pattern.

It’s apparently made of some sort of Teflon-based polymer, which makes it much lighter than glass so the entire shell can move, transforming the building into various arrangements for indoor/outdoor use, concerts, exhibits, and other events.

It’s one of my favorite buildings near the High Line because if something so large, so immovable, can still transform and surprise everyone, then who says a girl from the South Bronx can’t do the same?

My mouth parts in wonder as I marvel at the structure, lit up brightly by spotlights, with glittering fireballs of light taking over the nighttime sky and the full moon gracing us with her presence as the backdrop .

There’s magic in the air tonight.

Perhaps it’s the honeyed scent of gardenias wafting in the wind from an extravagant display of white blossoms by the doors in front of the building. There must be an event there tonight.

Perhaps it’s the faint strains of a string quartet playing a lively tune reaching my ears, such that when I close my eyes, I can almost imagine myself as the main character in a movie, the plucky girl standing in the middle of a bustling city, refusing to let life get the best of her, twirling circles in the night, executing a pirouette here, a chassé there, muscle memory from Mom’s lessons a long time ago, and feeling the night breeze on her face.

It almost makes me believe anything is possible and someday—

“Grace? What are you doing out here? Spinning around in the middle of Hudson Yards?” A deep and husky voice interrupts my daydream and apparently…twirling.

A voice I’d recognize from anywhere.

My feet grind to an abrupt halt and the world swirls around me. I pitch forward, my arms outstretched as the center-of-gravity shifts from below me and a pair of muscular arms clad in the softest black fabric wrap around my waist, stopping my would-be embarrassing face-plant to the ground.

I blink, my eyelids fluttering open, and I see the unmistakable face of Steven Kingsley looking down at me with the full moon shining brightly behind him.

For a moment, I think I’m hallucinating and perhaps I had too much to drink earlier tonight. My breath lodges in my throat, my pulse thundering in my ears, and I can only stare at the man holding me in a position resembling a low dip in ballroom dancing like a scene from an old Hollywood movie.

The smirk on his face slowly fades as his eyes darken, the pupils overtaking his irises.

His gaze trails down my features, landing on my lips, and I see him swallow.

Our breaths mingle and I can smell a hint of mint mixing with his expensive cologne.

His face dips toward mine, the movement so slight it’s almost imperceptible, but I can feel with every cell in my body.

My eyes begin to close, my skin on fire.

Then he flinches.

A muscle twitches in his jaw before he slowly guides me back into a standing position.

My lungs heave in a big breath as my hands reluctantly slide off his powerful arms, which I’m not even aware I was grabbing before.

Taking a few steps back, I put a respectable distance between us, because my mind can’t compute logic and reason when my body is standing a mere few inches away from him, my nose inhaling the scent of leather and the crisp waves washing up the sand.

“Steven?” My lips part, my eyes finally taking in the rest of him, and I belatedly realize putting a few steps between us hasn’t helped with my cause of clearing my mind.

“Grace,” Steven murmurs, his hands tucked behind his back.

He stands before me like he has stepped out of a carriage in the regency romance I finished reading earlier—the one he rudely interrupted me in the office weeks ago.

He’s clad in the finest evening wear, a sleek black tuxedo molded over his body like second skin, the silky fabric reflecting a subtle sheen of the moonlight.

A matching vest and pants, along with a simple black bow tie complete his look.

His hair is artfully swept up and his face appears clean-shaven, which only draws attention to those soulful eyes of his, which I realize, under the glow of the streetlight nearby, have flecks of gold dotted amongst the amber and green hues.

Realizing I’ve been staring at him for the past few seconds, I clear my throat and curve my lips into a forced smile. “What are you doing here?”

He motions to The Shed in the background. “A charity event tonight for lymphoma research. Adrian couldn’t attend and he asked me to stand in for him, given this cause is near and dear to him.”

I nod, my eyes finally registering the event banners, which were next to the gardenias all this time.

“And you? ”

I glance back at him, finding him staring quizzically at me.

“Obviously not here for the event.” I motion to my flowy black blouse and wide-legged dress pants.

“I was having dinner with my sister and friends at Chelsea Market and took a walk afterward to clear my mind. Speaking of which, one of my good friends, Millie, turns out to be Adrian’s sister. Such a small world.”

“She never told you before?”

“Nope. She’s a pretty private person, but she told us tonight.”

He hums in acknowledgment and begins walking toward the High Line once more. Staring at his back, I frown, confused by his actions, when he suddenly pauses and turns back, his hand outstretched, waving me toward him.

“Coming? I’m in the mood for a walk myself after a stuffy dinner and forced socializing.” A small grin transforms his face, softening the harsh lines and rough edges, letting through a rare display of boyish charm.

“Come on, friend, I won’t ravish you in the dark if that’s what you’re worried about,” he adds for good measure, the grin transforming into a smirk. A devious twinkle appears in his eyes.

My heart pitter patters, an unusual swooshing sensation sweeps through me, like I’ve slowly reached the top of a roller coaster ride, my car chugging to an agonizing stop before it abruptly plummets to the depths of exhilaration and freedom.

Maybe ravishment coming from him might not be so—hold your horses, Grace.

I bite back a grin and stride up to his side and we walk in the direction I came from.

The crowds have thinned out now. The pathway is quiet, with the occasional murmuring and chuckles of couples taking a romantic stroll under the moonlight.

Tall trees and dark green foliage are lit up by small spotlights along the carefully manicured landscape.