Of course, my mind goes to Shana.
“So you don’t know what happened?” Duncan asks.
“I got the impression that my friend Max—Maximilian Cantel—and Shana’s friend Stephen have some history that isn’t good. All I know for sure is that Shana laid into Max and after they left, Max refused to talk about it. He said the weekend was about Eric, not him.”
“Hey, I’m glad you and Eric are still friends.”
I’m ready to end this conversation, but his comment has me curious. “Why wouldn’t we be? I’ve known him since college.”
“But weren’t you dating the woman he’s marrying? Isn’t she who you brought to my wedding?”
“What? No... oh, well... Um. We’re good. They’re better together. You know me...not much with the ladies.”
“That brings me to the other reason I called,” Duncan says. “Kimbra said something else about last night.”
It’s then that I look up and see Shana walking toward me. Immediately, I notice the flowing long skirt she’s wearing, and my thoughts go back to my fantasies about the hallway last night. Those damn sexy jeans would have been a problem. I’m suddenly a huge advocate for skirts and dresses.
Her smile lights up the room as she comes closer.
“Duncan,” I say, “I need to go. My date...umm, the person I’m meeting just arrived.”
“Trevor, wait. A date? Who is it? Kimbra said she was getting a feeling—”
“Bye, Duncan. Talk to you later.”
I hang up just as Shana makes it to the table, just in time to stand and pull out the chair for her.
Shana
It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date—one that I actually care about, one that I want to succeed—that I am second-guessing everything, from my choice of clothes to the way to wear my hair. I know it’s silly to act like a schoolgirl at twenty-seven years old, but I can’t seem to help it.
This morning after copious amounts of coffee, Stephen gave me a pep talk, which was sweet because I could tell he is still upset about seeing Max. He’s also not feeling too well. I think it’s because he fell asleep before eating many of the nachos. I, on the other hand, made sure the plate was clean before placing it out in the hall. I won’t tell my mother, but I think the nachos saved me. Even though I wasn’t one hundred percent behind ordering them, I admit that I was feeling a bit tipsy before they arrived.
The fact that they also arrived with a new bottle of wine is simply another element added to my total alcohol intake for last night. Despite what some may think, I’m really not that much of a drinker. It’s just that some situations call for alcohol. Celebrating a stranger’s engagement and supporting your best friend are two that come to mind. I can’t even relegate the fashion show to a cause for imbibing.
The sales were better than expected. Last night, after Stephen and I ordered the second bottle of wine, I checked my emails. There were two from Vicky. Neither was complimentary, yet they did have links to the sales spreadsheets. All of the chosen outfits had better-than-expected sales and according to sales in real time, the white negligee I wore had increased sales during and after the finale. Her last email said that all of the designers were content with the numbers.
If I were the one sending out the emails to my assistants in juniors, I would probably be over-the-top with adjectives describing my enthusiasm for both their hard work and the show.
This morning I sent one to Chantilly and the other assistants telling them how much I enjoyed working with them and thanking them for their time and energy in making the show a success.
It is my word: success.
I’ve decided to embrace it until I learn otherwise. After all, when my job is boiled down to the nuts and bolts, it’s about sales. The sales were up. That equals success. So my drinking last night wasn’t about the fashion show, but in support of Stephen.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Each martini, each glass of wine...
No matter the amount or substance, I was there for Stephen. And he was there for me, following my mother’s rule. Don’t drink more than you eat. Last night’s lesson, regardless of the alcohol source, was that there’s something about gooey cheese, corn chips, and shredded chicken that apparently is very absorbent.
All in all, I may have gained five pounds last night, but I didn’t wake with a hangover.
In my book, that’s a win.
Now, I’m on my way to Serendipity 3, an iconic restaurant on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It’s where Trevor wanted to meet for lunch. I’m not only excited to see him, but to also see Serendipity 3. After years of living in the city, this will be my first visit. Maybe it is like Stephen and I said. Maybe I’m once again a tourist.
As the taxi approaches my destination, stopping and starting in city traffic, I reread my text messages from last night, thankful that I didn’t respond to the first one Trevor sent. After all, it’s not fair to be mad at him for being friends with Max. Last night, I was just too shocked and shaken for Stephen and his feelings to comprehend how we all ended up together.
I did send a text to Kimbra finally, apologizing for our abrupt exit and promising to get together, just the two of us, before I head back to London.
It was as I scrolled that I found one more text message that was more than a bit confusing. I’d like to say it wasn’t from me, but unfortunately, it was. I suspect it was sent between pizza and nachos, around bottle two of wine.
It was sent to Trevor, and this is what it said:
“YES, I STEAL WANT TO SEA U. 3ECAUSE OF YOUR @$$ AND FIVES. DO U THANK WE CAN CREDIT CARS?”
Trevor’s response was a simple smile emoji.
What does that mean?
What exactly does my text mean?
I suspect it has something to do with seeing him, liking his ass and thighs, and a question about credit cards—loosely translated to trust. While those are my thoughts, I hope not to have to discuss it.
