Wish I Were Here

by Melissa Wiesner

Genres: Romantic Fantasy; Magical Realism; Contemporary Romance; Paranormal Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Opposites attract when a buttoned-up professor and carefree doorman must restore a magically missing identity in this sparkling romance, perfect for fans of Sophie Cousens and Ashley Poston.

For type-A mathematician Catherine Lipton, growing up with a free-spirited single dad who worked part-time as a clown was more than a little stressful. So as an adult, the only place she’ll allow for variability is in her data sets. Everything in Catherine’s life is ordered, from her lists to her lesson plans at her new job as a college professor. Catherine’s carefully calculated life goes awry, though, when the university’s human resources system rejects her employment paperwork. Soon after, her credit card is declined. At the Social Security office, Catherine makes a shocking discovery—she’s disappeared from the government’s records, and there’s no evidence she exists at all. Catherine can’t seem to convince anyone she’s a real person, even though she’s standing right there in the flesh. 

Catherine knows she can’t count on her dad, and the university is only concerned with who will teach her classes. The one person who offers to help is Luca Morelli, her attractive but aggravating doorman who spends more time flirting with Catherine’s neighbors than he does enforcing the building rules. The older residents might fall for Luca’s charm, but if he can’t keep bikes out of the lobby or put packages in their designated area, how can he help Catherine get her life back?  

Left with no other options, Catherine reluctantly agrees to enlist the help of Luca’s well-connected Italian family. Soon, Catherine finds herself following Luca into a smoky bar to meet the Mafia, breaking into the records room of a local hospital, doing a little light stalking, and having a surprising amount of fun. She also finds herself growing closer to Luca, who makes her laugh and challenges her well-ordered ways. As Catherine begins to unravel the mystery behind her missing identity, she may discover that the “real” Catherine is someone she never expected.

Release date: October 15, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

If only I could have predicted the disaster that would be waiting for me when I stepped off the elevator, I would have taken the stairs. Instead, I rode down to the lobby from my eighth-floor apartment because the last thing I want is to show up to meet my brand-new boss with my blouse sweaty and my hair flying.

My wide-eyed gaze slides to the coffee stain now seeping into my high-waisted herringbone pants. “No!” I balance my dripping travel mug in one hand, lid askew, and fumble in my laptop bag with the other, grabbing a mini pack of Kleenex. From somewhere over my shoulder, the buoyant beat of “Build Me Up Buttercup” drifts into my consciousness.

“Oh… hell,” comes a sheepish voice to my right. “I’m sorry, Catherine.”

I don’t even have to look up to know who is speaking. Luca Morelli. Of course he’s responsible for this mocha-colored mess dripping down my thigh. Just like he was responsible for the bike I tripped over in the mail room last week and my dry cleaning that disappeared the week before that.

“It’s okay…” I focus on scrubbing at the stain, but it’s not okay, and those flimsy little squares are no match for the majority of an extra-large latte. The tissue disintegrates, smearing mangled bits of paper into the fabric weave of my pants. “Oh no.” I can’t meet my new boss like this.

“Wait, stop, you’re just making it worse.” Luca swiftly rounds the lobby’s front desk and reaches underneath, pulling out a neatly folded rag and a bottle of water.

I take one last futile swipe. How could it be worse?

A moment later, Luca is standing in front of me, holding out the rag. “Try this instead.”

I toss the mangled tissue in the trash, and when I reach for the cloth in his outstretched hand, my eyes focus on the burst of vibrant tattoos covering the length of his forearm. I’ve never noticed them before, and the delicate lines of flora and birds are unexpected and beautiful. He must have rolled up the sleeves of his black doorman uniform when he was doing… whatever it was he was doing… when he came crashing into me.

“Why were you…” I wave my hand in the direction of the elevator. “Doing the jitterbug in the middle of the lobby?”

Luca uncaps the water bottle and takes my wrist to pour some into the rag. His hand is warm, his grip firm, and I stare at the etched panels of a monarch butterfly’s wings as it lands on an echinacea flower. I’m drawn to those vibrant colors, and with him leaning close like this, I feel a strange pull to the man who displays them, too.

“Technically, it was the Carolina shag,” he says, yanking me back to my senses.

Why am I standing here staring at his forearms and not on a bus halfway to the university? I lift my gaze from his tattoos to his face, which hovers a good eight inches above mine. But focusing on those dark eyes and bronze skin isn’t helping. So I step away from Luca, swiping at my stained pants. While I manage to dislodge the bits of shredded tissue, the coffee stain doesn’t budge.

