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decide that the chairs are my favorite things in
here, because they are place directly in front of the
floor-to-ceiling windows that flank one entire side of the room.
    Tyler puts the pizza
down on the breakfast bar and walks over to grab some plates. Walking
back, he nods towards my feet. “Aren’t those things hurting you?
Take them off, get comfortable,” he says, looking at my kitten
heels. God forbid! I
better make sure he never sees me in my double platforms with their
six-inch heels. He just might
call 911!
    I turn towards the door
and stop dead in my tracks. The whole back wall, with the exception
of the doors, has been covered in six by nine inch photos. I walk
closer, in absolute awe. Some of the shots are of sunsets, others,
tall buildings shot at impossible angles, and there are even some
candid shots of people, landmarks, and interesting things.
    “Wow,” I breathe.
    “I take it you like
my work?” Tyler asks, handing me a plate.
    “You’re a
photographer, I’m guessing. Either that, or a professional
traveler,” I say. With the amount of wealth that the Carson family
possesses, I’m quite sure one of their sons could live off of them
forever, travelling the world. Or possibly both.
    “Very perceptive,”
he says with raised eyebrows and a grin. “I’m a travel
photographer.”
    “The horror,” I
tease. “A Carson man who is not a doctor!”
    “That’s me, Tyler
Carson. Otherwise known to my mother as the rebellious son,” he
jibes back effortlessly.
    Tyler and I sit in the
pod chairs and stare out at the neon landscape that is New York City,
demolishing both pizzas in the process. As the sun sets over the
horizon, darkening the room, Tyler walks over to a large seventeenth
century-style street lamp and stretches up to flick it on. I’m lost
for a brief moment as his t-shirt rides up to reveal the bottom row
of a delicious looking set of abs. The thin cotton of his sleeve
strains under the flex of his bicep. Stop
that! This is Blake’s brother, I scold myself.
    A million questions
plague me. Why has Blake never
mentioned Tyler? Or Eliza, for that matter? Why don’t any of them
talk anymore? Would Blake approve of me sitting alone in his
brother’s apartment, barefooted and eating pizza?
    The last question
interrupts my musing. Blake has no right to decide that. Blake
should have been home with me.
    “Just a guess,”
Tyler interrupts with a cocky grin, “but are you talking to
yourself and answering yourself back in your mind?”
    “Why yes, yes I am,”
I laugh.
    “You know that those
are the first two signs of madness, right?” Tyler replies
matter-of-factly.
    “Is there a third, or
am I certifiable after just the two?” I ask. Tyler is easy to be
around. He’s pleasant and nice, and though he is cheeky and quips a
lot, he doesn’t seem overly flirtatious or smarmy to the point
where I start to feel uncomfortable.
    “The third is eating
pizza with a random stranger in a strange apartment,” he laughs,
taking a bite of his slice. “I could be an axe murderer, or a
lonely stalker looking to find a new obsession.”
    “You’re my future
brother-in-law. Or so you claim. And yes, I do admit now that you
mention it, you are a little strange—” I jibe back. There are
worse things than being stalked by him, I’m sure.
    “Only a little? Wow,
now there’s a compliment,” he laughs. “So, catch me up. How
exactly did you meet my brother?”
    “I was waitressing at
a restaurant a few blocks away. Although, at those posh places, I
think I was referred to as a ‘table service attendant.’ Blake
came in one night. He stalked me for about a week until I agreed to
meet him for coffee.” I hold up my rather large diamond engagement
ring. “The rest is history. I had just moved here from Cuba.”
    “Cuba?” Tyler asks,
baffled.
    “Yes Cuba, in
Missouri,” I say with a laugh. “We became engaged three weeks
ago. And much to your mother’s horror, have yet to throw