~CHAPTER ONE~
The snow-white pigeon swoops up and down, flirting with the reflection within the sliding doors. A sign of things to come, Al would say. My Australian labradoodle quivers at my side, ready to charge. The glass door slides open, and the pigeon flies sky high out of sight.
“Chewbacca, how was your Sunday morning walk girl?” My big curly beast wags her tail so hard her whole body wiggles and weaves. She leaps onto Al, completely oblivious to her human on the other end of the leash. Both paws land right above Al’s protruding, bulbous belly. He laughs and gives her a treat. A treat.
“Al, you can’t give her a treat when she jumps on you.” A good dog owner would scold her sixty-five-pound canine and tell her to get down, but these two have a sort of odd love thing going on.
Al ignores me. Normal. “Did you see the pigeon circling the glass?”
“Yes! Have you ever seen a pigeon do that?”
“Nope. Must be a sign. Good things coming.”
I smirk. Al and his signs. I’d estimate Al is in his mid-fifties. He’s wearing the building doorman uniform of black pants and white button-down shirt. His shirt’s never starched. Al and I share an aversion to ironing. We don’t share a belief in random signs directing our destiny.
When Al sees Chewie, he always steps out to greet her. He scratches behind her ears, and she licks his chin, making him laugh. Because, yes, she’s still standing on her hind legs with both paws planted on his chest. Crumbs from the treat she inhaled litter his wrinkled shirt.
“Is someone moving in today? I noticed the curtains are hanging in the elevator.” The building hangs quilts to protect the sides of the elevator from gashes during a move. My apartment building, The Wimbledon, features twenty-six floors and four elevator shafts. This one building houses as many people as some suburban neighborhoods. Weekend moves are the norm.
“Yeah, two units. One on your floor, actually.”
“Nice.” There are six apartments on my floor, but my neighbors are relative strangers. I have one mean, grumpy neighbor who complains any time Chewie barks. “Any chance Sixteen-C moved out?”
Al grins and in baby talk answers my question to Chewie’s bushy face. “No. Mr. Truman’s still there, so Chewie here has to be quiet. You have to be quiet, don’t you, girl? No barking, right, girl? Gotta be quiet. Yeah, that’s a good girl. Such a good girl. Such a good, good girl.”
Chewie responds by wagging her tail and licking him from the bottom of his chin up to his nose. He laughs, her front paws fall to the floor.
“How’s the weather out there today? Looks like it’s a good one.”
“It’s gorgeous. You should definitely take your lunch outside. Blue skies. Not a cloud anywhere. The high’s gonna be sixty-eight. Couldn’t ask for a better September day. Next week, we’ve got a cold front heading in. But by the end of the week, warm weather will be back.”
I nod as he shares the forecast. Al’s a walking, talking weather report. “We did the full loop around Central Park today. Some of the leaves have started changing color.”
I peer out the glass doors of the lobby at the street and the facing brick building. Cars whiz by, and a faint horn sounds every now and then. You can’t see the sky from where I’m standing, but the blue sky and fall-scented air lurk in my mind. A stunning weekend day, yet work calls. It’s fine. I have a good view from my home office. “I’m gonna head on up. I’ll see you later. You here until six?”
“You know it,” Al responds with his signature wink and gunshot finger point.
“See ya later.”
Chewie and I only have to wait a minute for the elevator. We walk in, and I hum a bit as I scratch the top of her head. The stainless steel elevator door slides to close. A hand shoots through the gap to force the door open. Chewie lunges, and I tighten my grip on the leash. “Chewie!” I scold.
Once I have my shaggy girl under control, I lift my gaze from my dog and take in the man standing on the threshold of the elevator. My mouth drops open. My lungs contract.
Hazel eyes I haven’t seen in four years stare back at me. The blue-gray suit offsets those chameleon eyes, casting a bluer hue. The short, trimmed beard makes him appear older and more distinguished. The dark, curly, college student hair, now cut in a shorter, controlled, professional style, says business.
My skin tingles. From shock or from being in his presence again, I’m not sure.
Jackson’s eyes flick between me and my rambunctious, shaggy brown beast. “Anna?”