“Mrs. Goodwin was the 1964 Myrtle Beach Carolina shag champion.” Luca hitches his chin at a silver-haired Black lady bopping in the corner. Considering her advanced age, she’s pulling off some surprisingly elaborate footwork.

“Hello, honey. Sorry about your pants.” Mrs. Goodwin gives me a wave and then steps her left orthopedic shoe over her right to execute a graceful spin across the scuffed tile floor.

“Mrs. Goodwin was teaching me her moves, and I wasn’t expecting anyone to step off the elevator right at that moment.” Luca holds up his hands in a who knew? gesture.

I give up on the coffee stain and drop the wet cloth into his open palm, my frustration growing. When I came to the DeGreco to tour the available apartment, there were at least three other people who were also interested. So I knew I was lucky to be the one to land this affordable rental in a quiet building. The handsome, charming doorman seemed like a huge bonus. I looked forward to the extra security at the front door, especially after growing up in a series of sketchy apartments.

And—I remember a brief flash of attraction that first time we met—maybe that isn’t the only reason I liked having a handsome, charming doorman.

But it turns out that I’m in greater danger of bodily harm when Luca is around than I am when he’s disappeared for hours at a time. I press my palm to the dark splotch on my pants and do my best to be grateful that at least the coffee didn’t burn my leg. “Of course,” I murmur through gritted teeth. “Why would you expect people in a twelve-story building to be riding the elevator at eight in the morning?”

“Well, to be fair, it must be broken, because the numbers over the door usually light up and the bell dings on each floor, letting me know people are coming.” Luca shakes out the rag, and I’m treated to another colorful flash of forearm. “I’ll need to get Dante in here to fix it.”

“Please do.” I cross my arms primly. “And while you’re at it, maybe you could brush up on the building’s manual of rules and regulations. I am sure that ‘no dancing in the lobby’ is detailed there.”

To be honest, I am not sure that “no dancing in the lobby” is detailed in the building’s manual of rules and regulations. But I am sure that—despite the fact that he’s served as the building’s doorman for much longer than the month I’ve lived here—Luca has never actually read the manual of rules and regulations and probably won’t go and check it now. I know this because he seems to do whatever he pleases, whenever he pleases. Generally, that boils down to a lot of fraternizing with the building residents and very little manning of the door. Normally, I do my best to ignore his loose interpretation of his job description, except when I can’t.

Like today.

“Damn it,” I mutter, glancing down at the stain on my pants again. It’s really setting in now, and I don’t think there’s any way to save this outfit. I check the time on my phone, and my heart sloshes like my coffee did moments ago. I’d carefully timed out my morning to arrive at the bus stop ten minutes before the 54 was scheduled to arrive. That bus would have gotten me to campus thirty minutes before my breakfast meeting with the dean of the mathematics department, which would have allowed me five minutes to walk to the café, five minutes for a stop in the bathroom, and twenty minutes to go over my notes before he arrived. And just in case I forgot—which I won’t—I printed out the schedule and tucked it into the front pocket of my bag along with my list of things to accomplish today.

I do some quick calculations in my head. Can I take the elevator back upstairs, change into a clean pair of trousers, and still make it to the bus on time?

My breath hitches. Do I even have a clean pair of trousers? The clothes the dry cleaner said they’d left with my doorman—aka Luca—never did turn up, and since my job doesn’t officially start for a few more weeks, I had plenty of time to buy new ones. Or so I thought. If I don’t figure this out in the next three minutes, I’m going to miss the bus.

I take a deep breath. I don’t have a car yet. I’d hoped to be able to afford a car payment after a few paychecks came through from my new job. The job I am currently running late for.

I fumble with my phone for my rideshare app.

Except there’s still the issue of the pants.

Hands shaking, I pop the lid back on my half-full mug of coffee and thrust it into Luca’s grasp. “Hold this, please.” And then I run for the elevator, slamming my finger on the button and pressing it over and over, as if that will somehow make it come faster. I look up. The panel of numbers that usually indicates the elevator’s floor remains dark. “What’s happening?”

“See?” Luca says, taking a casual sip of what remains of my coffee. “It’s broken.”

Panic rises up in my throat. “The elevator is going to come, though, right?”

Luca shrugs. “Probably. But it’s been a little off lately. I definitely need to call Dante.”

“This isn’t happening.” To my great mortification, I find my control slipping, and my voice breaks.

“Hey.” Luca’s smirk fades, and he sets my coffee mug down on the front desk. “Are you okay?”

My spine stiffens. “No, I’m not okay.” I bang harder on the elevator button. “I need to find a new pair of pants, which I don’t have because my dry cleaning is lost somewhere in the ether.” Bang. “And then I need to get on a bus that is going to drive by here in exactly two and a half minutes.” Bang, bang. “Or I’ll be late for a meeting with my new boss. And I—” My voice shakes with an uncharacteristic tinge of hysteria. “Am never.” Bang. “Late.”

