‘Jennifer, I know it was supposed to be one wild night, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Come with me to Paris for the weekend, I’ll take care of everything, first-class all the way. We’ll drink champagne and stay at the Ritz, and I’ll spend all day on my knees licking your—’
“Okaaay!” My friend Millie stops reading, her eyes wide. She peers closer at my email. “He’s really going to town there? Is that a thing now? I didn’t know it was a thing.”
“Apparently, it’s a thing,” I agree.
“So? What are you waiting for?” She squeezes baby puree on top of her yoghurt and takes a bite. I dropped by her apartment for coffee on my way to work, and as usual, the place is a disaster—with a sleeping baby in the center of the mess. Millie scoops up a stained shirt with one hand, and wipes applesauce off the counter with the other. “I mean, Jenn, just think about it. Paris, champagne, unlimited oral pleasure with Stefano here… You should totally take him up on that offer.”
“I would, but it’s not me he wants to lick!” I shut my laptop with a laugh. “And the only thing I’m making sweet, sweet love to is your espresso machine.”
“The Other Jennifer Walker?” Millie asks.
“Strikes again.” I nod.
It was funny, to begin with. A couple of years ago, I started getting emails that were clearly meant for someone else. VIP invites to swanky parties. Receipts for gorgeous, designer clothing. I even got a confirmation for a yacht rental in the South of France.
Since I was sweating on the subway with my nose in someone’s stinky pit at the time, it didn’t take me long to realize I had a name doppelgänger out there. A quick google confirmed it: Jennifer Walker, also from New York City, also thirty years old, but that’s about all we have in common.
While I’m toiling away in the marketing department of a supremely boring corporate law firm, she does something in fashion PR. Her social media is packed with glamor and adventure, not just her sourdough starter and knitting projects.
And then there are the men…. This Stefano is only one in a long line of hopefuls sending emails into the void, ready to whisk the Other Jennifer away for sexy, luxurious adventures in exotic locations. From the way they talk to her, this woman is clearly an expert in Tantra and teasing—with beer-flavored nipples.
“Should I try to forward this one to her?” I ask Millie. “I hate to leave Stefano hanging.”
“Does she ever reply?”
“Nope.” I sigh. “I’ve tried to let her know about the mix-up a dozen times, especially when I got her tax return from her accountant, but she doesn’t seem to check her DMs. She did, however, claim over a thousand dollars of Botox as a business expense!”
Millie laughs. “Some people have it all figured out.”
Other people.
Not me.
Just one letter separates me from Jenniferjwalker@quickmail.com. One letter, and our entire daily reality. Because, according to the stray emails that land in my inbox every other day, the Other Jennifer Walker is having the time of both our lives.
“I better get to work,” I tell Millie, setting my mug in the sink.
“Tell you what,” she says brightly. “Let’s go to that Parisian café in the Village this week.”
I smile back at her, cheered by the thought of a small bistro table and an extra-large plate of frites. “Sounds great.”
“I know I’m no Stefano, but…” Millie drops her voice, with the breathiness of a perfume ad voiceover. “We’ll drink café au lait and stay close to home. I’ll spend all day—”
“Millie!”
“…Complaining about how tired I am,” she says, with a laugh. “Obviously.”
“Have a good day!” I call, waving on my way out the door. I turn to blow the baby a kiss.
“You too, Isla!”
I walk the familiar path to my station, enjoying the morning sun. My job is pretty average, so I’ve learned to soak in small workday pleasures. When I got my marketing degree, I imagined fast-paced pitch meetings and cutting-edge tactics. I would stun glamorous clients with my fresh ideas about jewelry and champagne. I would wear tasteful designer dresses and work in an office with fancy lamps.
I would be Emily in Paris, basically.
