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“You must be Weston Edmonds?” I didn’t use my real last name when I applied because my father’s investment firm was at the end of the block. I didn’t want to be associated with it.

I was sure they made plenty of deliveries to the mailroom at the Aames Tower. Aames Investments owned the whole building and housed several other businesses on its thirty-two floors.

“I am. I’m here to see Andy Makris.”

The young woman giggled. “You’re talking to her.”

My face must have shown my surprise. “Uh, the person I spoke with had a very deep voice that I believe was male. Was that you?”

Again, she giggled. “No, that was my dad. He insists on screening my calls. He’s afraid of creeps, and he’s convinced he can tell by listening to their voice.”

I laughed. “Well, Ms. Makris, tell your father I’m gay, so you’re completely safe with me. So, this is your business?”

She stood and opened the little gate between her desk and the entrance. “Come on in. Coffee or water?”

“Coffee, please. How long have you been in business?”

The little office was nicely appointed. There was a sitting area with a vinyl couch and matching chairs. A coffee station and a basket of pods—apparently my word of the day—was situated on a quartz counter next to a fridge and a microwave. It was a nice setup.

Andy—or Andi, as I suspected—pointed to the basket as she put a mug under the coffee maker. I picked a pod and handed it to her, not sure how the fuck the coffee maker worked.

Andi made me a cup of coffee, and we went over to the sitting area, me sitting on the couch and her taking a seat in a chair. “So, Joe College, you know your way around Manhattan well enough to make deliveries?”

I was more intrigued with her than interested in the job, but the more she told me about herself, how she was a fucking genius who had finished high school at twelve and NYU at sixteen, my respect grew for her.

We talked for twenty minutes before she laughed. “You’ll start at fifteen dollars an hour, working eight hours a day. I need you to come in at seven for the corporate deliveries, but you get off at three. Most of my messengers work straight through, but if you want to take a lunch hour mid-day, then you get off at four.”

If I worked for Andi until three, I could go to Brooklyn and work two hours for Bridges. It would be the perfect setup. It seemed the fates were smiling at me.

There were times when I believed there was a dark cloud over my head. There were times when I wanted to disappear, but regardless of what my mother said about me looking after myself and her looking after herself, I knew in my heart it was still my job to make sure Mom was okay. Clearly, it was what my father expected of me, and if I had let him down over the years, I wouldn’t do it again.

Chapter Six

Bridges

The rain in May gave way to June’s blooms in my Brooklyn neighborhood. I was no fucking poet, but it was beautiful.

I took advantage of the longer days to ride my bike on the Waterfront Greenway when I knocked off early at the shop. It was twenty-six miles of pure beauty, and it took my mind off the thing that seemed to occupy it most lately—Weston Aames.

The guy sent me a text regarding his request for me to help his mother, who, it turned out, didn’t want my help in the first place. I respected her refusal of my money. I expected nothing less from May Aames. She was a strong woman, even if her son underestimated her.

When I returned home, I was surprised to see Weston sitting on the front stoop of Eaton Cycles, his bike leaning against my bike rack. He had a backpack beside him as he scrolled through his phone.

“Hey, stranger.” I hadn’t heard from West since the text he’d sent and hadn’t seen him for at least a month. He worked at the shop, but I always made sure to have other things to do when he was there.

“Hey, Bridges. How are you?” He glanced at my bike as I pushed it forward and opened the door to my studio.

“I’m good. Got a job as a bike courier around town so I can make some money and build up my mileage for the ride. I had a delivery in Williamsburg, so I thought I’d ride over and say hi on my way home. Nice bike.”

I laughed. “It’s like your father’s. I gave him that one for his birthday, and then I made this one for myself. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I wondered if I could get your ideas on a few things. I’m a little confused.”

“Sure. You want something to drink? I’m getting ready to make some dinner. You hungry?”

The grin West gave me was bright. “Always.”

“Come on up.” I opened the door of the studio, and he followed me inside and up the two flights of stairs to my apartment. I’d already made enchiladas to go into the oven when I got back from my bike ride.