As Jane walks ahead, I stay in front of the letterpress store, waiting to look at the display until Jane is a few shops down. As I admire the lovely, albeit obvious, autumn-themed arrangement of paper products, I consider my reluctance to give Ol’ Sexy Sourpuss the benefit of the doubt. There’s a chance Jane might be right about Darcy, and I’d like to think he is, because, again: good face. If he’s half as skilled at apologizing in the real world as his imagined counterpart is, there may be hope for him yet.

I give my reflection a cursory look, pretending it’s an appeal to my vanity and nothing to do with the shiver I just suppressed. Well done on selection, eight a.m. me. Figure-flattering is a requirement for all my clothing, and today’s floral wrap dress, with its fitted waist, is no exception. Tasteful, with a touch of oomph.

I consider my neckline. Oh, what the hell. I give a quick tug to the body of the dress, bringing the collar down to a less office-friendly level. Tasteful, but the “oomph” borders on “ooh la la.”

I start down the sidewalk, the brush of air tingling against the newly exposed half inch of skin. My watch buzzes with an incoming text.

C: Hey, Lizard! You up for playing tour guide around the end of the month? I’ve booked a couple of magazine shoots, and Gales needs “real” pizza.

My heart leaps. It’s my cousin in California. I scan for Jane. He’ll be excited, too. As much as he loves living in NYC, he misses SoCal, and at this point, Chloe and her fiancé are as much emotional touchstones as they are friends. I tug my phone from my purse. Yay! I type, sending the message with confetti. What are your dates? Who are the shoots with? As a makeup artist, Chloe has worked on fashion shoots all over the country, the lucky brat.

There’s a lull in the traffic, so I cut across the street instead of using the crosswalk farther up. Jane’s in front of the cat hospital, leaning in to look at the kittens available for adoption.

Movement above him catches my attention—something being pulled down from the side of the same building. Or, not pulled, but—I slow my pace—falling?

My chest tightens. The roll-down security gate above the window has come loose from the building. The metal frame wobbles forward, the side nearest me falling first, the other pulling free from the brick to follow—

Jane’s backing away from the window, his attention still on the cats.

He’s right below the damn thing. Does he not see it?

The frame arcs toward him in slow motion.

“Jane!” I dodge a guy on a scooter to keep Jane in my line of sight. His head turns a little, but his eyes stay on the window. “Jane!”