And at that exact moment, the harmonizing voices of “Build Me Up Buttercup” fade, and the music switches over to the Supremes singing “You Can’t Hurry Love.”

My shoulders droop. I give the button one more hard hit with my palm for good measure and then sink down onto the bench next to the elevator. “I’ll never get these pants clean in time to meet my boss at nine o’clock, and I don’t have another pair. I’ll just have to reschedule.” A trickle of sweat drips down the back of my neck, and as I reach up to wipe it away, I can feel my long, wavy blond hair starting to frizz. “I’ll look like a complete slacker, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“Listen, Catherine.” Luca rakes a hand through his dark hair. “You won’t look like a slacker. These things happen. People understand.”

I press my hands to my temples. “They don’t happen to me.” Not anymore, they don’t. Not since I worked like crazy to get straight As in high school, land a full scholarship to college, and finally take charge of my life. Up until that point, I’d had a lifetime of being late, of no-showing altogether, of we’ll remember to pay the bills / buy your school supplies / pick up the groceries another day. For the last twelve years, I’ve made it to every single undergraduate and graduate school class while also working as a research assistant, and I’ve planned out every hour of my schedule so I’m always early. Always. With this new job, my hard work was supposed to finally pay off. “I’ve done everything right to land this tenure-track faculty position; I can’t start by appearing unreliable.”

The Supremes’ tambourine jingles, and a piano solo rings out across the lobby, but Mrs. Goodwin’s shimmying has ceased, and she’s crossing the room to stand next to Luca, sympathy creasing her already wrinkled brow. “You’ll be okay, honey.”

Luca glances down at the older woman. “Mrs. Goodwin.” He takes her by the hand. “Will you please take off your pants?”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?” Did he just ask an octogenarian to strip? Right here in the lobby? I am positive that the building’s manual of rules and regulations would have something to say about that.

But instead of rearing back in shock, Mrs. Goodwin nods. “That’s an excellent idea, young man. I think Catherine and I are about the same size.”

My gaze flies to Mrs. Goodwin’s legs. She’s wearing a basic, serviceable pair of black trousers. “I—” This is a ridiculous idea. Except I don’t have a better one. And she does seem to be about my size. I won’t exactly be dressed to impress, but now is not the time to turn into a fashionista. “Are you sure?”

Luca hurries to the opposite wall and swings open the door to a maintenance closet. “You can change in here.”

When Mrs. Goodwin and I are ensconced in the closet, I slide behind a shelf, kick off my shoes, and unbutton my waistband. “Thank you for doing this,” I call to her over the top of the bleach solutions and other cleaning supplies. “This is a really important meeting.” I pull off my pants and am about to pass them around the shelf when a voice rings out from behind me, much closer than I’m expecting.

“My goodness, honey!”

I jump and spin around.

Mrs. Goodwin is standing on my side of the shelf in a pair of pale pink granny panties, holding out her black trousers with one hand and gesturing at me with the other.

“What happened to your underwear? Where’s the rest of it?”

My hand automatically flies to my backside and slaps on one cheek. Oh. “It’s—uh. It’s a thong,” I mumble, my… other… cheeks heating.

“Looks like dental floss to me. I used something like that to get the spinach out of my teeth last night.”

“No, it’s… it’s a standard type of underwear,” I stammer. There’s nothing really racy about a thong, but being questioned about mine by an eighty-year-old woman makes me feel like I’ve been caught working as an exotic dancer. “I wanted to have clean lines. Under my trousers.”

Mrs. Goodwin raises a silver eyebrow. “I thought you said you were meeting with your boss. Are they going to be looking at your butt? What kind of work are you in?”

“No.” I grab the black pants and quickly slide one leg into them. “No, of course not. I’m a mathematician.” I step into the other leg and hike the pants up over my hips. “Nobody will be looking at my butt. That would be inappropriate.”

I remember the calm, quiet math professors I met during my interviews for the faculty position. There didn’t seem to be any chaos or drama in the department, just a group of dedicated academics conducting research and shaping young minds. Since there’s nothing I dislike more than chaos and drama, I knew I’d fit right in there. Which is why I can’t quite understand how I’m spending my first day in a maintenance closet being interrogated about my underwear choices.

“I’m starting a new job.” I pause to briefly question why I feel the need to explain myself to Mrs. Goodwin. Except the woman is giving me her pants. “I wanted to look nice and put together. To make a good impression.”