Instead, I landed a marketing gig at a corporate law firm right out of school. My work at Strauss, Nichols, and Zimmerman is almost indescribably boring. I organize the annual prospectus, I send press releases to the same dozen media sources, and I help stage our conferences. Privately, I pronounce the acronym SNZ as “Snooze.” Last week, I pitched the idea of a breakfast burrito bar at our annual conference. One of the partners said, and I quote, “Let’s slow down here.”
But Snooze has two major things going for it: The pay covers all my bills and the workload requires zero time or energy after 5 o’clock. With those two pieces, I’ve built a nice little life for myself. I can afford my cute apartment, and I can spend my free time on knitting club, yoga in Central Park, book club, and anything else that strikes my fancy. Last year, I tried pottery throwing and a TikTok class to keep up with the terrifying Gen Z interns.
Am I avoiding the fact I’m calcifying behind the desk here? Maybe. But at least my home-made sweaters are top-notch.
I get to work and settle in my office on the fourteenth floor, but I’m only two emails in—already fantasizing about another cup of coffee—when Blake appears in my office doorway. Aka, the only available man in ten floors who isn’t fifty and divorced. “Hey, babe,” he says, giving me a smirk from behind his too-styled blonde hair.
“Hey,” I reply, trying not to scowl. I hate being called babe, especially by a trust fund kid who acts like the villain in a 1980s John Hughes movie. “Did you need something?”
I ask.
“That depends.” Blake’s smirk grows. “What are you doing later?”
“Knitting.” I reply icily.
“Sure…. Call me sometime.” he gives a wink and saunters off, and I sigh. Because the shameful truth is, there is a not zero percent chance that I will, in fact, call him sometime.
I know, I know. But I’m a red-blooded woman! I have needs! And Blake is…
Convenient. The man is convenient. We hooked up at a particularly hellish company holiday party last year, and somehow, it’s happened a couple more times, when I’m feeling low, and drunk, and wondering when the love of my life might actually materialize.
Because it sure as hell isn’t Blake.
I press my forehead to my computer’s keyboard and think of Other Jen’s wild international love affairs. Maybe she could send some cast-offs my way? Don’t get me wrong, I’m thirty years old. Gone are my days of fantasizing about a true love that gallops in on horseback, but still… I can’t help holding out hope for it. Chemistry. Butterflies. A man who doesn’t yell his own name when he climaxes. It’s not too much to ask, surely? I mean, look at Milo and Millie: They started with an awkward blind date and slowly became a beautiful romance and my couple goals.
But on a blind date the other night, I started fantasizing about closet reorganization. Maybe I’ll arrange my tops in rainbow order, I thought happily. And later, I realized: I should probably want the guy I’m seeing more than I want to KonMari my closet.
Never let it be said, Jenn Walker doesn’t dream big!
By day’s end, I’ve completed the draft of a document I promised to Greg, my least favorite of the partners. I shoot it over on email, but he replies, summoning me to his office—where I find him with a client, a fifty-something man, spray-tanned the color of a tangerine. He’s wearing an open collar with the glint of gold necklace peeking out. “Hello,” I offer, blinking at the chest hair on display.
“Jenn,” Greg says. “I’d like to introduce to our newest client. Karl, this is Jenn, our marketing lead. We’re heading out for drinks to celebrate his coming aboard,” Greg adds. “Big client. VIP.”
“Have fun,” I say cheerfully. I’d rather eat sugar-free cake than tag along.
“Bit of a conundrum, though,” Greg adds, louder. “The rest of the team’s finishing up a call, and I need to hop on. Why don’t you go ahead with Karl to the bar, and keep him company until we can come down?”
Greg shoots me a look. It’s clearly not a question.
“Oh,” I say, gritting my teeth into a smile. “Okay.”
This is what I’m doing with my one wild and precious life, apparently. Babysitting a fifty-year-old stranger who bleaches his hair blond.
“Thank you, Jenn, for escorting me,” Karl says. He has a vague, difficult to place European accent. “You must tell me more about your work.”
“Yes, Jenn,” Greg adds. “You must.”
