Brynn

 

 

It's been an hour since I saw Smith at the gym. I'm on the sidewalk across the street from the brownstone that I once imagined would be my home. I haven't been here in years. I couldn't bring myself to walk down this street, so I avoided it, tearing my way through Manhattan as if East Sixty-Seventh Street never existed.

Years ago, I'd make a point of walking this block at least a few times a week. I'd daydream about the dinners I'd cook there and the holiday gatherings that would take place in the grand sitting room.

In every single dream, there would be a familiar face beside me. She'd be there when I got home from work each day. She'd help me pick out which accessories complemented the furniture pieces I'd chosen for my clients.

Those dreams died the day my broker told me that the seller had accepted another offer. I knew it was Smith who had sealed the deal. I'd insisted on speaking to the seller myself, but Otto, my broker told me that the contracts had already been signed.

Smith Booth bought the townhouse I planned on bringing my grandmother home to. It was the same place her mother had wanted to live but her time inside was restricted to ten hours a day when she took care of the household needs of the wealthy family that lived there.

My grandmother spent her summers in that house when she was a kid. She sat on the floor playing with wooden puzzles and reading books as my great-grandmother peeled potatoes, washed windows and ironed the clothes of the people she worked for.

A loud cough behind me startles me enough that I turn. It's a friendly face; older and distinguished.

"Are you lost, Miss?" The man I'm looking at touches the lapel of his white suit jacket. "We don't get a lot of folks standing on this block for so long."

I have no idea how long I've been here. It's been long enough to notice the front door of the brownstone is now painted a dark brown. It once was blue; the same shade as my eyes, my mom's eyes and my grandmother's too.

"I once knew someone who spent time in that house." I wave my hand toward the brownstone I thought I'd be living in. "I was just remembering the stories she told me."

"I take it they were good? If they weren't, I doubt you'd be standing here staring at the front door."

I manage a faint laugh. "They were good. I wish I could hear them again."

I'll never be able to. My grandma is gone, just like my chance to live in that house and build my own memories.

"I tell my wife all the time that every crevice of this city has its own story to tell. If the walls of that home could talk, you'd hear those familiar stories and more."

I nod as my gaze catches on the tall man walking up the street. He's carrying a shopping bag filled with groceries in one hand. The other is cradling his phone next to his ear.

He's not dressed at all like he was at the gym. Smith is wearing jeans, a dark T-shirt and sunglasses. His gait is easy and relaxed.

"That man right there could tell you a story or two about that place." The white-suited man points in Smith's direction. "He worked his fingers to the bone restoring that townhouse. He's on the news. He's a big shot. Booth Smith is his name."

Close enough.

"He didn't work his fingers to the bone," I correct him because my great-grandmother was the one who worked her fingers to the bone in there. She worked every single day, including Christmas Day and Easter Sunday to provide a stable income for her two daughters after her husband died.

Smith made a few calls, ordered a latte and let the professionals bring that four-story building back to life while he soaked up the sun in Los Angeles. "That man hasn't done a day of manual labor in his life."

"I hate to disagree." The man next to me taps his chin. "I watched him work alongside the contractors almost every weekend for more than a year. He can wield a hammer with the best of them."

I cringe. My mind jumps to a place it shouldn't be. I can't keep staring at Smith whenever I'm near him. He may be incredibly good-looking and built like a sex god, but so are a lot of the men in this city. I need to stop looking in his direction.

"Would you like me to introduce you to him?" he asks excitedly as Smith nears the brownstone. "It would be my pleasure."

No. It would be Smith's pleasure because he'd think I'm hanging out in front of his home because I'm desperate for him to kiss me.  In his mind, I've wandered aimlessly through life for the last eight years bereft because I was never gifted with the taste of his lips.

Jesus, the man's ego is bigger than Manhattan.

"Thank you, but that's not necessary." I watch Smith tug a set of keys from the front pocket of his jeans before he unlocks the brown door and steps inside. "I have nothing to say to Smith Booth."

 

***

 

"Why don't you two just hate-fuck already?" Adley scoops Pike into her lap. "I've never done it, but I hear it's mind blowing with the right person. Or maybe it's the wrong person since in order to hate-fuck, you have to technically hate the person you fuck."

"What?" I try to make sense of what she just said. "You're not saying that if I have sex with Smith that all my problems will be solved?"

"I've yet to meet a man who can fuck every problem away." She pets Pike's chest before she kisses the top of his head. "All I'm saying is that you're mad at him, he wants to kiss you and you're both obviously hot for each other. Just do it already, Brynn."

I glance down at the screen of my phone and the text message Smith sent me an hour ago.

We need to talk, Petal. Meet me at Easton Pub at seven. You know the address. You got caught inside the place with that shitty fake ID you had when you were seventeen. In case you forgot, I was the one who saved your ass that night. You owe me and I'm cashing in now. Seven sharp. 

I don't owe him a thing. He came to Easton Pub that night because he was the one who answered Julian's phone when I called. Julian was on a date and had forgotten his phone at Smith's apartment. Smith arrived just as the owner of the pub was about to call the police to report me since I refused to leave. My rebellious stage was not cute.

Smith came and resolved the situation. He did it as a favor to Julian.

"Go and talk to him." Adley points at my phone. "Clear the air. Scream at him if you have to. If anyone else had bought that brownstone, you would have forgiven them. You're hanging on to this because you feel something for him. I see it. He sure as hell must see it when you two are in the same room."

"That's ridiculous," I scoff. "If I feel anything for Smith it's hatred."

"You couldn't hate a person if your life depended on it." She puts Pike in my lap. "I'm going to make us a salad. You'll eat and I'll keep Pike company while you go talk this out with Smith. Do it, Brynn."