Why can’t text messages be deleted the next day?
It’s a feature I believe would be well accepted by the majority of the population.
The cell phone companies could call it the gaslight feature. I know it would cost extra. I’d be willing to pay.
A simple message would replace the one that was deleted.
“NO MESSAGE WAS EVER HERE. IT WAS YOUR IMAGINATION. GO BACK TO SLEEP AND STOP TEXTING.”
I smile as I consider the possibilities of this new feature. That is, until I recall my message that I can’t take back. Once there, my mind returns to his ass and thighs, and I’m a little frightened that he might bring it up. I think the answer is clear: the combination of martinis, wine, and text messages is never a good idea.
The warm spring air fluffs my skirt as I step from the taxi onto the street. Looking all around, I see the Queensboro Bridge within sight and am reminded once again about my love for the city. Despite the time of day, there’s already a line forming at the restaurant, and I hesitate to send a text, asking if Trevor is inside.
If I do and he didn’t see the other one, I’m caught.
Instead of thinking any more about the texts, I look up at the Serendipity 3 storefront.
I can’t really believe this is my first time here. Even though I’ve never visited the restaurant, of course, I’ve watched the movie. It’s what I immediately think about as the gentle breeze blows my hair and I take it all in.
In the movie Serendipity, Jonathan and Sara have a chance meeting at Bloomingdale’s.
Glancing down the street in the opposite direction of the bridge, the sight of the famous store makes me smile. The setting and scene really are as they were portrayed.
In the movie, the time between Jonathan and Sara’s first meeting to their second is ten years. The first was a chance meeting brought on at Bloomingdale’s over a pair of gloves. Trevor’s and my first meeting was at a piano bar by a fire pit. It was brought on by us both being in Indianapolis for a wedding, the same wedding, whic
h took us a little while to figure out.
Momentarily, I recall last night, in the hallway of the bar. The way he followed me. The dark hallway. His kiss. The tips of my fingers go to my lips, the phantom feeling is fleeting as my heartbeat quickens. Ten years may be good for a movie. For me, in real life, one year has been long enough.
Taking a deep breath, I step past the line and say a prayer that Trevor is already inside. I guess the only way to see if Serendipity is real is to test it.
“Excuse me,” I say as I make my way toward the hostess stand.
The decorations within make me smile. They are exceedingly girly, bright, fun, and over-the-top. Tiffany lamps litter the ceiling in an array of colors and styles. The tables are close together and all seem to be occupied.
“Do you have a reservation?” the girl at the stand asks.
“I’m supposed to meet someone here,” I say to the hostess.
After asking my name and the name of my party, the young girl leads me a few feet to a hidden corner with a small round table occupied by a man who seems too large for the scene. All at once, my entire body warms.
It’s him.
In the split second before he notices me, I’m both amused and attracted. Though he’s relaxed and talking on the phone, his presence here seems completely out of character. I can’t help but wonder why he chose this restaurant. And then it happens.
His vibrant green eyes meet mine as the tips of his lips move upward and he stands. Almost immediately, he ducks as his height nearly collides with one of the lamps.
Damn, Trevor Willis is sexy surrounded by garish colorful lights. That’s not something just any man could pull off. As I get closer, his stare fills me with something new. The butterfly wings in my tummy come to flight. It’s as if he’s lost sight of the rest of the world. It’s as if his entire being is standing and seeing only me. I hope I’m right because at that moment I feel the same way. The bright decorations could fall and the chandeliers could crash to the floor, and it wouldn’t matter because we’re seeing one another.
I can’t take my eyes off of him. His shirt pulls tightly over his broad chest. There’s a casual sport coat draped from his broad shoulders, and it takes all of my control not to stare at his trim waist and perfectly worn blue jeans. I recall with vivid detail the way he pushed me against the wall in the hallway. My insides twist recalling the way his hardness pressed toward me.
I move my gaze upward and smile at his sexy, messy hair. I’ve seen Trevor Willis dressed up for the night or a wedding, and I’ve seen him when he first wakes, with basketball shorts and his thick thighs. No matter the occasion, his hair is definitely something I adore. It always seems out of place, as if it’s in need of my fingers to comb it away from his stunning green eyes.
“You made it,” he says happily as he ducks under the lamps and pulls the chair out for me.
“I’m not late? Am I?”
“No, I’m just anxious,” he says with all honesty as he pushes in my chair and gives me a kiss on the cheek. It’s romantic and chivalrous and reminds me how a gentleman is supposed to treat a lady.
While some may find it old-fashioned, I like it.
That’s how our first official date begins, with niceties and gestures, with simple conversation that flows too easily yet is capable of tying my stomach into knots. Everything about Trevor Willis is sweet, sexy, and funny.
We are too interested in one another to even look at the giant menu. Finally, after the waitress leaves for the second time, we both decide we need to take a look.
“We have to get the frozen hot chocolate,” I say, finally peering at the scrumptious-looking pictures. “I saw a few on my walk back to the table. They look amazing.”
“Frozen hot chocolate with two straws,” Trevor tells our waitress when she returns for the third time.