So I do, for the three blocks it takes to get to the bar. Mavericks is busier than I imagined, with an after-work crowd in suits and pencil skirts.
I turn to Karl, smiling brightly. “I’ll order. What can I get you?”
“Some kind of beer,” he says. Then, with a sly look, “Surprise me. I would like to… Taste something American.”
“No problem.” With any luck, ordering will take so long that Greg and company will arrive before I’m done.
Nudging my way through the crowd, I manage to squeeze into a space by the bar, but clearly, I’ve activated some kind of invisibility cloak, because I can’t seem to get the bartender’s attention in the crush.
“Excuse me? Hello?” I’m considering waving my arms around in full semaphore when the guy beside me simply nods, and the bartender materializes in front of him.
“The usual?” she asks him, because of course a strapping guy gets attention, while I’m tap-dancing for service.
“Sure. But this lady has been waiting a while,” he nods to me with a friendly smile.
And—oh.
Immediately, my heart flutters. And other places. No wonder he nabbed her focus so quickly, because hello. It’s like he just stepped off the cover of Men’s Health magazine, all tanned bronzed skin and broad shoulders and delicious hazel eyes. I’m not usually one to drool over the built, muscular types, but the body this guy has under his casual button-down…
I drag my eyes back to his face. That square-jawed, stubble-framed, boyishly attractive face. “Thanks,” I say, a little breathless. Because the bar is packed and hot. Not because of him. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
“It can get wild on Thursdays after work.” He gives me a wink. “I’ve seen women throw elbows to get their apple-tinis.”
“Really?” I smile. “I’ll have to watch out. I’m normally a straight-home-to-my-knitting kind of gal.”
He laughs like I’m joking, and the grin is overwhelming—a shock of charm and white teeth. His buzzed hair draws attention to his dark brows and eyelashes. The eyelashes.
“What are you drinking?” he asks. “It’s on me.”
I blink. The chivalrous stranger is offering to buy me a drink? Maybe I tripped and fell into Other Jennifer Walker’s reality, but hey, I’ll take it.
“A vodka soda, please,” I say. Then, imagining another half-hour with Karl until the others arrive, I think twice. “Make that a double, actually. And a draft beer.”
The bartender whisks off to handle the order. “Thanks,” I tell him. “I would have been waiting here another hour, for sure.”
“Hey, I can’t have you fainting with thirst in my establishment,” the impossibly handsome man says. “It would be bad for business.”
“This is your bar?” I ask, surprised. From the looks of him, I would have thought he did something more… physical for a living. Round-the-clock sit-ups.
Chippendales, maybe.
“Me and some buddies,” he says, with a note of pride in his voice. “We have another spot uptown we just opened—Renegades.”
“Mavericks and Renegades,” I repeat. “And here, you seemed like such an upstanding citizen.”
This earns me another knee-buckling smile. I brace my hand on the bar to steady myself.
Good Lord, that grin should come with a warning label.
“Don’t worry, we’re more into blazing our own trails than we are into troublemaking,” he says with a smirk.
“Uh-huh,” I say, not buying it. This guy has trouble all over him. And my drool. “A likely story.” I’m about to introduce myself when someone behind me presses too close. It’s Karl.
“I was not feeling patient,” he says, huskily.
“Oh,” I reply, shifting away uncomfortably. Creepy much? “Well, drinks should be here any moment!”
“That is good news.” He smiles at me in that red flag way I feel in my bones.
Where the hell is the rest of my team? “I’m sorry they’re taking so long at the office.” I say blandly. “We’re usually a very punctual bunch.”
Karl smiles. “Oh, do not worry about that.” I feel his hand graze my ass. “We could take this back to my hotel right now.”
The graze turns into a squeeze.
Ewww.
“Yeah, nope. Absolutely fucking not,” I say sharply, scooting away.
Karl maintains that smarmy smile. “The rest of your coworkers are not coming, princess. I asked to be, eh, privately entertained, and here we are.”
