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What the hell am I thinking?
Visiting Lucy in her cubicle is one thing. Befriending her and bringing her coffees and soaking up her presence like a sponge absorbing water—that’s all fine. None of that crosses the invisible line I’ve drawn in my head.
But adate?
A fake practice date to build up her confidence for other men? A dress rehearsal before she heads out into the world for the real thing? Have I lost my goddamn mind?
My agitated strides carry me across the office, through the corridor and out into the stairwell. This building has an elevator, so there’s no need to pound my way down flight after flight of stairs, except adrenaline has flooded my system and if I don’t burn it off, I might punch a wall.
And that’s not me. Darius Amin never gets worked up. Darius Amin never makes a scene. I’m always cool, supremely collected, channeling whatever inner turmoil I have into music.
Then Lucy comes along, and everything is jumbled. Fuck.
My shoes smack against the steps, echoing in the empty stairwell, and I’m breathing hard. The sound is ragged. If anyone catches sight of me now, they’ll think I’ve lost my mind, and you know what? They’ll be right.
A date.
Adate.
A practice date with Lucy, the woman I want but can never have. The woman I will never be good enough for, who I should have stayed away from a year ago. But Lucy kept drawing me in from a distance, taunting me with those cute little glasses and prim outfits until I snapped. Now look at us.
Lucy thinks I have a constant revolving door of dates, and has never seen past my looks. Not enough to realize that those rumors are all bullshit.
Meanwhile I’m hopelessly gone for her.
Christ.
“You’ve really done it this time.” My mutter bounces around the stairwell, and I keep pounding down, down, down all the flights of stairs, trying and failing to outrun the emotions squeezing my chest. When I finally burst out of the fire exit into an alley, I’m sweating under my dark green shirt, breathing hard through my nose.
Pigeons scatter, fluffing up their feathers and cooing. This is a quiet space, with swept cement and cigarette burns scorched into the wall. The sun doesn’t reach here, and it smells like damp stone, moss and bird mess.
It’s no paradise, but I linger anyway. Cursing myself and kneading my forehead, even as IknowI won’t take my offer back.
A night with Lucy?
Adate—even a practice one?
This is a once in a lifetime experience.
* * *
“Remind me again why I’ve decided to die alone.”
Thirty minutes later I’m on the top floor, my breathing calm and my clothes smoothed, strolling around the boss’s office and squinting at the artwork on his walls. Leo Corbin favors abstract paintings—explosions of colors and emotion without obvious form. I’m more of an art deco man, myself.
The sun-drenched city stretches away through the huge glass windows. The cars and buses down there look like toys.
Leo blows out a long-suffering breath, flicking through a contract on his desk and ignoring me completely. He’s been like this since our college days: prickly and ice-cold. From the outside, I seem warmer—certainly more socially adept—but deep down, I share Leo’s same exhaustion and withdrawal from life. That’s why when he asked me to join Grapevine as a composer, I agreed in seconds—he’s my brother in everything except blood.
“You know, the longer you ignore me, the longer I’ll bother you.”
It’s best to be clear with Leo. Straightforward. I learned that when we roomed together in freshman year, and nearly came to blows most weeks in the first semester. Christ, we hated each other’s guts.
But by the spring, we’d figured it out. Found each other’s wavelengths. And though neither of us would admit it out loud, we’ve been committed to this friendship ever since. It’s bedrock.
“You’re very needy for a famous composer.” Leo turns a contract page, scowling down at the small print—and he has the same thick dark hair as me, but he’s paler, with a square jawand icy blue eyes. The boss would have interns slipping him love notes too if he didn’t give off such clear Do Not Disturb vibes.
Maybe I should take a leaf out of Leo’s book. Be less approachable—because I don’twantthose damn love notes, and they’re causing me nothing but trouble. They’re why Lucy will never, ever see me as a romantic possibility.
