New Year's Eve in Times Square. Ian Cumberland was done
dwelling on last year's miseries. Tonight was about new
resolutions, new hopes, new opportunities. Cheerfully he
stuffed his hands in his pockets and inhaled the crisp,
seventeen-degree air. It was nearly midnight, and he was
primed for the winds of change to blast open new doors. The
neon carnival that was Times Square had seemed the ideal
location—apparently it was also the ideal place for another
two million huddled masses. They were huddled because those
winds of change were blowing from the north at approximately
thirty-five miles per hour. And not that he wanted to
complain, but okay, those winds were freaking cold.
Noisemakers and plastic horns bleated in the air, riding
over the upbeat tempo of the latest and greatest
boy-band—greatest, that is, until they hit puberty or got
involved in the latest sex scandal, whichever came first.
No—no negativity. Not tonight.
Determined to make this work, Ian gave his senses free rein,
marveling at all the tiny details he'd overlooked before.
Ear-blasting sounds, a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors and
a melting pot of smells. He took a deep breath of New York
air—a million divergent perfumes, roasted chestnuts and
strangely enough, honeysuckle.
Over the past year, he'd divided his life into two distinct
periods. Prelayoff and postlayoff. Prelayoff ended precisely
at 4:30 p.m. on February seventeenth. Then, Ian didn't have
the time to waste twelve hours standing around Times Square
waiting for a giant multicolored orb to fall from the sky.
Post-layoff, he still didn't have the time, but now he had
the will.
New Year's at Times Square had been on his list of life
to-dos since he was ten, waiting to be checked off.
Prelayoff, he didn't worry much about getting to Times
Square. Postlayoff, he realized that life was not
cooperative and orderly, and when you got the chance to have
a once-in-a-lifetime moment, you just did it.
The night's crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder. It was
impossible to move, nearly impossible to breathe, and he
found himself sharing the uncomfortably close personal space
of a large group of awestruck foreigners who didn't
understand the common English vernacular: "You're standing
on my foot. Please move."
As he took in the trolling lights and squinty-eyed police
and happy, perky people, Ian waited patiently for something
miraculous, something life-altering, something hopeful. But
all he got was a trampled foot and a deafening horn in his ear.
Still he waited, colder, sober, and now thinking that
perhaps he'd been a little wiser prelayoff when he had
avoided Times Square like the plague.
Hell. On what planet had he actually thought this was a good
idea? It didn't matter that it was New Year's Eve, Times
Square, nearly midnight. In the end, he wasn't an investment
banker anymore; he was an employment counselor, and a
lunatic one at that.
Beckett had told him it was stupid. Told him that nobody
froze their ass off in New York in January when they could
stay home and have a decent party, guzzle champagne and
watch the ball drop from the confines of a well-insulated
apartment. And of course, it was at that moment that Ian had
looked his best friend square in the eye and launched into
his winds of change spiel: new beginnings, living life—doing
it right.
And there, crushed amidst two million other cockeyed
optimists, he felt a killer wind shoot through him, the
truth dawning with frigid clarity.
Ian was a sap. Time to pack in the New Year, accept what he
had and trudge onward. Life was what it was, and nothing—not
even a few mind-shattering hours in the center of the
universe— was going to change it.
Feeling all sorts of foolish, he turned, starting toward the
relative tranquility of the subway, because somewhere out
there, his sanity and his friends were waiting. Before he
managed another step, a pull at his arm knocked him off
balance. Ian whirled, prepared to tell the jerkwad—foreign
relations be damned—to quit touching him. But then he stopped—
Stared.
Gawked, actually.
Gorgeous.
She was honeysuckle in the flesh. She looked like it,
smelled like it and damn, he wanted to know if she tasted
like it, as well. His body shocked to life, filled, throbbed.
Hello, winds of change.
Watercolor-blue eyes were panicked and filled with worry.
Warm, tawny hair streaked with gold spilled from her knitted
cap.
"Have you seen my phone? I can't find my phone. Help me find
my phone. Oh, God. I lost my phone."
Her voice was soft and tense against the noise of the crowd.
She was searching for her phone. Help her.
"Where'd you lose it?" he asked, raising the volume,
noticing the beefy tourist sizing her up with beady eyes.
"On the ground. I dropped it and I really need to find it. I
shouldn't be here. It's a complete zoo. Why did I come here?"