Wait, what?
My mouth drops open in horror as the meaning sinks in. What the fuck, Greg?
“Need me to step in?” My new bar friend asks, starting to angle his body to block Karl from me.
“Thanks, but I’ve got this,” I tell him.
“Come on, beautiful,” Karl says, leaning closer to me. “I’ve heard about you American girls, and I would like to see for myself if you—”
Instinctively, I ball up my fist and punch Karl…
… Square in the dick.
He’s doubled over by the time I’ve even realized I did it. And therefore, I have the perfect angle to dump his beer over his head.
“You bitch!” he roars from beneath sopping, bleach blond hair.
“Oh no,” I say sarcastically, grabbing my purse. “And I thought this was going so well.”
My heels click on the way out, leaving Karl in the dust.
I break free into the early evening light, the New York skyline casting long shadows.
Holy shit, I can’t believe I just did that! But he beyond deserved it. He’s lucky I didn’t reach for my pepper spray. I’m still giddy with my karate moves when a voice comes from behind me.
“Wait! Hold up!”
I whirl around, ready to throw a full-on fit. But it’s not Karl. It’s Mr. Impossibly Handsome from the bar, and he’s jogging toward me—with my jacket in his hand. “You left this,” he says, holding it out to me.
“Oh. Thank you,” I tell him gratefully. “And I’m sorry about the mess in your bar. I—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” he stops me, looking amused. “I’d pay good money for that show. I’ve seen a lot of stuff go down here before, but I’ve got to say… The dick punch was new.”
“I took a self-defense class last year,” I admit, flushing. “They said, go straight for the good stuff.”
“Well, you certainly taught me a few tricks.” His grin spreads, and he offers his hand. “I’m Austin.”
“Jenn,” I reply, slowly taking his hand. It’s warm, and large, but surprisingly gentle.
I try not to think what it would feel like touching… other parts of me.
Down girl.
“I’ve never seen you at Mavericks before,” he says, looking like he’s trying to place me.
I shrug. “Like I said, I’m more of a homebody.”
Austin blinks. “Wait. You weren’t kidding about the knitting, were you?”
Great—make the hot man think you’re anti-social, Jenn.
“It’s a social thing, with friends,” I blurt. “A knitting circle.”
I cringe. Because that’s so much cooler.
Austin shakes his head slowly. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jenn, who throws punches and knits sweaters.”
“I mean, not at the same time.” I offer, and he laughs, delicious and rich.
“That would be impressive.” Austin grins. “Although would you need the dick-punch if you had those knitting needles to hand?”
“True,” I laugh, “I should carry them around with me. You never know when a guy like that will need… needling.”
We stand there, just smiling at each other for a moment, and my pulse beats faster in my veins.
Is that… Interest I see in his gorgeous brown eyes? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s been a while since a sexy, fun guy made eyes at me, but I like to think I wouldn’t forget that particular sparkle. And just when I’m wondering how to find the words to suggest we get a drink, or go to dinner, or head back to my apartment to strip naked and have wild, sweaty sex all night, someone clears their throat behind us.
“There you are.” A woman has appeared on the sidewalk, looking impatient—and gorgeous—in one of those skin-tight bandage dresses I could never dream of wearing.
“Here I am,” Austin says to her, as my heart sinks. Of course a man like this has a beautiful, statuesque counterpart.
He turns back to me, “Can I get you a cab? An ice-pack for your fist? Yarn?”
“You’re sweet.” I give him a regretful smile. “Thanks again, but I really am fine.”
That’s basically the Jenn Walker motto, on my family-of-one crest: I’m fine. No matter what disappointments or humiliations the world throws at me, I can count on myself—and that emergency stash of croissant dough in the back of my freezer.
So, flashing them both the most fine smile known to man, I take my dignity and my wounded pride, and walk away.
After all, I have some exciting knitting to get to.