“I need a place to stay,” Brontë said, her eyes on the subway map. “I’ve left Logan.”
Just saying it out loud made her chest ache. They’d had a whirlwind courtship. She’d fallen fast, and she’d fallen hard. Logan Hawkings was going to be a difficult man to get over, she realized. She felt raw, completely shredded on the inside. Part of her wanted to turn around and hear him explain, to have him soothe away her hurt, and to return into his arms. She would’ve done anything just to curl up against him again.
Except he didn’t love her, did he? She’d told him that she loved him, and he’d given her a polite pat on the back. And then he’d tried to fix her, which rankled. Danica had been right. She’d blindly trusted him, and he’d tried to shove her into the mold of what he thought she should be.
“You . . . huh?” Audrey paused. “Wait. You left him, and you’re calling me? His assistant?”
A weepy little laugh escaped her. “You’re the only person I know in this town.”
“Oh.” Audrey got quiet. Then she sighed, as if resigned to her course of action. “Where are you?”
“The subway.”
“Yes, but where?”
Brontë curled up on the bench, feeling a little foolish. The subway map looked like a bunch of scribbly lines to her, and she’d never even taken as much as a bus in her life. “I honestly have no idea. It’s by Logan’s building.”
“Okay. I’m pretty sure I can guess what station that is. Just wait there, and I’ll swing by to get you. We’ll talk.”
“Thanks, Audrey,” she said softly. “I appreciate it.”
“You bet,” the assistant said, and hung up.
The violinist began to play a sad tune, and Brontë’s heart sank with every sorrowful note.
Logan didn’t love her. She’d given him everything he’d asked for—her time, her attention, her affection—and he’d still thought she wasn’t good enough. A fresh onrush of sadness rippled through her, and she swiped at her eyes again, frustrated with her own emotions.
Crying didn’t do any good. She was sad and hurt—okay, more like devastated—but she was also angry with herself. She’d let Logan control how their relationship had gone, and she’d gotten burned. If she ever dated someone like him again, she wouldn’t make the same stupid mistake twice.
***
Audrey showed up a short time later, a rounded bundle in a stylish gray peacoat. She was always dressed as if about to head into the office, Brontë realized with a sniff. “Hi, Audrey.”
“Hi,” she said, immediately offering a small packet of tissues to Brontë. “You look rough.”
Eyes watering, she nodded. “I don’t seem to be taking this well.”
“No,” Audrey said, a little troubled. “I don’t think you are. I suppose I should be offering you condolences, but I’m mostly just mystified. You broke it off with him? Are you aware he’s a billionaire? A really good-looking one? Was it truly that bad?”
Brontë blew her nose. “He tried to give me a business.” Her face crumpled. “So I could ‘make something’ of myself.”
“Ouch.”
“I told him I loved him, and he ignored it.”
“Double ouch. Okay, I can see why the lure of his money palls a bit in the face of his emotional ass**leness.” She glanced down at Brontë’s suitcase. “Did you want to go grab a coffee and talk this out or something?”
“I guess so.” She lifted her wet eyes to Audrey. “Then I guess I have to find a hotel.”
“You do know how much most hotels in this area cost?”
Brontë shook her head, her stomach sinking.
Audrey sighed. “Brontë, listen. I really like you and I would love to offer my couch, but if Logan found out, he’d have kittens. So I don’t mind shepherding you somewhere as a Good Samaritan, but I can’t take sides in this. You know whose side I have to take.”
“I know,” Brontë said miserably. “I really appreciate the help, Audrey. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”
The assistant brightened. “However . . .” She snapped her fingers. “I know someone who needs a roomie. Were you planning on staying long?”
“I hadn’t really decided,” Brontë said. She looked around the subway station and then back at Audrey. “I wouldn’t mind taking a few days off to clear my head.” Before crawling back home, she thought.
“Well, if you volunteer to pay half of this month’s rent, I imagine you can stay with her a couple of weeks. I guarantee it’ll end up being cheaper than a few nights in a hotel.”
“Who is this person?”
Audrey smiled brightly. “My sister, Gretchen. Want me to call her?”
Brontë thought about her savings account and the tip money she’d tucked away for a rainy day or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She could cover half a month’s rent, she supposed, even if it was crazy-expensive compared to Kansas City. And she could take her time, see New York, and try to forget all about the man that had stormed into her life and taken over her heart so completely.
She nodded at Audrey. “Can you find out if it’s available?”
***
They took the subway to SoHo, a part of town that Audrey rolled her eyes at. “Such a cliché.”
Brontë hugged her suitcase close, staring around her at the subway with wide eyes. It seemed . . . crowded. Maybe she just wasn’t used to it. “I don’t understand. Why is it a cliché?”
“SoHo’s where all the artists used to live.”
Ah. “Is your sister an artist, then?”
“She likes to imagine she is,” Audrey said with a grin. “Artistic temperament, yes. Artist, no. She’s a ghostwriter.”
“Oh, wow. That’s fascinating.”
Audrey shrugged. “Some days she seems to like it. Some days she seems to hate it. I suppose it depends on who she’s working with.” When the subway announced their stop, she grinned and gestured at the door. “This is us.”
They walked a few blocks to an older apartment building. Audrey jogged up the steps and pushed the call button.
“Who is it?”