To meet me, thought Ian, a stupid, romantic
thought, right up there with his winds of change spiel. Ian
grinned, a foolish, romantic grin, but he couldn't help
himself. "We'll find it," he offered, and bent to the
ground. She hesitated, her eyes wisely fearful, but then she
bent, too, testing the restraint of millions of drunken
partygoers, probably taking her life in her own hands, yet
still trusting him.
At ground level it was like being underwater, swimming
against the tide of directionally challenged fish. The dim
light was diffused by shifting legs and restless feet and a
continuous swirl of coats. Her hands grabbed for the edge of
his sleeve, her eyes terrified. "You okay?" he asked, and
she nodded once, but still he worried.
"We'll find it," he assured her again, keeping one hand tied
to hers. With the other, he searched for what had to be the
most important phone in the world.
"I can't believe I lost it," she chattered, the words
tumbling out in a panic. "I can't believe I screwed up. I'm
not careless. I can't be careless. I won't be careless." A
clumsy set of legs bumped into her, and she jumped, flying
closer to him.
"Don't get crazy. It's got to be here somewhere," he
soothed, heroically gathering her closer, trying to find her
phone, trying to keep her from being flattened, all the
while warning himself that just because a beautiful woman
stumbled into his arms, it did not mean the winds of change
had finally blown his way.
Blindly he groped the rough asphalt. His hand got stomped on
twice, but apparently the gods actually owed Ian something
good this year and apparently Frank Capra wasn't dead in
spirit—because at that moment Ian's fingers latched on to
plastic. Rectangular, sturdy, magical plastic.
"Got it," he yelled, quickly pulling her upright before they
were both trampled to death—which never happened in Frank
Capra movies.
The flashing neon signs lit up the jittery alarm in her
eyes, and he pulled her to him, instinct more than reason.
"It's okay. It's here," he said, feeling the tremors run
through her, absorbing them into himself. "It's a phone," he
murmured, whispering against her hair. "It's only a phone.
Don't cry."
"Don't like the crowd," she muttered, her face buried in his
shoulder.
"You picked the wrong place to figure that out." He was
relieved to hear her awkward laugh, and decided that holding
a beautiful crowd-o-phobic was worth a layoff, worth being
labeled a sap.
In the end, Ian had been right. New hopes. New
opportunities, and they all smelled like honeysuckle.
He stroked the back of her woolen coat, feeling the slow
ease of her shivering. It didn' t take her long, and he knew
the exact moment when she stiffened, her chin lifted and the
fear had passed. "I'm not crying. I don't cry," she told
him, her voice a lot firmer than before.
Then she gazed at him—her eyes dry, and more focused than
before. "I'm not crying," she repeated. "Thank you. This was
stupid. I'm sorry. I don't like being stupid."
Her profile seemed so fragile, so oddly out of place in the
chaos of the crowd, the lights and the noise. Her face was
thin, delicate, a medieval maiden out of a fairy tale. Yet
there were hollow shadows in her eyes, shadows that didn't
belong with such beauty. It took more than a lost phone to
cast shadows like that. Gently he tracked her cheek,
pretending to wipe at nonexistent tears, only wanting to
touch the golden rose of her skin.
"You're not being stupid. Everything's fine now.
Everything's perfect now," he said, watching as the control
eased back into her face.
"Thank you for finding my phone."
He casually shrugged off her gratitude, knowing the night
was young, the year was young. What was a job, anyway? What
was financial security? Totally oversold. In the big scheme
of life, could anything compare to that world-by-the-tail
feeling of her dreamy eyes looking at him as if he was a
hero—and not just any hero, but her hero?
"It's nothing. You're okay now?" he asked, leaning in to be
heard over the crowd. Oh, yeah, right.
"Sorry. I never fall apart," she answered, her head close to
his, so close he could make out the carefully concealed
freckles on her nose.
"Don't apologize. I fall apart on a regular basis."
She glanced at him oddly. "I was joking," he told her, and
cursed himself for being a blockhead. There was something in
her face, in her moon-kissed gaze, that held him fast.
Hidden behind the composure, he could see a child's
curiosity peering out.
Her mouth curved up, a pink Cupid's bow that touched him
somewhere near his heart.
Right then, one of the tourists jammed her into him, and she
started at the movement, until he pulled her close again,
fast adjusting to the heady feel of her in his arms.
