THIRST Read online

  Her eyes scan the screen as her smile spreads quickly. “That’s it. I love that, but in white with gold rivets instead of silver and a touch bigger.”

  “I can work on a sketch and send it to you.” I drop my phone back in my tote. “Email me once you’re home and we’ll collaborate.”

  “This is fate,” Nora says, looking around us. “We were meant to run into you today, Dexie.”

  I’ll call it luck because there’s the potential for two sales in my future. I know that they may never reach out, but I always hold out hope that the people who show interest in my handbags will follow through and place an order.

  “Today would be perfect if we could agree on where to get some pasta.” Trisha laughs. “There must be thousands of choices in the city.”

  “Trust me on this, ladies.” I take a step toward the edge of the sidewalk and raise my hand at the approaching traffic. “I’m going to grab us a taxi. You want to eat dinner at Calvetti’s.”

  “Please say you’re joining us so you can tell us all about New York,” Trisha says, glancing at Nora. “We’re here celebrating my fortieth birthday. I’d love to know what it’s like to be a twenty-something single gal living in the big city.”

  It’s hard work being a twenty-seven-year-old struggling purse designer who spends her days coming up with catchy campaigns to sell lipstick shades she’ll never wear and her nights alone in her bed.

  “I assume you’re single,” Trisha continues. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

  I look down at my bare hands. “I’m still looking for Mr. Right.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for you at Calevetti’s,” Nora offers with a sly grin. “Let us buy you dinner as a thank you for breaking up our argument.”

  Wrapping her arm around her sister’s shoulder, Trisha giggles.

  “I’d love to, but I have to work on a purse tonight for a client.” I smile as a taxi slows. “I’m headed in that direction though. We’ll stop at Calvettti’s and then I’ll walk home and leave you two to enjoy the best pasta in New York City.”

  Chapter 4

  Rocco

  Just as I glance toward the windows at the front of my grandmother’s restaurant I catch a brief glimpse of long blonde hair kissed with pale pink streaks. The fleeting image is enough to lure me to my feet, but the woman disappears out of sight just as my grandmother approaches with a ten dollar bill in her hand.

  “Why are you standing, Rocco?” She waves her hands to motion for me to sit back down. “Your food is coming. Patience, my boy. You need to learn some patience.”

  I look over at the two women wearing I heart NY shirts who just walked in.

  My grandmother, Martina Calvetti, adores tourists and native New Yorkers alike. She makes everyone feel at home in her restaurant. The only time I remember her without open arms and a smile on her beautiful face was in the months following my mom’s passing.

  I was six-years-old, but the memory of my grandma crying as she stood in the kitchen of this restaurant trying to prepare enough food to feed everyone in our family after her eldest daughter’s death has stuck with me.

  She’s not only the strongest woman I’ve ever known, but she has the biggest heart.

  “I thought I saw someone.” I don’t elaborate beyond that.

  The pink-streaked blonde hair was a reminder of the woman who lives in the building next to mine. I caught her eye through the window a few nights ago after dusk fell. She was staring at me. I gladly returned the favor. The next morning I watched as she hurried to get ready for her day.

  For the most part, she was in her bathroom out of my view, but as she was leaving her apartment, I saw the light blue dress she was wearing.

  I took the stairs two at a time to make it down the six flights before she exited her building.

  Her elevator beat me.

  When I stepped out of my building, she was already headed down the sidewalk with a pair of red heels on her feet, an orange leather bag slung over her shoulder and her gorgeous hair whipping in the wind.

  Physically, she looks nothing like the women I’m typically attracted to, yet there’s something about her that I can’t shake.

  “This is for you.” My grandmother drops the ten dollar bill on the table next to my glass of water.

  As I sit back down, I look into her blue eyes. They’re the same shade as mine. “You’re paying me to eat here now? Since when?”

  She ruffles my hair. “You need a haircut.”

  That’s debatable. I don’t put a lot of thought into my hair. I wash it, towel dry it and it ends up looking unruly. It’s working for me judging by the number of second glances I’ve been getting from women I pass on the sidewalk.

  “Marti,” I start with the name I’ve always called her. She’s always been Marti to me. She tells me that she christened herself that on the day I was born, so I’ve never strayed from it. It fits her. Just as the name Rocco suits me. It was my grandfather’s first name and I’m proud to be the second Rocco in the family. “I hate to break the news to you, but I can’t get a decent haircut for ten dollars.”

  “Define decent.” She twirls her hand in the air. “Anything is better than this.”

  “Keep your money.” I slide the bill back toward her. “I can afford a haircut.”

  She shakes her head adamantly. Her graying brown hair stays in place in the bun she always pins it into at the base of her neck. “You could use a shave too.”

  “I didn’t come here for the critique. I came for a plate of lasagna.”

  “You’ll eat the spaghetti today.”

  I laugh loudly. “I ordered the lasagna.”

  She shoots me a look. “I know what’s best for my grandson. You’ll eat the spaghetti. I made it myself.”

  She makes everything herself.

  “Spaghetti it is,” I acquiesce with a shake of my head.

