New York City is really fucking big.

I know I should have already known that. I did know that. But knowing it is different than seeing it.

New York City also has a lot of streets and avenues that are named after numbers. I'm standing on the corner of Third Avenue and Fifty-Fourth Street, looking up at the humongous building that houses the law firm where Brynn works. And realizing we couldn't be from two more totally fucking different worlds if we tried.

It's November and Brynn says I just missed the famed autumn in New York. What comes after that must be the infamous Dead of Winter in New York, because compared to New Mexico, the weather here is fucking cold. I take one last breath of the chilly air and then enter the building.

I look at around at the designer suits and fur coats and feel very out of place wearing my leather motorcycle jacket. But I'm sure glad I wore it because it's warm. I just hope none of these fancy pant- wearing professionals mistake me for a homeless guy and kick me out.

I take the elevator all the way up to the 23rd floor. We don't even have buildings in Albuquerque that go this high up. When I get to the lobby of Brynn's law firm, the receptionist tells me to have a seat and that she'll be right with me.

But I want to surprise her. I haven't seen her in a couple of weeks, which is far too long, and she had mentioned wanting me to see her office.

"Can I just go back and wait for her?" I ask the receptionist. "She's expecting me."

She looks at me and raises her eyebrows skeptically, like maybe I'm in the wrong place, or asking for the wrong Brynn Elliot.

But then the phone rings and she shrugs and says, "Be my guest. Her office is right back there but I think she's in the conference room on a personal matter. Gentleman callers must be her thing today."

What the actual fuck?

I don't say anything, because this chick doesn't look like a friend of Brynn's. Probably more like a jealous underling.

I head back the hallway in the direction she'd just pointed towards. And sure enough, through the open glass windows of the conference room I see Brynn hovered over a laptop, with some dude right beside her.

I back up a bit, observing them from where they can't see me. I feel a little bad, but my guilt is outweighed by my curiosity. And my jealousy.

The guy looks like a typical New Yorker. Skinny and in shape, with fancy clothes and a pretty face. Just looking at him, I can tell I could beat him up even easier than I beat up those fucking clowns. If I have to. And as he reaches his arm over Brynn's to take the mouse and show her something on the computer, I realize I just might have to.

She shrugs and then shuts the laptop. She gathers her stuff up, obviously hurrying to meet me at the designated time. Well, that's good news at least. She hasn't forgotten all about my trip into the big city to visit her, which she insisted on.

She'd even offered to take some time off work during the week day— which I know is a big deal for a busy associate lawyer like her— and meet me at the airport. But I'd told her I would just take the New York metro subway I'd heard so much about and come to her office.

I start walking away and then I see her office not far up ahead.

BRYNN ELLIOT, says a plaque on the door.

Very impressive. I've never had my own name on anything. I've never had my own office. Unless you count the inside of a fucking chopper.

As I'm staring at the plaque and marveling at that accomplishment, Brynn and the guy walk out of the conference room together.

"Just let me know when you want to talk more," he says, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"I'll be in touch," she says, turning towards me and then stopping in her tracks. "Larson, this is..."

"Oh, perfect, so now he's here?" He asks, in a mocking tone with a sneer I wish I could wipe off his pretty- boy face. "What is this? Bring an outlaw to work day? Show some rogue Western biker the Big Apple?"

"Steven, please just leave," she says.

"I'm Larson," I say, holding my hand out. "Brynn had started to introduce me before you so rudely interrupted her."

The fucking wimp looks shocked that I'm calling him out on his bad behavior. He opens his mouth but then closes it without saying anything.

"Larson, this is Steven," Brynn says. "Caleb's dad."

"Interesting," I say, but leave it at that.

What I'm thinking is that I can't believe he was capable of producing a son as cute and smart as Caleb. And that he doesn’t deserve to be called his dad. But I don't say it.

"Steven, Suzanne will see you out," Brynn says, obviously referring to the firm's snooty receptionist.

"Don't forget to think about what we discussed," Steven says, his tone sounding nearly threatening.

"I will," Brynn says.

She looks forlorn, defeated. Not the spunky, fun Brynn I had last seen.

Steven turns around and starts walking away, and I take Brynn's hand.

"It's so nice to see you again," I tell her, my cock already getting hard just from touching her. I wish I could pick her up and push her against this office wall and fuck her long and hard for everyone and anyone to see.

"I'm sorry," she says, squeezing my hand, but looking around me to make sure that Steven is gone. "But he just..."

She looks so upset, as if she's about to cry. And even though I'm wondering what exactly was up with Steven and the meeting I just accidentally half walked in on, I don't need to know as much as I need her to cheer up a little bit.

"It's fine," I tell her. "No need for an apology."

I want to take her into my arms but I don't want her to get in trouble with the Powers That Be. And judging from the swanky office decor and her previous discussions about the partners, they seem pretty powerful indeed.

Brynn smiles slightly, which makes me feel much better.

"This isn't exactly the start that I envisioned our reunion would get off to," she says.

"Well, let's remedy that," I tell her.

A smile slowly spreads across her sad face.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" she asks.

The scene where I take her up against the wall flashes through my mind again but I think better of it. I only want to fuck her, not get her fired.

"We're going to need some privacy," I say.

She takes my hand and pulls me into her fancy office, shutting the door behind us so fast and so hard that the BRYNN ELLIOT plaque rattles against the wall.

It's nice to know that despite whatever is going on with what's- his- fucking-name, she still seems happy to see me.