Winter had tightened its grip on New York, but I couldn't remember a February where I'd felt warmer. The biting cold that sent most people scurrying between buildings with hunched shoulders and buried faces was just background noise to me now. I had too much going right to let the weather get to me.
What had started as a desperate escape from Todd's department had turned into the best career move, I could have made. Jeff's team wasn't just a better fit--it had become the place where I finally found my voice. In the month since our January visit to Ohio, I'd led two major client acquisitions, establishing myself as someone the senior partners were starting to notice.
The London pitch had opened doors I hadn't known existed, and Jeff kept pulling me into meetings where the real decisions happened. Last week, when the quarterly numbers came in significantly above projections, he'd clapped me on the shoulder in front of the entire floor.
"Harris's client acquisitions made a significant impact on our results this quarter," he'd announced, which had earned me grudging nods from even the most seasoned team members. I'd felt my face flush with a mix of embarrassment and pride--uncomfortable with the public spotlight, but knowing deep down that Jeff's praise was well-earned.
My six-month rotation that had brought me to New York would technically end in March, but Jeff had quietly submitted paperwork making my position permanent, with the possibility of a promotion that was kicking around the VPs that I had hoped to hear about in the next month. This was the reason I wanted to come to New York City to prove myself at the top and with the encouragement of my tall, gorgeous, Danish author girlfriend I had proved to myself and everyone else that I was capable.
Emma's success had materialized in a different form. Her New Yorker publication had created ripples that reached further than either of us had imagined. Three literary agents had reached out after reading "The Ghost of Greenwich Village," each seeing commercial potential in her voice. After careful consideration and several coffee meetings that left her both exhilarated and terrified, she had signed with Vivian Roberts, a young but already-respected agent known for championing literary fiction with commercial appeal.
"You're not just a short story writer," Vivian had told her over espressos at a cozy, sunlit café tucked away in the quiet streets of Greenwich Village. The Elk was warm and inviting, with rustic wooden tables and plants cascading from the shelves, a little haven from the city's relentless pulse. "Your voice has the depth and perspective for a novel. After reading those sample chapters, I'm convinced we can find the right home for your book."
Emma had recounted the meeting to me that night, her blue eyes wide with a mix of excitement and terror, her Danish accent thickened with pride as she recounted the literary agents' interest in her work. She'd been working on a novel--fragments and scenes she'd been steadily developing on her new laptop, pieces she'd shared with me but rarely discussed with others. Now, suddenly, her writing had stepped beyond the sanctuary of our apartment. With an agent's belief came the unspoken pressure of deadlines, industry expectations, and the looming possibility of a book deal that could reshape both our futures in ways neither of us had fully considered.
For the past two months, Emma had been rising before dawn, filling pages with what was becoming a meditation on cultural displacement, family secrets, and the ghosts of choices never made. Three days a week, she still tended bar at The Dead Rabbit, but her colleagues now teased her about being a "famous author" when literary-looking patrons requested her section.
Vivian had begun shopping the first three chapters and a proposal to editors at major publishing houses. Each submission sent Emma into spirals of anxiety that only my steady presence could calm.
"They're going to see right through me," she'd whispered one night, curled against me in our bed, the sheets cool against our skin. "They'll realize I have no idea what I'm doing."
I had simply pulled her closer. "Nobody does," I'd replied. "But they couldn't see through you if they tried. You're the real thing, Emma. You always have been."
We had found a rhythm together, supporting each other's ambitions while building something shared between us. The Denmark residency remained unmentioned most days, though occasionally Emma would receive an email from the program director checking if she might reconsider for the following year's cycle. She always showed these to me with transparent honesty, but her response never wavered.
"I've found my residency," she'd told the director in her final reply. "It's a third-floor walkup in the West Village with uneven floors and a man who believes in me."
On this particular afternoon in February, I had gotten up early to go for a run and found myself in need of a nap after lunch.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the hardwood floor. It was my birthday, and Emma had something planned for the evening--I knew that much. But whatever it was, she'd kept the details deliberately vague. I grabbed a pair of lounge pants from the dresser and pulled them on, shaking off the last remnants of sleep as I padded toward the door.
The moment I stepped into the living room.
"Happy birthday, Harris."
Ashley Monroe.
She was sitting comfortably on our couch, one leg crossed over the other, a knowing glint in her green eyes. Dressed in tight jeans and heeled boots, she wore a soft, form-fitting sweater that did nothing to hide the curves she had always been aware of. Hair perfect. Nails manicured. As put together as always.
Emma, standing by the kitchen counter, had already turned to me, her blue eyes warm as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my neck.
"Happy birthday, Matt." She kissed me lightly, her lips soft and unhurried, lingering just enough to tease. She was wearing dark slacks that hugged her in all the right places, a fitted turtleneck that accentuated her long neck and the graceful lines of her body. Simple, elegant, effortlessly sexy.
Ashley was watching. Amused.
My brain was still catching up.
"Come sit," she said, nodding toward the couch. "We need to talk about your birthday."
Ashley being here wasn't entirely shocking--we were all friends--but this wasn't the usual drop-in. Emma had orchestrated something. And Ashley was clearly in on it.
I looked between them, both watching me expectantly, their postures relaxed but tinged with something else. Amusement. Anticipation. Like they knew something I didn't.
Emma sat down across from us, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup of tea as she tilted her head slightly, studying me.
"I told you to clear your calendar," she said, her voice softer than usual, almost hesitant. "Because I thought... maybe this afternoon and evening could be something special."
Ashley grinned, leaning back against the cushions. "And lucky you, Harris--Emma came to me with this little idea."
Emma took a sip of her tea before speaking. "It wasn't exactly planned for a while," she admitted, glancing down momentarily. "Your birthday seemed like a good excuse, but really, this is about... trying something I thought you might enjoy."
"Something you might enjoy?" My voice came out slower than intended, like I was still buffering.
Ashley grinned. "A fantasy, Harris," she said matter-of-factly. "Or at least, what Emma thinks might be a fantasy of yours." She glanced at Emma with a hint of amusement. "She wasn't entirely sure, but thought it worth exploring."