Mrs. Goodwin looks at me sideways. “And you thought you’d make a good impression by showing off in a pair of sexy underwear?”

I close my eyes. She definitely thinks I’m an exotic dancer. “No. Nobody is going to see my underwear today.” I realize as the words are coming out of my mouth that this is a completely inaccurate statement. “Well, nobody else is going to see my underwear today… You’re the only one.” I sigh, shaking my head. Just give up. Let her think you’re an exotic dancer. There’s nothing wrong with that line of work. I’m sure it provides a good income. My dad dated several burlesque dancers during my childhood, and they were all very nice to me.

I zip up Mrs. Goodwin’s pants, which thankfully fit perfectly, and hand over my coffee-stained trousers. When we’re both fully dressed, I swing open the closet door, but before I can step out, Mrs. Goodwin puts a hand on my arm.

“I was just teasing you about the thong, honey. Just trying to help you lighten up a little. Don’t take everything so seriously.” And with that, she gives me a wink and brushes past me out into the lobby.

I hesitate in the doorway, turning that familiar phrase over in my head. Don’t take everything so seriously. I’ve been hearing that for pretty much my entire life. It will be fine. Don’t worry about it. Rules are meant to be broken.

Thankfully, I’m pulled from that train of thought by a commotion across the room. Luca is behind the front desk, his fingers tapping on the counter along to the beat of the classic R & B song that he’s cranked up on his phone speaker. He belts out the chorus, uncaring that he sounds awful or that Mrs. Goodwin and I have walked right into his less-than-successful attempt at the harmony. In fact, he sings even louder when he spots us, rounding the counter to grab Mrs. Goodwin’s hand, pull her into his chest, and then swing her back out into a spin. I have to admit, for someone so tall, he’s surprisingly graceful. Except when he’s crashing into me and spilling my coffee, of course. And then, like his tattoos, I have to wonder why I’m noticing Luca’s height at all. It’s hard not to, though, when his long limbs bop in my direction, his palm outstretched. I shake my head and back up slowly.

I don’t dance. At least not when anyone is watching anymore. I can’t even imagine having the lack of inhibition it would take to gyrate around the lobby, to move with such ease and abandon.

To lighten up a little and not take everything so seriously.

Nor do I have any desire to, I remind myself. Maybe I should be able to laugh off the stain on my pants and show up for my meeting looking like I got into a wrestling match with a Keurig. But what kind of impression would that leave my new boss? Sure, he’d probably be gracious enough to pretend he didn’t notice, but every time he was choosing faculty members for a committee, every time I was up for a promotion, he’d remember. People don’t forget when you mess up, or when you let them down.

Luca stops in front of me, his eyes drifting down to my feet and then back to my face. For some inexplicable reason, I feel a flush of heat take the same path as Luca’s leisurely gaze.

“You look very nice in Mrs. Goodwin’s pants.” His lips tug into a smile, his dark eyes crinkling in amusement. “Very—uh—clean lines.”

So, he overheard my closet conversation with Mrs. Goodwin. Now I have to walk past the front desk every single day wondering if my doorman is thinking about my underwear. Well, it’s not like he spends much time at the front desk anyway. He’s usually nowhere to be found when I need to pick up my packages or report a maintenance problem.

Or when the dry cleaning is being delivered, I remember, brushing a crease from my borrowed pants.

As if he’s intentionally trying to make my point, Luca gestures toward the sidewalk outside. “Come on, my car is out in front. I’ll drive you.”

I blink up at his face. “No, that’s really not necessary. I’ll take the bus.”

“The 54 just drove past.”

Darn it. “Rideshare, then.”

“Come on, Catherine. It’s my fault you’re in this situation. You said your meeting is at nine? I can drive you there in plenty of time.” He opens his arms wide, palms splayed, as if to show he’s harmless.

I remember his hand on my wrist and the strange desire to trace a finger along his etched butterfly wings. Harmless is not a word I’d ever use to describe Luca, and not just because of some spilled coffee.

I pull out my phone and check the rideshare app. The closest driver is twelve minutes away. My heartbeat matches the background song’s peppy baseline. If I have to wait, I am definitely going to show up for the meeting with my blouse sweaty and my hair flying.

“This is the least I can do,” he insists.

“But—what about your post at the door? You really shouldn’t leave. It probably says so in the—”

“Building’s manual of rules and regulations.” He waves me off, and the flock of birds on his forearm takes flight. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well. It probably does.”

“I do get a break, you know.” He gives me a wide grin. “And I’m choosing to take it right now so I can drive you to your meeting.”

Still, I hesitate.

“Come on,” Luca says, drawing out the last syllable as if he can tell I’m wavering.

