The plane landed ten minutes ahead of schedule. Passengers began to stand and pull their things from the overhead compartments, and I stood in front of Niall as we waited to make our way down the aisle toward the exit.
I looked over my shoulder at him, wanting to make sure he was all set. But he didn’t look down to meet my eyes. He was staring with determination at the ceiling of the plane.
Something was off.
For six months I’d worked in the same building as Niall Stella and he’d never really noticed me. This was different. This wasn’t the oblivious avoidance I’d seen in the past, this was deliberate. He was fidgety and flustered and if it would have been acceptable to shove me out of the way and run to the taxi stand to flee the scene, I thought he might do it.
First class and coach were filing out the same door and I turned again, smiling at him as we waited for the people in front of us to move. “We’re a little early, so our driver might not be here yet,” I said.
His eyes darted down to mine and then quickly away.
“Right,” he said.
Okaaaaay.
I turned on my heel and continued on down the row, when a woman near me reached out, tugging on my skirt.
“Girl code, girl code,” she whispered, and I looked down at her, confused. “Your skirt is tucked into your underwear.”
MY WHAT?
She leaned in and I felt the blood drain from my face. “Though between you and me, I don’t think the gentleman behind you minds one little bit.”
I reached behind me and felt nothing but skin, frantically pulling my skirt free from where it had been completely tucked up into itself,
exposing
my
entire
ass.
Life Alert? It’s me, Ruby, again.
I thanked her and stepped out onto the jetway, rolling my carry-on behind me and praying that the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Once we were just inside the terminal, I made a show of looking for something in my purse so Niall Stella would walk in front of me and I wouldn’t have to fight the urge to constantly smooth my skirt down over my backside.
He’s seen your ass.
Why did you choose to wear a G-string?
He’s seen your naked ass, Ruby.
We stood side by side as we waited for our luggage, and honestly I wasn’t sure which of us was more mortified. There was absolutely no way that he didn’t see. I knew he saw. And he knew I knew he saw.
I stared at the turnstile, waiting for my bag to appear, when I felt him lean closer.
He smelled like fresh soap and shaving cream, and when he whispered, his breath was minty. “Ruby? Sorry about the . . . I’m not very good at . . .” He paused and I turned to meet his eyes. We were so close. His brown eyes had flecks of green and yellow in them and I felt my heart claw its way up my throat when he glanced quickly down at my mouth. “I’m not very good at . . . women.”
My humiliation was replaced with something warmer, and calmer, and infinitely sweeter.
I’d been in large cities before—San Diego, San Francisco, Los Angeles, London—but I was pretty sure they were absolutely nothing like New York.
Everything was massive, taking up as little ground as necessary while towering overhead. The buildings crowded the sky, leaving only a strip of gray-blue directly above us. And it was loud. I’d never been somewhere with so much honking—not that anyone on the street seemed to notice. The air was a chorus of horns and shouts, and as we made our way from terminal four of JFK to our car, and from our car to the revolving doors of the Parker Meridien, I didn’t see a single person who seemed bothered by the cacophony.
Niall followed an appropriate distance behind me as we made our way through the lobby—close enough that it was clear we were together, but not together—and we checked into our respective rooms. I was there as Niall’s colleague, not his employee or assistant or . . . even his friend, really, and so I wasn’t given any information about where his room was or, say, what size bed he had in there. I didn’t even get a formal goodbye; when his phone rang, he did little more than offer me a small, polite wave and disappear down a quiet hallway.
No doubt I looked like someone had just walked off with my puppy, and so I jumped slightly when the bellman coughed next to me, clearly waiting to show me upstairs.
Once inside the elevator, the weight of the day hit me like a truck, and it occurred to me that I’d been up since three and caught only a small nap on Niall’s shoulder. A screen embedded into the elevator wall played an old cartoon: Tom nailed Jerry over the head with a hammer, and as they chased each other around a wooden barrel, the elevator climbed to the tenth floor, and I felt my eyes grow heavier and heavier.
I followed the bellman down the hall and watched as he opened my door. In the center of the room was a platform bed big enough for at least four people, opposite a huge flat-screen television. There was a set of art deco chairs in one corner and a window that spanned the entire far wall with a long desk tucked just beneath it.
The bed really did look like something out of a dream—crisp sheets and fluffy pillows—and my body sagged with how much I wanted to collapse, face-first right into it. Unfortunately, I’d learned the hard way how much jet lag sucks, and no matter how much I wanted to, taking a nap was exactly what I shouldn’t do.
Dammit.
It was the second time in the same day I’d bolted upright from a dead sleep. Drooling.
The room around me was almost completely dark, and for a moment, I had no idea where I was. Then it hit me: New York. The hotel.
Niall Stella.
I remembered showering and changing into a robe, deciding to rest my eyes just long enough for room service to get here and, well. Here we were.
I stood, groaning at my stiff muscles while I wiped my face on the sleeve of my robe. Man, when I slept, I slept hard.
As my eyes adjusted, I pushed open the drapes and forced myself to find my phone. There were two texts from my mom wondering if I’d landed yet, and one from Lola checking in. Having been unplugged all day, I held my breath before checking my email.
Meeting tomorrow: that needs a read.
Thoughts from Tony: that can wait until morning.
Sale at Victoria’s Secret: oooh, I’ll flag that one for later.
Note from Niall’s assistant—wait, what?
She’d attached our updated schedule for the following day, along with the time we’d meet in the lobby, and a few points he wanted her to pass along. There was also the number to his cell, “should anything problematic arise.”
I stared at my screen.
I had Niall Stella’s phone number.
Dare I use it? Since I’d most certainly slept through my food being delivered, I could text him and see if he wanted to grab a bite to eat. But that didn’t really fall under the category of problematic, no matter how hungry I was. And if he hadn’t told his assistant to ask me about dinner plans, then I had to assume that was because he’d make his and I’d make mine.
Only then did I realize I really had begun to imagine the next four weeks with Niall Stella and me together in the temporary New York office, or walking along Broadway, or passionately discussing work over meals at great, locals-recommended restaurants. I’d unconsciously imagined the way he would laugh at my new and witty inside jokes over a beer at the end of the day and how we would share knowing looks across the table at our flurry of upcoming meetings.
But the reality was that I was most likely going to be sitting in the back of a crowded room taking notes, then returning alone to this hotel room for a month’s worth of room service meals.
I couldn’t text him, and I definitely didn’t want to call room service again tonight.
I checked my reflection in the mirror opposite the bathroom, and yikes: hair like a pile of hay, mascara smeared, pillow lines from temple to chin. I’d looked better after an all-nighter in college. Unless I wanted to spend time making myself at least minimally presentable, I’d have to settle for a vending machine dinner of chips and diet soda.
With a handful of dollar bills and a stack of change shoved into the pocket of my bathrobe, I opened the door slowly and peered out down the hallway. It was surprisingly shadowed and unfamiliar (hey, jet lag!): the walls were covered in a dark-patterned paper and each door was illuminated with a tiny neon plaque and doorbells.
I spied the sign for an ice machine in the distance and tiptoed out, letting the door fall closed behind me. The carpet was soft and thick against the soles of my feet, a subtle reminder that beneath the cotton of my robe I was completely naked. I tried, but couldn’t hear the blurred shape of voices in a neighboring room, or even the hum of a television. It was too quiet, too still. The hallway stretched ominously dark in front of me. I took a few steps past my room, narrowing my eyes to prepare for the appearance of anything unexpected in the distance.
“Ruby?”