Once she’s gone, I turn to him. “I’m a little surprised this is where you wanted to meet.” I gesture about. “It’s a little...small. I almost feel like you don’t fit.”
He chuckles. “It is a little smaller than I expected. But don’t you like it?”
“I do.”
“The real question is...do you believe in serendipity?”
My grin grows. “I was just thinking about that same question when I arrived and the taxi dropped me off.”
“You were?”
“Have you seen the movie?” I ask.
“There’s a movie?”
I giggle, shaking my head.
Men.
“Yes,” I say. “Oh my gosh, you wanted to come here even though you haven’t seen the movie?”
He shakes his head.
“Then what made you think of here?”
“You.”
“Me?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why me?”
“The morning of Duncan and Kimbra’s wedding, I ordered us coffee and you told me you like hot chocolate.”
My mouth opens, but it takes a minute before words come out. “What?”
“Now, don’t tell me that was still the Fireball talking. I mean, I hope I’m not sitting in an explosion of Tiffany lamps at a table too small for me when in reality you hate hot chocolate.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I love hot chocolate. I just can’t believe you remember that.”
He reaches over and covers my hand with his. “Shana Price, I remember every second we’ve been together.”
Warmth fills my cheeks. “I can’t say the same.”
His laugh is deep, rumbling through the air from him to me. Soon, I’m laughing too.
“That’s what makes it special.”
“I mean, I know what happened,” I explain, “because you told me. And well, the holes in the memories from that first night aren’t as large as they were the morning I woke.”
He releases my hand as the waitress returns with a large glass bowl of frozen hot chocolate overflowing with whipped cream and complete with two straws.
“It’s huge!”
Trevor looks at me and grins. “It’s taking everything within me not to say what I’m thinking.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Oh, come on. That’s what she said.”
“I only care about one she. Hopefully, one day I’ll learn what she says.”
“Shall we?” I point toward the frozen hot chocolate.
“I’m ready whenever you are.”
As I move forward, pursing my lips over the straw, I wonder how long we could take this conversation before we were too inappropriate for some of the young patrons sitting nearby.
“It’s thicker than I thought,” he says after a few drinks. “You really have to suck.”
I can’t take it anymore as I grab my napkin and hope I won’t spit frozen hot chocolate through my nose as I laugh. It’s contagious and soon we’re both sucking and laughing and dropping terrible double entendres. Somehow, we manage to finish our hot chocolate and each eat some lunch.
Once we’re finished and extremely full, Trevor asks, “I’m hoping I can occupy more of your afternoon?”
I was hoping the same thing. That’s why I told Stephen not to wait up for me. Before I can answer, Trevor goes on.
“It’s a nice day out there. Have you had much of a chance, with the fashion show and all, to see the city?”
“I’ve had no time.”
His head tilts a bit. “Well, my lady, do you have time now?”
“I’m free until work tomorrow...Wait, I don’t mean...”
Trevor reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips. “Then let’s go see the city.”
Shana
The sun has risen higher in the blue sky. Once we’re past the growing waiting crowd, Trevor starts to head west, and I hope I know where he’s taking me. “Are we going to the park?”
“Unless you want to stop at Bloomingdale’s?”
“Only if we can both try to buy the same gloves.”
“You don’t need gloves.” He retakes my hand. “I’ll keep your hand warm.”
Even tho
ugh that wasn’t what I meant and he totally missed the movie reference, I like his alternative.
The city is alive with people hurrying from here to there. On corners, the music of street performers fills the air, temporarily masking the sounds of traffic. It’s New York City and I’m finally glad to be here.
“You know,” I say as we near the park, “it’s nice not to worry about the fashion show any longer. It’s done. Now only time will tell.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you up there.”
I shake my head. “What are the chances you’d be there?”
“Probably about the same as being in that bar the night before the wedding.”
“Serendipity.”
Trevor nods.
“You know,” I say, “if you would have called me recently, you’d have known I was going to be here in New York.” I’m not sure what made me say that, but the words are out and I can’t take them back.
Trevor leads us to a bench near the entrance of Central Park. Once we sit, he says, “Phones are funny things. Mine rings too.”
“Oh, I deserve that.”
“Can I be honest with you?”
“I’d prefer you never be dishonest with me.”
He squeezes my hand. “You scare the shit out of me.”
“Me?”
“You, Shana Price. I told you something about me the night we met. Do you remember?”
“I do, but I’m not sure that was truthful.”
“I promise it was.”
“You said you are awkward around women?”
“That’s it.”
“Do you remember what you did after you told me that?” I ask, hoping he does.
Trevor doesn’t answer; instead, he leans toward me until our lips touch.
On a warm afternoon with people milling about, the world disappears. It’s not the fervent explosion of last night.
It’s more.
It’s sunshine and freshly cut grass, bicyclists and horse-drawn carriages. It’s a walk in the park and sharing a giant frozen hot chocolate. It is the careful tending of a fire, the diligent care that is needed to keep the flames burning, their intensity growing with each moment we’re together.