I don’t know why I’m arguing with Luca except exasperation is safer than being drawn into that charming smile. I’ve spent a lifetime with charming smiles and come on, it will be fines. I’m well acquainted with men who think the rules never apply to them… and the messes they leave in their wake.

Behind me, the music swells, reminding me that the clock is ticking and I’m wasting valuable time. This job was supposed to finally set me free. The first step is making it there. “I’ll take that ride.” I grab my laptop bag and head for the door with Luca and Mrs. Goodwin trailing after me.

Out on the sidewalk, I head toward a silver Toyota sedan parked in front of the building, but Luca shakes his head and steers me toward a ’90s-era Lincoln Town Car.

I come to a stop. “Really?”

His lips curve into a smile, and he gives the black vinyl roof an affectionate pat. “It was my grandpa’s.” I can’t miss the fondness in his voice, and I find myself hoping his grandpa is still around. Maybe he just bought a newer vehicle.

Luca swings the back door open and takes Mrs. Goodwin’s hand to help her climb in. For some reason, she’s decided to join us on our adventure. Maybe it’s better that we have a chaperone. Mrs. Goodwin’s presence will keep me from reaching over and wringing Luca’s neck for throwing off my schedule in the first place. I calculate that the odds of making it on time if I murder my driver hover somewhere around zero.

I open my own door on the front passenger side, but I can’t sit down because there are papers all over the seat and a box on the floor.

“Oops.” Luca gathers up the papers, stacks them on top of the box, and carries them around to put them in the trunk while I sit down. “Sorry,” he says when he slides into the seat next to me. “I would’ve cleaned up if I knew I’d be driving a lady around.”

“Excuse me, young man,” Mrs. Goodwin objects from the back seat. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

Luca grins as he flips on the turn signal and pulls the car onto Liberty Avenue. “You’re not a lady, Mrs. Goodwin. You have entirely too much fun to be a lady.”

“Ha,” she barks. “You’re probably right about that.”

For some reason, this bothers me more than it should. “Are you implying that I don’t have any fun?”

Luca’s dark eyes dart to mine before he focuses back on the road in front of us. “I don’t know you well enough to know if you have any fun.”

“So what are you saying?”

The traffic light in front of us turns from green to yellow, and Luca eases the car to a stop. He shifts his torso so he can turn to face me. “I’m saying you seem awfully concerned with following the rules.”

This again. “Maybe you don’t seem concerned enough,” I counter. “Rules are there for a reason. To maintain order. To keep things running smoothly and safely.”

“Okay. Sure. You’re probably right.” He nods, and I blink, surprised that he agreed with me so readily.

The light turns green, and Luca shifts his body forward, raising both hands to ten and two on the steering wheel. After a pause, he slowly lifts his foot from the brake and slides it to the gas pedal. But instead of accelerating through the intersection and down the road behind the car in front of us, the Lincoln slowly pokes along like an old man who’s feeling every bit of his age. We coast down one block and then another, matching the pace of a mother urging her toddler along on the sidewalk. I glance at the flickering green clock on the dashboard and then to Luca’s impassive face.

I thought this ride had bought me back a little of the time I lost thanks to the coffee incident, but we’re squandering it at this geriatric pace. Is there something broken in this old car? I’m pretty sure that the mom and baby have lapped us by now.

We putter down another block, and then Luca comes to a full stop at a stop sign. He looks left, right, forward, and then left again before he eases his foot back onto the gas pedal. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as anxiety begins to hum in my chest like a hive of bees. My gaze darts from the clock to Luca and back. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, because he’s staring straight ahead, his face scrunched in concentration. His shoulders rock gently back and forth, hands sliding on the steering wheel, as if he’s an actor in a play pretending to drive a car.

“Luca,” I yell, and he jumps.

“Yes?” he asks mildly.

“What are you doing?”

He gives an exaggerated wave at the road in front of us, like he’s presenting it to me in a game show. “I’m taking you to work.”

“Why are you driving like it’s Sunday afternoon and Miss Daisy is in the back seat?”

He blinks innocently, and suddenly it comes to me.

“Are we back to that lady thing again? You’re trying to make a point?”

“Certainly not. I’m simply following the traffic rules.” He cocks his head. “Rules are there for a reason. To maintain order. To keep things running smoothly and safely.” He punctuates the sentence with a series of taps on the dashboard like a preschool teacher reciting the ABCs.

I can’t believe he’s throwing my words back at me. I can’t believe I got into a car with this man. “You know what? I’m good. I can still use a rideshare.” I grip the door handle, but Luca has finally accelerated to a normal speed, and I can’t very well fling myself out of a moving vehicle. “Stop the car, please.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’l. . .