  Her gaze slides to the table where the women wearing the I heart NY shirts are now sitting. “I’m going to go over and welcome those two beauties. I’ll see if either is available.”

  “Marti.” I rub my temples. “No more set-ups.”

  “Is it a crime that I want my grandson to have a happy life?” Her hands trail through the air in a wide arc. “Ti amo, ragazzo mio.”

  I love you, my boy.

  The same words my mother would say to me in Italian every night.

  “I love you too.” I reach for her hand, kissing her calloused palm. “I have a happy life. You’re a big part of that.”

  She pats me on the top of the head. “Use the money to get a haircut. You’ll attract more women if you clean yourself up.”

  I laugh as Manuel, one of the servers, approaches with a round white plate piled high with spaghetti and meatballs.

  I’m eager to eat and then head home. With any luck, the beautiful woman who lives in the building next to mine will be waiting for me by her window tonight.

  Chapter 5

  Dexie

  I bang my fist against the cover of the air conditioner again. It starts up with a thud and a whir, but it’s short-lived. It sputters, just like it did the first two times I tried the novel approach of punching it to get it to work.

  It’s unbearably hot in here. I felt the stifling heat the moment I walked in and hit the switch to turn on the track lighting on the ceiling. By the time I shut my apartment door, my dress was on the floor and I was on my way to take a quick cool shower.

  I put on a pair of black yoga shorts and a matching sports bra after I toweled off. My lack of clothing should bring me some relief, but it doesn’t.

  Sighing, I type out a text to the building’s superintendent, Harold, again. It’s the third one I’ve sent in the two hours since I got home.

  I tell him that my skin feels like it’s melting off and I need him to come to my apartment now.

  I press send even though I doubt he’ll reply. He hasn’t responded to the first two texts or the voicemail I left him.

  I’m not surprised. I heard a
loud thud come from the apartment across the hall from mine ten minutes ago. Maybe their air conditioner died too.

  I take another long sip of cold water from the glass I’ve refilled twice before I set it back down on a small table next to the worn red wingback chair in the corner.

  Hydration is my only ally right now.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. My gaze drops, my heart leaping with the hope that it’s Harold.

  “Dammit,” I mutter under my breath when I see the text is from Sophia.

  Sophia: What are you doing right now?

  It’s typical Sophia. She sends the same text whenever she wants to meet for a drink or dinner. Since I already ate a piece of pizza on the go on my way home, and I’m not in the mood for a martini, I cut to the chase to save us both time.

  Dexie: I’m in my hot as hell apartment wearing almost nothing. I can’t hang out tonight. I need to work.

  The dots on the screen start jumping while she types a response.

  Sophia: Why is it hot as hell? You have an air conditioner. Turn it on before you pass out.

  I laugh at her predictability. Sophia is the most caring person I’ve ever met. Since she became a mom, her need to nurture everyone around her has increased tenfold.

  Dexie: Before you tell me to call the super, I have. The air conditioner isn’t working.

  I smile knowing that she’s about to invite me to her apartment. She has a guest room that overlooks Central Park. I crashed there once when we had too much red wine on her birthday.

  Her husband, Nicholas, made me feel like I was a member of the family. They’ve both always treated me with nothing but love and respect.

  Sophia: Come stay here tonight. We can hang out. I’ll help you with your work. We’ll have some wine.

  I laugh aloud, my fingers flying over the screen of my phone.

  Dexie: You’re the best, but I’m staying here. I can deal with the heat.

  I finish what’s left of the water in my glass while she types.

  Sophia: The offer is open if you change your mind, but do me one favor.

  I start toward my kitchen faucet to refill my glass, but I stop mid-step when I look out one of the windows and catch a glimpse of the building next door.

  He’s back.

  The man from last night is standing in front of his window, wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, so I drop my gaze to it just long enough to read Sophia’s next message.

  Sophia: You said you’re wearing next to nothing so unless you have something covering your windows, you need something to cover you. Put on a robe or some clothes before your neighbors see you!

  I smile to myself as I type out a response.

  Dexie: Too late. I need to go.

  My phone is only silent for a few seconds before it starts to ring. I toss it on the bed, knowing that Sophia’s curiosity and imagination are both getting the better of her.

  She’d never let a stranger see her this exposed.

  Normally, I wouldn’t either, but the way the man next door is staring at me makes me want to twirl in place to give him a glimpse of every angle of my body.

  My phone quiets briefly before it starts up again, the jarring sound of the ringer suddenly overshadowed by a loud knock at my door.

  “Ms. Walsh, it’s Harold.”

  My gaze darts back to the man at the window. His arms are crossed over his chest. His eyes are pinned to my every move.

  I’m tempted to tell Harold to come back tomorrow, but the air in my apartment is too hot and stuffy for me to work or sleep.

  I race to the clothing rack in the corner. I yank off the first thing my hand lands on.

  It’s a man’s white dress shirt I picked up on sale last winter to wear with one of my favorite skirts. I wrap it around me, buttoning it as I call out, “I’m coming.”

  Once I swing open the door, I turn back to look at the window, but my gorgeous neighbor has vanished, along with the hope I had that I’d get to see more of him tonight.

