New York Nights. Kathleen O'Reilly
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sensing Tessa’s emotional turmoil (typical male), hovered over the thin metal frame and then poked a finger at the mattress. “This is your bed?”
It was stupid to get worked up over a mattress that belonged in a Dumpster, but seeing Gabe mentally inventorying her life reminded her of how far she still had to go.
“A featherweight mattress is easier to move.” She slung it over one shoulder to demonstrate. “See?”
He stood firm. “That’s not going into my place.”
“This is my bed. What am I supposed to sleep on?”
Gently Gabe disentangled her fingers from their death grip on the mattress. “I’ll buy you a futon.”
“I hate those,” she began and then stopped, sighed. There was no point in lying—she loved futons. “I don’t want you buying me furniture. I can afford it.” And she could. Her savings account was surprisingly healthy considering her lack of furniture and fashionable attire. Tessa had priorities—namely the perfect one-bedroom apartment in Hudson Towers.
And it was perfect. A prewar building on West End Avenue. With a board that kept out the riffraff, but wasn’t crazy-stringent about it either. Reasonable rents and maintenance fees a full seven percent less than the average. They had redone the shared space four years ago, a great use of morning light and windows. The place had a part-time doorman, Rodney, which was much more sensible than hiring a full-time doorman who would only sit on his heinie all day and earn union wages from overpriced rents.
Ah, someday…
“You sure you can afford a bed?” Gabe asked, pulling her out of her apartment fantasies. She hadn’t planned on buying a new bed, but her old one was on its last legs, literally. At her nod, he tossed the mattress in the corner.
After that, she picked up a crate and headed for the door. “First ground rule—no more making fun of Tessa’s stuff. Observe the boundaries, we’ll be fine.”
He opened the door for her, politely following behind. “Deal. Now let’s get you home.”
GABE’S BUILDING WAS A postwar elevator building on the Upper East Side. The outside was a little too seventies for her own taste, but since he’d owned it for over ten years and it was probably worth close to seven figures, she figured she’d give him a break. That, and the cut-rate—i.e. free—rent. That had been another argument she had lost. However, as a consolation prize he’d let her buy lunch.
In the lobby there was a full-time doorman, Herb, a teapot of a man with a five-o’clock shadow on steroids. And once they got to Gabe’s floor she noticed the nice view, without parking garages to block the sight of the East River.
All in all, the apartment was as she’d imagined. A legitimate two-bedroom, not one of those skimpy conversions from a large one-bedroom. The main living area had all the basic essentials: television, couch and a dining table, mostly covered with newspapers. The kitchen was galley-style and definitely not big enough for two. However, the appliances were a step above what she was used to.
“You can live here?” he asked while she examined it room by room.
Thoughtfully she walked around, keeping her face nonjudgmental, wanting to make him nervous. “Yup,” she answered quietly.
He backed against the wall, far away from her—but not far enough. she was used to him at work, but this felt different. More intimate. If it hadn’t been for that stupid bet, she wouldn’t be nervous at all.
There was a silence, an awkward silence. A silence she normally would’ve filled, except she knew he would’ve seen through that because she wasn’t a social chitchat gal. He folded his hands across his chest, not seemingly affected at all. Of course, he was used to silence. He was used to living alone.
He.
Gabe.
Tessa felt it again. That fast leap in her stomach, like flying downhill on the Cyclone. She shrugged it off. Life was full of ups and downs and screeching corners, and she wasn’t about to let a little chronic stomach anxiety ruin anything.
This was temporary. She’d be out of his hair soon enough.
She put on a cocky smirk and looked around, anywhere but at him. “It’s great. Listen, I should go study,” she said and promptly fled the room.
FOUR HOURS LATER, SHE was already settled, sitting on her brand-new futon. The earlier flicker of fear had caught her by surprise. And it wasn’t just any fear. No, it was the dreaded man-fear. The implications of living with Gabe had suddenly hit her in places where she didn’t want to feel those complicated implications.
Denny had been the only man she had ever lived with, and in those young, naive days, he had convinced her that she didn’t need to worry about her future. College? Nah. If she only hooked up with Denny Ericcson, then all her dreams would come true. So Tessa deferred the college years, took a part time job as a bartender and spent her days tanning on the sunny Florida beaches. But then her twenty-second birthday arrived. Denny told her that the relationship had gone stale and he was ready to move on, because he wasn’t the one-woman-forever type. Putting her out to pasture at twenty-two.
Dreams could come true? Ha. More like nightmares.
Needless to say, the last four years had been manless. No hookups, no man dreams and, yes, there’d been times in the past when she’d felt momentary urges, but nothing lasting. As a bartender, it was expected that your customers would hit on you. You learned how to either brush aside the urges or act on them. Tessa was a brush-asider, always a brush-asider.
And, to be honest, she’d had urges for Gabe before, too, because, well, she wasn’t blind, or stupid, and Gabe was…
Oh, God. Living with him was going to kill her study skills.
Even her room was filled with his presence, and he wasn’t even here. She felt like an intruder in this place that was so obviously his.
A metal desk stood in the corner, covered with O’Sullivan family photos, papers nearly overflowing the top. A weight bench sat next to the window, and a monstrous collection of vinyl records sat in open boxes in the corner. Her first thought was to snoop, but that was a violation of all the roommate privacy regulations that she kept dear.
No, she was going to study, so Tessa covered her face with her accounting book, blocking out all temptation. Eventually the sinking fund method of depreciation brought her back to a mind-numbing cold reality. And then, as if to really drag her back to reality, her mother called.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, abandoning all pretense of studying and wandering over to look at the O’Sullivan family pictures.
“How did you know it was me? Were you thinking of your favorite mother?”
“Caller ID, Mom.” Her mom was a Luddite where technology was concerned, but Tessa forgave her for it.
“Your phone’s been disconnected.”
With a heavy and completely audible sigh, Tessa put back the photo of three dark-headed boys in Little League uniforms.
“I moved, Mom,” she said, before mouthing the word Again?
“Again?”
Argh.
“Mom, you don’t understand the Manhattan apartment market. Rents are always changing, fees are going up, rentals turn into co-ops overnight. You have to stay on your toes, ready to handle whatever comes your way.”
“That assumes that someone can handle whatever comes their way.”
“How long have I lived on my own?”
“You’ve been in New York for four years, but you never have lived on your own. You should come back to Florida, Tessa. Your family is here and we can help you.”
Tessa returned to the comfort of her futon and leaned her head against the wooden back. This was a horse that’d