Better than Uber

Better than Uber
The New York sky had already turned copper when I typed my last message to Caleb.
Gretta: Dinner? I can pick you up.
His reply came two minutes later.
Caleb: Sorry, baby. Emergency at the gallery. Rain check?
I stared at the screen for a moment, my fingers hovering over the virtual keyboard. I wasn’t angry. Just... flat. Like hospital waiting room air. Clean, but lifeless.
I picked one emoji. 👍
And that was it.
I locked my phone, took a deep breath, and grabbed my bag from the back of the chair. My body was tired, my brain was noisy, and my heart... I wasn’t even sure it had an opinion today.
The moment I stepped outside, late-summer air, tinged with the first bite of fall brushed across my face.
And there he was.
Leaning casually against his sports car, wearing a black leather jacket and a charcoal gray tee that hugged every inch of him a little too perfectly. His hair was a mess, like always, and honestly... he looked like trouble.
Trouble with a signature cologne and an expensive watch.
My eyes narrowed. “Since when do you pick me up like a private driver?”
Reagan turned his head, smirking with just the right amount of arrogance. “Since I realized you’re too damn stubborn to admit when you need someone to pick you up.”
I walked toward him, my heels tapping lightly on the pavement. “If I needed a ride, I’d take an Uber.”
He opened the car door for me. “Unfortunately, I’m faster than Uber. And better looking than every Uber driver you’ve ever had.”
I wanted to laugh. I didn’t. Instead, I raised an eyebrow and slid into the passenger seat. The scent of luxury leather and his familiar cologne wrapped around me the second the door shut.
Trapped. Again.
Reagan got in on the other side, started the engine, and looked over. “You look like someone who wants to punch the world.”
“I’m just hungry,” I muttered.
He grinned, easing the car into traffic as the city began to flicker to life. “New restaurant in TriBeCa. Their wine list could cure trauma.”
I glanced at him. “You sure? Because my trauma needs more than wine.”
“Relax,” he said smoothly. “They’ve also got killer Italian food. And hot waiters. If you hate me, you can stare at one of them.”
I bit back a smile and turned toward the window. Skyscrapers passed us like faded memories, and for a moment, I forgot I’d once chosen to walk away from this man.
This man who could still make my heart race without saying a word. This man who made it way too easy to forget reality... just by being near him.
Outside, the streetlights blinked on one by one. And inside that car, I let myself get pulled back into the current I should’ve abandoned years ago.
But the worst part?
It still felt like home.
:::
The restaurant looked like a noir film brought to life. Industrial pendant lights hung low over red brick walls, abstract paintings dotted the space, and soft jazz played from somewhere in the back, blending with the scent of roasted meat and rosemary.
We sat at a corner table with a direct view of SoHo’s loud, too-cool streets. A waiter in a black tie handed us thick menus with gold lettering that screamed pretentious.
“I’m thinking—”
“Not pasta. I know,” Reagan cut in from across the table, already closing his menu way too fast.
I narrowed my eyes. “You can’t keep reading my mind like you’re some cheap thriller novel.”
He just grinned. “I know you too well, sweetheart.”
My face warmed. I went with the steak au poivre, mashed potatoes, and roasted asparagus. Simple. Classic. A statement, not a salad-for-the-diet-culture kind of girl.
Once the waiter left, Reagan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then looked at me.
“Papa. Give me a sec.”
I nodded.
He got up and stepped outside, leaving behind a trail of expensive cologne and masculine woodsy notes that felt too damn intimate.
I leaned back in my chair, reached for my phone, and made the mistake of checking the family group chat.
Big mistake.
Mama: Look at your Papa, Dios mío. I married a child who thinks he can train a cat!
Photo 1: Papa sitting in the living room, dangling a yarn ball in front of our fat Persian cat.
Photo 2: Papa kissing Mom’s cheek while she pretends to be annoyed but clearly isn’t.
Photo 3: Mama’s dramatic selfie, scowling. Still can’t get Dominic back. Husband: total failure.
I let out a quiet laugh, biting my lip to keep from bursting out in the middle of the restaurant.
Gretta: Please don’t punish him just because your middle child is stubborn.
Mama: Oh no, sweetheart. I’ll let your Papa live. But that cat? I’m naming him “Dominic” as a reminder.
I groaned and rubbed my temples.
That’s when Reagan came back, slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his blazer with a casual ease that didn’t match someone who’d just spoken to a Very Important Person.
“He says hi,” Reagan said, sliding into his seat again. “And he wanted you to know… he’s glad you’re back.”
I turned to him, a little surprised. “Really?”
Reagan met my gaze, his eyes serious. “Yeah. He said, ‘Thank you for coming back into my idiot son’s life.’”
I laughed softly, but something tightened in my chest. Warmth, maybe. “Your Papa was the only reason I didn’t run off to Iceland when we got married.”
Reagan smirked. “You talk like Iceland could handle your intensity.”
I took a sip of water, narrowing my eyes. “At least Iceland didn’t come with your mother and grandmother.”
He chuckled. That low, easy laugh that somehow made the entire room feel a little more like home.
:::