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She’s so quiet and still, I feel peaceful just watching her.
But she’s from that same old money world that I was born into, so I’m not going to fucking flatter myself. Girls like that have expectations. They marry doctors, bankers, CEOs, and politicians.
Girls like that marry lawyers—and I’ve left that life behind.
Her parents died a few months ago, and she inherited all their properties and businesses. She used to go out and party a lot. I still remember seeing her pretty face in the social section of newspapers, posing with a bunch of models and other heiresses.
But since her parents died, she’s been withdrawn. I don’t think she even spends their money anymore. She just runs the flower shop and looks a little down.
But ever since I realized she lives here in my building, she’s enchanted me. I don’t know what it is. Her stillness, maybe?
She looks like a work of art herself. I don’t fucking know—but it’s something.
Something about her makes me weak in the chest.
Alyse slams out the door with a muffled goodbye. Out in the lounge room, Tommy and Rogan show no sign of stirring, and they most likely won’t—they work nights in a bar across Central Park.
My phone rings. It’s Evan.
Evan’s the reason I’m not on the street now.
I was ready to say, Fuck it, and then sleep under and be a starving fucking artist for a little while.
He convinced me not to. I still haven’t thanked him properly for that.
“Hey, buddy,” I answer. “What’s up?”
“Dude. I want to invite you to the big party tonight. Its upstairs.”
“Ah, I don’t know, man. I’m painting this still life right now, and—”
“C’mon, Andy. You have to. I’m having trouble with Emilia. I have to talk to someone.”
A sigh like the end of the world leaks out of me. “I told you—”
“I know what you fucking told me! Shut up and come to the party. Minette’s going to be there.”
My heart skips a beat. And it never fucking does that.
Excitement.
Shit. I want to see her.
Reality: I need to stay the fuck away from that girl if I know what’s good for me.
For her.
For both of us.
She’ll end up married to some fat cat billionaire with a private jet and a corporate empire by the end of the year anyway. Why would she want me?
“Come on, Andy, it’ll be fun.”
“You just want to bitch about your girl, dude. That doesn’t sound fun. Contradiction in terms my friend.”
“Yeah, well…I’ll say anything at this point.”
I know I need to have a heart here. I should be charitable.
