New York Billionaires Series

“It’s an old building.”

“That’s not an excuse. You need to tell your aunt. She’s your landlord,” my dad says. “Typical of my sister to not schedule inspections. How long has it been like that?”

“A few months, I think. Maybe more.”

“Have you mentioned it to her?”

“Yes,” I say, but I’m smiling. “You know how she is, though. Razor sharp but as distracted as they come.” Not to mention she’s been gone a lot, lately. Taking long lunches and three-day weekends.

“I’ll talk to her if you like,” my dad offers.

“Thanks, but I’ll bring it up again this coming week.”

“You do that, sweetie. Remember, you’re paying her rent, not getting to live there out of charity. So you demand what you need to. Vivienne will remedy it in a heartbeat if she actually listens to the problem.”

“Yes, Dad.”

He smiles. “That’s my girl.”

When we finally hang up, right after Mom gives me a virtual tour of the new kitchen garden she’s planted and let me say hi to the dogs, homesickness is a tight knot in my throat. The place is most beautiful in the summer, and it’s already halfway through June.

I clean up the remnants of my Sunday-breakfast-turned-brunch-turned-lunch and grab the two tea mugs still left out on the coffee table from Friday night. His, with peonies, and mine, with a cartoon dog. I look down to watch Ace lying comfortably on the floor, alive and pain-free.

Grabbing my phone, I write him a quick text.

Summer: Thank you so much for your help the other night and for staying a while after. I owe you.

I stare at the text and fight against the quick beating of my heart. It’s absurd to care this much-that him reading my words, looking down at his phone, matters this much.

But it does.

He’d been calm and steady on Friday… and the way he’d sat on my couch that night? With his dark hair tousled and long legs stretched out in front of him, he’d looked like a lazy god. One constantly passing judgement on those around him.

One with layers and layers of secrets.

His response comes ten minutes later, sending me vaulting over the couch to where I’d thrown my phone.

Anthony: You’re welcome. How’s Ace doing?

I sink down onto my couch and let my fingers fly over the phone. Picture him staring down at his, waiting for my response.

Summer: He was tired when I picked him up yesterday and has been sleeping a lot. But today his mood is up and he’s been playing a bit with his toys. Almost back to normal!

Anthony: That’s great. Have you told the delivery guy what happened because of his chocolates?

Summer: No, of course not! He might feel terrible, when he did nothing wrong.

He doesn’t answer that. I look at my phone for an embarrassingly long time.

Not ready to let this be the end.

My heart in my throat, I cast out for anything to say. Anything that might keep this going. When I’d walked back home with Ace yesterday, a woman had handed out flyers for a beer tasting. Would that be overstepping my boundaries?

But he hadn’t objected the other night when I called us friends. Spending time with him is fun. Challenging. Taunting the cynic from his shell, his presence steady and his humor surprisingly dark.

My phone chimes again. He’s sent me an image.

A packet of chamomile tea sits on the dark wood of a kitchen counter.

Anthony: I got a new toy to play with, too. It was all right when you made it.Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

I’m smiling as I respond.

Summer: Happy I converted someone to tea! It’s great for helping you sleep, too.

Anthony: So I’ve gathered.

Throwing caution to the wind, I type an invite. Prepare myself for his immediate refusal, or worse, silence.

Summer: If you’re in the mood for something stronger, though, the bar on my street has a beer tasting tonight. Want to join?

It takes a few minutes for the response to come, and when it does, it’s only two words.

Anthony: Just us?

Summer: Yes.

This time, his reply is instant.

Anthony: Text me the address.

“I had no idea it would be so crowded here,” I say, pushing my way past a group of students. One of them is wearing a home-knit beanie, the other a crop top. Not exactly Anthony Winter clientele.

He mutters behind me. “Really poor lighting in here.”

I suppose that’s true, but it gives the place some charm. Cozy, instead of seedy. I stop at one of the few empty tables. “Is here all right?”

He nods and we have a seat on rickety chairs. A single, fake flower dangles precariously on its equally fake stem in a beer glass on the table. “How’d you find this place?” he asks.

“They were handing out flyers on the street when I walked past and I took one.”

Anthony shakes his head. “Only you would actually stop to accept one.”

“Hmm. You wouldn’t?”

“Definitely not. I doubt anyone raised in New York would.”

“Imagine all the things you miss,” I say. “Beer tastings in college bars? Invitations to dodgy underground clubs?”