  Chapter 6

  Rocco

  I take my time in the shower, trusting that when I’m done, Harold Demarco will be long gone.

  He interrupted a moment between my almost nude neighbor and me thirty minutes ago.

  I caught a brief glimpse of her in a bra and yoga shorts before she draped what looked like a man’s dress shirt over her body.

  I haven’t seen a guy in her apartment, so I’m assuming the shirt belongs to her. I’m hoping like hell it does.

  The apartment she lives in has been devoid of blinds for more than a year. I stopped glancing in that direction after I saw a man fucking a redheaded woman against one of the windows months ago.

  I locked eyes with her, she tempted me with a finger curl to join them and I declined with a shake of my head.

  When I’m with a woman, I want her all to myself. I don’t share.

  Stepping out of the shower stall, I wrap a white towel around my waist. Pushing my hair back from my forehead I walk into the main living space.

  A quick glance at the window rewards me with the sight of my neighbor standing with her back to me, the dress shirt still covering every inch of her skin except for her toned legs.

  Harold is next to her, a phone against his ear as he shakes his head.

  The blonde beauty lives in a dump. The building should have been condemned years ago, but the owner orders Harold to patch the problems whenever he’s forced to so he can keep the inspectors at bay.

  I’ve watched dozens of tenants come and go from my perch across the street. The walls in the apartment I’m staring into have thousands of stories to tell, but none as interesting as the one I’m watching now.

  Harold is on the move. He crosses the apartment headed straight for the door.

  My pulse leaps, my cock hardening at the thought of my neighbor being alone again.

  “Fuck,” falls from my lips when Harold swings open the door and a woman is standing there. She’s average height with brown hair bobbing around her shoulders.

  She pushes her way past him and approaches the blonde.

  Words are exchanged between the three of them before the brunette grabs a pair of jeans hung over the back of a chair and shoves them into my neighbor’s hands.

  I watch as she walks toward the bathroom with even steps, the pink streaks in her hair catching the overhead light.

  Whatever moment we might have had has been lost.

  I turn away from the window, rub my hand over my erection and close my eyes.

  I’ll get off tonight to the fleeting image I have stored in my mind of her body in that bra and those shorts.

  I crave more. I want to see more of her, know more about her and touch all of her.

  Tonight I’ll have to settle for less.

  ***

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Lenore Halston calls back over her shoulder. “Rocco is here at the crack of dawn.”

  She’s not lying. It’s early.

  I barely slept last night.

  After I pulled on a pair of black boxer briefs and jeans, I stood at the window and watched my neighbor leave with the brunette woman.

  By the time I went to bed hours later, she hadn’t returned.

  I woke with a start just after four a.m. and couldn’t help but notice that the overhead lights were still on in the apartment across from mine.

  The bed was empty.

  I went back to my bed, tossed and turned for an hour and then hit the pavement for a run.

  Another quick shower and a cup of coffee were followed by a subway ride here.

  Looking polished in a three-piece gray suit, Glenn Halston appears around a corner in the luxurious office he keeps on Park Avenue to feed his ego.

  The man is worth as much as I am. He put his life savings in tech stocks before smartphones hit it big. He’s been a mentor of sorts to me for years, helping me navigate the world of investing in other people’s dream businesses.

  He pushes h
is black-rimmed eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “You don’t come bearing gifts?”

  I laugh aloud. “My presence isn’t enough?”

  “It is for me,” Lenore, his wife, fans herself with a piece of paper as she looks over the black V-neck T-shirt and jeans I’m wearing. “You’re as handsome as ever, Rocco.”

  “Compliments are the key to this man’s heart.” I tap my hand over the center of my chest.

  “Enough with the flirting with my wife.” Glenn chuckles. “I’m not missing something here, am I? We don’t have a meeting planned for today.”

  We don’t, but I want his take on the app Silas ran past me. I made a promise to Glenn that I would give him a shot at investing in Silas’s next venture after the success of Jewel Jinx.

  I spoke to Lilly Parker on the phone about the app yesterday afternoon. She told me to jump in with both feet and she wants a percentage of the action too. I’m here to give Glenn the option of doing the same.

  “I have an opportunity you might be interested in,” I say, resting an elbow on the reception desk.

  He leans closer, his blue eyes intense. “Should we bring Rhoda in on this?”

  Rhoda McCullough, the third in our trio of angel investors, has zero interest in anything tech related. Initially, I thought that was because of her age. The woman is a breathtaking seventy-year-old with a penchant for the finer things in life and younger men. Her current husband is just shy of fifty-five.

  “It’s not in her wheelhouse,” I explain.

  He glances over at his wife before his gaze lands on me again. “Rhoda has a few new prospects. She wants us to set up something for them next week. Do you have time for that?”

  It’s what Rhoda lives for. She lines up a handful of people looking to launch their start-ups. They pitch their ideas to the three of us. If any of us see potential, an offer may be made to invest in their products, their companies or sometimes their visions.

  I used to enjoy those sessions more than I do now, but that’s how Silas landed in my life, so I won’t turn my back on potential.