Chapter 4

Charlotte’s best friend from college, Rachel, had moved out to New York City immediately after graduation. Charlotte had helped her pack, stretching duct tape over boxes and stacking them in Rachel’s rusty red caravan, which she’d sold immediately upon her arrival. In return, these four months later, in September, Rachel was helping Charlotte move into her temporary apartment. The difference, of course, was that she was accustomed to the city and had a million New Yorker complaints and bits of advice, unasked for, that were making Charlotte’s head spin.

“You really have to watch out for pickpockets in the subway,” Rachel said knowingly, hoisting a suitcase from the steps of the nearby stop, sweating lightly in her blue-striped business dress. “I know you’re not used to this stuff in Ohio. I was really shocked when I first moved out here and realized that everyone was out to get me, you know, if I wasn’t careful.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, faking shock. She’d read enough articles online about New York living that nothing shocked her. She steered the conversation from Rachel’s half-bragging about her four-month leap on Charlotte’s arrival, hoping to halt her annoyance at her friend.

“I’m so lucky my aunt left her apartment open,” she breathed. “I didn’t want to start a new job and hunt for apartments at the same time. I think it would have destroyed me.”

“You could have stayed on my couch for a bit longer,” Rachel said. “But we’re already pretty packed in as it is. Too bad you can’t stay in Brooklyn, though.”

“Yeah. I loved the bars around you. I’m going to come over there all the time,” Charlotte said, checking the map for her aunt’s apartment building. “Thanks for leaving work early to move me in, by the way. We had literally nothing to do today at the office.”

“Right. First day as an intern is always really weird,” Rachel said. “They don’t know you or trust you yet, so they just show you the coffee machine and give you some paperwork to sign. Pretty useless day.”

“You should see my boss.” Charlotte hoisted her backpack higher on her back, sliding the straps closer to her neck. “He’s the hottest person I’ve ever seen. I remember being a teenager and having a photo of him in my locker, when he was singer for Orpheus Arise.”

“My high school boyfriend really liked that band,” Rachel said. “He forced me to listen when he drove me anywhere. And he grew his hair really long, like that guy.”

“Right. That guy. Quentin McDonnell,” Charlotte said. “He’s my editor-in-chief. I can hardly look at him, he’s so attractive. And now he’s weirdly older, yet better looking. More muscular, less stringy and drugged out. And a dad, which is super hot to me. Ha.”

“Well, you might be in the right neighborhood for hot dads,” Rachel said, her eyes dancing around the Upper West Side. “Just in case you’ve already had your fill of Brooklyn hipsters. Oh, wait. You’d only be sick of them if you gave even one guy in your life a chance. But you hate dating. I get it.” Her voice was sarcastic, if playful.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t date right now. I want to focus on this job. I have to make it at this magazine. They only offer a few people full-time writing gigs at the end.”

“And you’ll get it, Charlotte. You were the best writer at our university. It’s not like you’ll lose those skills, just because you’re in the big city now.”

“Just let me panic about this for a bit,” Charlotte said, easing her rolling suitcase to a halt in front of the high-rise apartment building. “Shit. This is it.”

“Wow,” Rachel breathed, gazing at her reflection in the wide windows of the foyer. “Your aunt lives here? Full time?”

“She married a doctor. He died and left her a ton of money, so she bought this place,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “But she spends half the year in Florida.”

“Why on earth would you go to Florida, when you could live here?” Rachel asked, exasperated. “I think I might crash with you, instead of the other way around. And you’re less than five minutes’ walk from the park. Damn, Charlotte. One of the best internships in the city, and this place. Most people don’t get this lucky.”

“Don’t be too jealous, yet,” Charlotte said, yanking the door open. “I only get it till March, at which point I’m sure I’ll be living in a shoebox in Queens. Just watch me. I’ll decline into nothingness in no time.”

“That’s the spirit,” Rachel said, giggling.

The elevator was at the other end of the hallway. Charlotte stabbed the UP button, her thoughts brimming with the events of the day. She’d started her internship at MMM, shown her hot boss the curvature of her ass like some office slut, and was now moving into her “own” apartment, already pre-furnished with top-tier interior design in mind. She shuddered, remembering the horrible doldrums of her last summer in Ohio, when she’d continued half-heartedly dating her ex-boyfriend from college, until she’d received the good news of the internship.

Finally, things were happening. Finally, the world was moving.

Inside the elevator, Charlotte pressed the button for her floor, brimming with excitement. But as the elevator doors began their natural close, a mad rush of feet sounded from the hall. Conscious that new neighbors wanted the elevator space, she brought her arm through the crack, holding it for them.

Suddenly, a man and a little girl, both holding dripping ice cream cones, appeared in front of them. The girl was vibrant, blonde, her smile crackling up at them and revealing that she’d recently lost a front tooth. Strawberry ice cream dripped from her nose.

And beside her stood a tall, muscled man, with dark hair down to his ears and horn-rimmed glasses hiding his dark eyes. His five-o-clock shadow covered his chin and high cheekbones. He looked smart, sophisticated, dominant.

Jesus. It was her editor. It was Quentin McDonnell.

Charlotte’s jaw dropped. The little girl hopped into the elevator, peering up at them. She giggled slightly, becoming a bright burst of energy as the elevator door closed behind the four of them, locking them in. “You guys sure have a lot of stuff.”

“She’s moving in here,” Rachel said, smiling and rolling her head toward Charlotte. Her eyes danced up to Quentin, who looked awestruck, like he’d seen a ghost.

“I’m Morgan. My daddy lives here,” Morgan said, gesturing to him. “And I live both here and down the road, with my mommy. We just got ice cream. You guys should try it. It’s absolutely the best.”

Charlotte’s eyes were centered on the ground, at her pointed, black shoes, feeling the embarrassment draw up from her stomach, through her neck, into her heated cheeks. She exhaled roughly, sensing Quentin’s eyes upon her. She felt under a microscope, analyzed from the front, rather than the back, this time.

Rachel and Morgan continued to chatter beside them, leaving Charlotte and Quentin in a kind of shell of silence, which brimmed with sexual tension and desire. Charlotte hadn’t been able to get this man out of her head since the morning. And now, he was her neighbor.

“Oh, wait. Which floor did you need?” Rachel asked, piping up and shattering the silence on the other end of the elevator.

“Nine,” Quentin said, his eyes dark and centered on Charlotte’s. “Looks like you’ve already pressed it.”