“Jackson?” Chewie attempts to jump on him, and I give a quick pull on the leash and command, “Sit.” I close my mouth, but I’m still gaping. How could I not be? Jackson lives in Atlanta. I never thought I’d see him again.
Through my peripheral vision, I notice Jackson’s hands flexing, as if he’s stretching his fingers. He blinks his eyes in rapid succession. I imagine he’s as shocked as I am. He half shakes his head and exits the elevator. My stomach freefalls. A second later, he wheels in two large black suitcases.
My heart’s beating a million beats per minute, and I stare at the panel of floor buttons. The door slides closed, and the elevator lurches upward. Proper elevator etiquette reflex compels me to ask, “What floor?”
He doesn’t answer but leans over to the panel with his index finger extended. Then he slowly pulls back. “You’ve already pushed it. Sixteen.”
I blink. My heartrate speeds as I scratch Chewie’s ears, trying to collect my scattered self. The moment is surreal. I fold an arm against my stomach and focus on breathing until the elevator doors open and we both exit.
The silver door slides closed behind him, leaving us standing in the hall facing each other.
“So, are you visiting someone?” Judging from the two oversized suitcases, either he’s the worst packer on the planet or he’s staying a while. Or maybe he’s not alone?
His Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. His gaze wanders over the length of my body, sending chills through my core. This man has intimate knowledge of me, of us. My cheeks burn with the thought, or perhaps it’s simply his presence. I cross my arms, defensive. What on earth is he doing here?
His chest heaves, and I hear his exhale. “I’m moving in.” He peers down the beige hall lined with dark green painted doors. Dull brass numbers hang on the front of each door. I’m Sixteen-B, and we’re standing in front of Sixteen-C.
He points to the end of the hall. “I’m Sixteen-D.”
I point in the opposite direction. “Sixteen-B.”
Our voices mingle and crash over each other as we speak at the same time.
“Ah, you’re moving here?” My voice comes out squeaky and high-pitched. Get it together. He’s just a guy you used to know.
He stares ahead at the elevator door. “Good job opportunity.”
“What are you doing?”
“Law.”
“Are short answers your thing now?” It comes out bitchier than intended.
He narrows his eyes into slits. “I’m at a new firm. M&A. What are you doing these days?” His gruff tone is oddly appealing, although completely undeserved.
“I’m a creative director. At an agency called Evolve.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say more, to tell him I work on the Heineken, Greenpeace, and National Geographic accounts. But I stop myself. His dark gaze radiates an unfriendliness I’m not sure how to navigate. Chewie stands beside me, tail still, watching, a sign she’s picked up on the tension. She’s unsure of Jackson, and so am I.
Jackson angles his head in the direction of my apartment door. “Do you live alone?”
“Yes. I had a roommate up until two months ago. She moved to Prague.” I could rattle on but don’t. My gaze falls to his chest. His hand rests on the handle of one of the suitcases. Beneath his jacket, he’s wearing a form-fitting starched shirt. Subtle muscular lines lead to a firm, narrow waist. His clothes fit so well I suspect they are custom. I also imagine he still flaunts a six-pack, because, well, he did in college.
I flush, visualizing his pectoral and ab muscles. The hardness of those muscles beneath my roaming fingers. Over the years, I’ve thought about him often. Most often when playing with my favorite vibrator. The stuffy hall is far too warm, and I hope the burning sensation on my cheeks doesn’t mean I’m blushing.
We stand there staring at each other. I have so much to ask him, but then again, I don’t. Things didn’t exactly end well with us. But he’s new to the city. Be kind. “Do you need help getting unpacked?”
The muscles in his jaw flex as if he’s grinding his teeth. “No, thank you. Take care.” He heads down the hall, pulling his two suitcases behind him. He stands in front of the door and flips through keys on a ring. He looks up from his keys and catches me staring. Now my cheeks are most definitely bright red. With a shaky hand, I unlock my door and rush inside.
Stunned, I flop down on my futon, a relic from my first post-college days. The stained, beaten-up piece could stand an upgrade, but sofa shopping doesn’t interest me.
I pull out my phone and press my best friend’s name. She may live in another country, but she’s still my BFF. My first call.
She picks up. It’s evening, her time. Before she gets a word in, I blurt, “You are not going to believe who moved into the building. On our floor!”
