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Nadia
“We get off at 72nd Street,” Dorian told me as the subway car rumbled along. He and Braden sat in the row in front of me, so he had to turn to look over his shoulder at me, which showed his defined cheekbones and jaw in wonderful profile. Ryan and Andy had to work late, so it was just the three of us. Dorian smiled amiably. “It’s a short walk from there.”
I nodded along, but didn’t say anything. I was beginning to second-guess the impulsiveness of agreeing to their offer. It just sort of happened without me ever really thinking about it.
The practice Dorian helped me with before rehearsal certainly made me more comfortable with the situation. That, and the fact that I wanted to be around Braden more. Any excuse to spend more time with him. Their offer was the best way.
I’m going to end up getting hurt, I thought to myself. I didn’t really care. It’s just a trial run. We’ll see what happens.
I felt as nervous as the first day of school as we exited the subway and walked along the sidewalk. It was all the excitement and trepidation of a new place, a new situation, and being thrown out of my comfort zone all at once. We hadn’t even talked about the arrangement in detail. Would they draw straws to choose who “got me” for tonight? Or were they envisioning a sign-up sheet? Blocking off chunks of my time by the hour, like a rental jet-ski?
Granted, I wanted certain things from them too. Friendship—and more practice!—with Dorian. A chance at something with Braden. But I wasn’t interested in becoming a glorified blow-up doll for them to use and discard.
At least, not until I was a lot more comfortable with them.
We passed O’Rourke’s Bar and turned north onto York Avenue. The brownstone townhouses in this neighborhood were gorgeous, with grey stone steps and black iron rails leading up to the front doors. Braden stopped to admire one with a protruding cupola room that extended to the top, like a castle tower was sticking halfway out the front of the building with a flurry of windows. I stopped with him and whistled.
“These places are gorgeous.”
“Yep,” Braden said. He was looking at me for some reason. Waiting for something.
That’s when I realized he hadn’t stopped to admire the place.
“Wait,” I said.
“Uh huh.”
“There’s no way this is your place.”
Dorian did a dramatic little dance and extended his hands toward the brownstone. “Welcome to our lovely abode, Nadia! The butler will be out shortly to take your things.” He stood up straight. “We don’t actually have a butler. That part was a joke.”
“But the building is ours,” Braden hastily added. “It was my grandma’s, I mean. But she left it to me.”
“Which… which floor do you own?” I said dumbly, my brain still unable to comprehend that it was all theirs.
Braden smiled. “Come on. Let’s give you the tour.”
I continued gawking as I followed them up the grey stone steps and through the front door.
The floor of the entrance area was tiled in brown hexagons like an over-sized bee hive, and the walls were a soothing shade of grey. The ceilings were higher than I was used to; at least eight feet. Much more spacious than my cramped little apartment.
“This is the front parlor,” Dorian said, gesturing to the room next to the entrance. A sectional sofa and two recliners filled the space, all facing a huge television mounted on the wall.
“You mean living room?” I asked.
Braden rolled his eyes. “Dorian thinks parlor sounds more sophisticated.”
“Doesn’t it?” Dorian nudged me. “Surely you agree parlor is more distinguished than living room.” He made the latter phrase sound distasteful.
“It’s nice,” was all I could say. I was already overwhelmed.
“The kitchen is that way,” Braden said, taking over the tour. I caught a glimpse of steel appliances and white marble counters. “The dining room and garden are on the other side.”
“Garden?”
“More of a sitting area with outdoor furniture,” Braden admitted. “Nothing special.”
Right. There was nothing special about having your own private garden out the back of your townhouse in the middle of New York City. Totally normal.
