I knock on the window, drawing the attention of the tram attendant. “Too late to swim?” I call to him through the glass. He either doesn’t hear me or isn’t amused by my joke, because he stares back blandly as we pass. “Note to self: bring an inflatable raft next time,” I mutter, taking my phone out of my purse and scrolling through emails, hoping British will take the hint and leave me alone for the duration of this three-minute ride.
It’s not so much to ask.
Curious by nature, however, I can’t resist a peek at my fellow passengers via the window reflection and…oh.
Okay, wow.
My roommate would refer to these men as contenders.
They’re all appealing in different ways, but they are indisputably appealing. And stumbling across three attractive men on the Roosevelt Island tram is the dead last item on my list of things I expected to happen this evening, right after Zendaya showing up and informing me she’s my fairy godmother. Or a promotion to staff writer at the Gotham Times.
Now that would be far-fetched.
But hopefully not for long.
Because I definitely saw Deputy Mayor Alexander meeting with the union boss who is currently in a very publicized feud with the actual mayor. By all accounts, they should be enemies. Deputy Mayor Alexander is the mayor’s right-hand man. Why is he having clandestine meetings with Crouch, the union boss who smears the mayor every chance he gets?
“You’re staring, love,” taunts the British man.
He’s right. I’ve been staring at him in the glass reflection. Because there is something familiar about him. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. Did he bartend at that hotel where I trained as a concierge three years ago before getting bored and throwing myself into the natural deodorant space? No, that’s not it. Where do I know him from?
“Porn,” he says from his elegant lean against the interior wall of the tram. “You know me from pornography, darling,” he drawls, his mouth spreading into a grin. “The good shit.”
I’m turning around before I can stop myself, because holy hell. He’s right.
That dark blond hair, the incredible bone structure, that bedroom rasp.
I don’t remember his name—I’m not a porn junkie, although I like a visual aid as much as the next twenty-six-year old girl—but I used to have more than a few of his videos bookmarked on my phone. And right now, I’m staring at him with clear recognition, so I snap my gaping mouth shut, turning to gauge the reaction of the other two men.
They’re both frowning at British.
“That’s enough,” says a guy who has the best posture I’ve ever seen. His back is perfectly straight, his arms crossed over his impressive chest. For a moment, I think I recognize him from somewhere, as well, but no. He just bears a striking resemblance to the Duke from season one of Bridgerton. As in, he’s a perfect ten, emphasis on perfect. There is not a stitch of his impeccable overcoat and pleated slacks out of place. I could eat the second half of my pizza slice off his shiny wingtips. This man is exacting and apparently in the habit of coming to the defense of women he doesn’t know. Very Duke-like, indeed.
“That’s enough of what?” inquires British, amusement twinkling in his eyes as he turns his attention to the second man. “Charisma? It cannot be turned off, unfortunately. Women upon women have performed very thorough searches of my person looking for the switch.”
I can’t help it. I’ll probably cringe about this for the rest of my life, but my attention drops to his crotch.
“That’s the on switch, love. Not the off one.”
Something slightly dangerous flashes in the Duke’s eyes, but before he can say anything, the third man clears his throat and stands up. And up. And up. He’s so tall, the top of his shaved head almost brushes the ceiling of the cable car. The word Hercules whispers through my head. That moniker wouldn’t be misplaced. His musclebound presence, however, is softened by a face that, once upon a time, was definitely a baby face. Until he did too much frowning, perhaps.
Hercules paces forward a step, his paint splattered boots scuffing along the floor—and he settles into a cross-armed position between me and British, No Trespassing written clearly across his rough features.
“It’s not polite to talk about your privates in front of a girl.”
I laugh a little in disbelief. What is happening? “Well this is definitely the most interesting ride of my life.”
“Ah…” replies British without missing a beat. “If only I had a nickel for every time a woman said those words to me…”
The other two men turn to face him, visibly done with his shit.
That’s when the cable car grinds to a halt.
The lights flicker and go out, leaving us in a dim evening haze.
What little heat was being pumped into the tram goes bye-bye.
Long seconds pass in silence while we wait for the conveyance to start moving again.
It doesn’t.
“This is not happening, right?” I say, looking down at the river below, unnerved by the sudden absence of the mechanical hum and watching in jealousy as boats move beneath us on the water toward civilization. “I mean, this thing freezes like once every four years. What are the odds?”
“Slim to almost none,” sighs the Duke, taking out his phone, thumb zipping across the screen. “Guess we’re just lucky.”
Hercules is still posted up between me and British, a furrow between his dark brows. He appears to still be coming up to speed on what exactly is happening.
“Wait,” says the big guy slowly. “It’s frozen?”
We answer him in a chorus of three yeses.
A voice comes over the speaker, but it’s really just a burst of static and unintelligible words, reminiscent of the subway. “Very reassuring.” I toss my purse down on the plastic bench and rub my arms vigorously. The heat has only been off for thirty seconds and I’m already shivering. “Just this morning, I said to my roommate ‘the train has never been more unreliable.’ Roosevelt Island tram? Hold my beer.”
Hercules watches me trying to warm myself from beneath his gathered brows, fingers twitching in the crook of his elbow. “Do you want my sweatshirt?”
He jerks his bearded chin downward at his navy blue hoodie, which is covered in paint and cement splatters, like the rest of him.
“No,” I say immediately. “But thanks.”
“How about my overcoat?” asks the Duke, very smoothly. Already taking it off.
Hercules hangs his head a little.
“No, thank you.” I have to lean sideways to answer the Duke, because Hercules is taking up my entire line of vision. For some stupid reason, I feel the need to add, “I…wasn’t turning down his sweatshirt because it’s dirty.”
“Why did you turn it down?” British wants to know. “You’re shaking. And I—”
“You’re an expert on shaking women,” I interrupt. “Yeah, we get it, dude.”
There’s a hint of a smile on Hercules’s mouth now and I don’t know why I feel relieved about that? Was I worried I hurt this stranger’s feelings by turning down his sweatshirt? I really do need that tequila faceplant.
“I like boundaries. They’re healthy and give me a sense of power in a world where I don’t have much,” I say, pulling up the internet browser on my phone, hoping to find a contact number for whichever city agency runs this godforsaken tram. “That’s why I turned down the sweatshirt and the overcoat. While I’m at it, I’m preemptively turning down whatever you’re going to offer me, too, British. I have a feeling it’s flesh colored and curves slightly to the right.”