"I shouldn't have come here tonight. I thought I could do this."
"I know, a bunch of idiots who think New Year's Eve is a
night for new dreams. What a bunch of dorks. I should have
been home guzzling champagne instead of freezing my… Never
mind." Once again he felt her muffled giggle and decided he
didn't mind being a blockhead, didn't mind being a fool. To
hear her hesitant laugh, to fit those lush curves to his
body, to have her hair brush against his face.
After a moment, she raised her head and carefully studied
him. "You ever do this before?"
"Nope. You?"
"Never again," she answered firmly.
Apparently God was still watching, Frank was still filming
and the winds of change were definitely on the move because
suddenly, miraculously, the crowd began to count.
Thirty-three. Thirty-two. Thirty-one.
Her eyes glowed bright, the muted blue heating to liquid,
trapping him there. Her hands locked to his lapel, as if
she'd never let go. The air began to arc between them,
almost visible, coiling and floating like warm breath in the
chilled night.
New life. New love. New year.
Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.
Totally entranced, Ian slid his right hand behind her neck,
twining it in her hair with a lingering sigh. Her lips
touched his even before he asked, even before he begged.
Soft, sweet, and tasting like a new beginning.
When the crowd jostled her closer, Ian didn't complain, his
left hand riding under her coat, finding the glorious skin
of her back, the inviting curve of her waist. Around them,
the world blew by, showers of confetti, bursts of cold wind
and the joyous shouts of millions of not-quite-sober
partiers. Ian ignored them all, because in the midst of
these millions, it was only he and this woman, and the rest
of their life.
Her generous mouth opened, her tongue merged with his,
coaxing, seducing. Oh, yes, he was so seduced, no coaxing
necessary. His nerves fired, pulsing with life, pulsing with
ideas that were older than time. He would take her home. He
would make love to her. He would marry her. It was the Frank
Capra way.
Impulsive arms locked around his neck, burying her fingers
in his hair. He could feel the insistent touch of her
restless hands. Against his greedy mouth, she moaned. Music.
Bells. Chimes. Somewhere he'd died and was kissing an angel.
His hand slipped lower, pressing her against him, soft to
hard. Her hips curled into him, her thigh rocking between
his. His eyes crossed. Nope. No angel. They didn't have
moves like that in heaven.
An irritant vibrated against his leg—not his cock, nor his
pulse, which were both buzzing in their own overjoyed
condition. She broke away, her breathing heavy, then lifted
the phone, the exact phone he'd found for her only moments
before. Which, if he had not found, she would not be talking
into. No, they would still be kissing. Man, he was such a
stupid dweeb.
Next to them, one of the tourists shot him a look of male
approval, but Ian ignored it, trying to restart his brain.
Here was the inspiration he'd been seeking.
As she talked, her gaze scanned the length of his cashmere
coat. For the first time, he could see that elusive
recognition flicker in her eyes—seeing him as a man who was
worthy—financially viable. Possibly insecure, but there it
was. Maybe the male code had some unwritten law saying it
was cowardly to trade on his past life, but did geeky Clark
Kent ever want to throw open his jacket, exposing the
all-powerful S? Hell, yeah.
The shouts of the crowd fell away. Only her words touched
his ears. She was talking, trying to reconnect with her
date. Date? No!
Ian wanted to yell at her to hang up because this was
kismet, karma, and the entire outcome of his postlayoff life
rested upon this one moment—no pressure. Instead, he kept
his mouth shut, a confident grin plastered on his face as if
this didn' t mean a damn thing.
When she looked at Ian again, the soft blue eyes were so
lonely and sad. He wondered if she had sensed the pull, too.
Ian had never felt it before, never met a woman who stepped
out of his dreams and into his arms. It should have been fate.
"I'm over here," she said into the phone, waving a graceful
hand in the air for someone other than Ian. Other than
Ian. He wanted to stop her because she couldn't be with
someone else. This was a new year. New opportunities. New loves…
"I have to go. He's my date," she apologized, dashing the
final vestiges of his hope to the ground much like last
year's sodden confetti.
"No surprise there," answered Ian, his voice faux cheerful.
"Have a good year." Have a nice life.
One heartbeat later, her expression turned to the
well-mannered smile given to a stranger on the street.
Without another word, she politely asked her beefy neighbor
to move out of the way, and then she moved out of Ian's life.
All before he'd even gotten her name.