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“I didn’t get a look at your neighbors before. Your office isover…”
“A medical marijuana dispensary and a rare bookstore,” she supplies as if it’s the most natural thing in theworld.
Only in thiscity.
I go to hail a cab because my Midtown lab is too far to walk from Chelsea’s converted factories turned art galleries. Especially judging by her choice of footwear—shoes the color of coffee with cream that are so subtle you almost miss the fact that the heels are as long aspencils.
“What’s the address?” Rena asks. I give her the cross streets, and she grabs my arm just as a yellow car pulls up to the curb. “Cab will take too long in rush hour. Let’s take the Qtrain.”
She trots past me toward the subway entrance, her tailored black pants turning at least three heads. But it’s her bobbing ponytail that captures my attention, like a buoy bouncing in theharbor.
This part of New York is full of artists and designers wearing every kind of clothing imaginable. With her hair pulled back, you can barely see the dark bits, and she’s dressedconservatively.
I can’t take my eyes offher.
She’s the kind of girl I never would’ve talked to in school. The kind who would’ve had her pick of boyfriends while I was studying in the library. Not by virtue of the fact that she was attractive, but because she knows with equal certainty who she is and that you’d be a fool for missing out on experiencing itfirsthand.
I follow her down the steps, my eyes adjusting to the feeblelight.
“I hope you got your car situation resolved,” I tell her as we wait for thetrain.
Her answering groan is directed at the empty tunnel, not me. “My brother took it without permission. He has a learner’s permit, and he’s not allowed to drive, not that that stops him. He thinks he’sinvincible.”
“Why?”
“Huh?” She blinks up at me because even with her heels, the top of her head barely reaches my eyelevel.
I adjust the strap on my leather bag. “Why did he steal it? There must be areason.”
Down here, her eyes are more gray than green. Not that the underground has the most reputable lighting. Or that it matters what color her eyesare.
“I thought you were asking to be polite. It’s something peopledo.”
“I’m notpolite.”
Triumph floods her expression, as if I’m some medieval opponent she knocked to the ground and is about to deliver the crushingblow.
“You’re an INTJ.” It’s my turn to be confused. “Myers–Briggs,” she goes on. “We had to take it in school. I’d put money on you as INTJ. That’s the kind of person who wants to understandeverything.”
“Not everything,” I argue, “just problems worthsolving.”
“Like my brother?” Rena asks as we crowd onto the already-busytrain.
“It seemed to be bothering you. So if it’s keeping you from helping me, then by all means fix it. I’llwait.”
She grabs the handrail, bringing us only a few inches apart so her vanilla scent edges into my brain. “It’s not, Dr.Strange.”
Her hands find my tie, tugging it loose like she did lastnight.
I can’t decide which affects me more—the nickname, or the familiarity. Both work their way in, like an airborne pathogen infiltrating my immune system before I can think to even cover mymouth.
“If we’re choosing alter egos, I always wanted to be Marty McFly.” She shoots me a quizzical look. “Back to the Futurewas made in eighty-five,” I explain. “Before yourtime.”
“The eighties are before no one’s time. I’ve seen every John Hughes movie evermade.”
The train lurches, and my fingers flex on the post. I ignore the fact that she’s piqued my interest twice in two days when nothing else has for amonth.
“Ferris BuellerorPretty in Pink?” It’s a test, but I play itcool.
