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“So, erotica?”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s so much more than that.”
“I don’t know. I’m more of a murder-in-the-alley kind of gal.”
“Just work through my list, and if it’s still not your thing by the end of it, I won’t harass you again. But I’m dying to have a real-life, spicy book friend, so I’m hoping to rope you in.”
Laughing, I glance at my watch and start clearing our table. “You like porn, just admit it.”
“It’s not porn. It’s romantic and addicting. Once you read your first smutty novel, you’ll never go back.”
“Thank you, George.” Glancing up at the smiling doorman, I pull my hair away from my face, but the cold, January wind is relentless, forcing it back over my eyes.
George, the doorman at Seventeen Hudson Yards, has the most gentle and compassionate eyes I have ever seen. He exudes an aura of safety and security, instantly putting me at ease. I don’t know, he seems like the kind of person one would willingly confide in, as if his wisdom could potentially solve all of life’s dilemmas. Although I have yet to put this theory to the test, George just gives off a certain energy that suggests he has this remarkable quality.
With a beaming smile, he graciously holds the door open for me.
“You’re very welcome, Ms. Jackson.”
“Please call me Zoe.”
He bows his head, still smiling. “Certainly, Ms. Jackson.”
I can’t help but laugh, knowing George will probably never call me by my first name. But I will keep trying because I want us to become the best of friends. Maybe, one night, I’ll come down here with a pint of ice cream and just tell him about my day. People don’t do that anymore. They don’t just talk about their days or make real connections.
Sometimes it feels like I just don’t belong here, because the things I crave aren’t what everyone else wants or seeks out.
“I’m going to get you to cave eventually.” I turn, walking backwards, and my voice echoes in the tall, enormous lobby.
The whole place is like a futuristic dream with its sleek combination of glass and marble. It’s so cutting edge, yet it all blends together seamlessly. Other than the chic leather couches and some statement plants, it’s all about the spacious minimalist vibe. Suspended high above, there’s a floating rainbow glass installation that adds sophistication and a bit of enchantment to the building. When the sun hits those tiny glass pieces, they scatter, fanning across the lobby as the light moves. I haven’t been lucky enough to capture it at sunrise or sunset yet, but I’m sure it brings the space to life. It’s almost like they wanted to inject a bit of New York right into the heart of this building. Being on the design team for this spot? That’s a gig I would’ve killed for.
“Oh, Ms. Jackson? Mr. Jackson has a package. Do you mind if I walk up with you to deliver it to him?”
Seems a little unnecessary since I’m heading up there myself.
“I can take it up. I’m heading there.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly burden you with it.”
George has to be in his seventies. He is short, around five foot seven, and he’s always dressed in pristine, black suits. A uniform provided by the building management, I’m sure. He has thinning, silver hair and the kindest, faded-brown eyes. He is exactly how I envision grandparents to be. I never got to meet mine from either side, unfortunately, but I have a feeling I would have been close to at least one set of grandparents. I can’t help but feel that my paternal grandmother would have genuinely cared for me, particularly considering the difficult circumstance of being the neglected child. Given my father’s intense dislike toward me, it would undoubtedly irk him if his own mother developed a fondness for me.
Too bad karma never got to play that hand. It might have been fun, and maybe I would have had a taste of what real love is like. Or, maybe she would have hated me too.
Slowly making my way to George, I watch him retrieve a small, brown box and place it onto the empty counter.
“You were going to go all the way up for this? You’re silly. And for the record, I would have even come down to grab this from you if you had called.”
He looks shocked, as if I just blurted out a string of foul words. “Oh, I would never.”
“You’re ridiculous. I’m happy to help. Although, I don’t think this counts as helping since I am on my way up.” I reach for the box, but George pulls it away from me.
Arching my brow, I hold out my hand. “I would like to take this up myself.”
He knows exactly what I’m doing, so he chuckles softly as he places the box in the palm of my hand.
“You are too kind, Ms. Jackson. Thank you, and have a great night. Please send my regards to your brother.”
“Will do. And it’s Zoe,” I say one last time, turning to head for the elevators.
