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“Goofy? Fun? Ames Cooke? Are you sure you have the right guy?”
“I’m sure, Chris.” The words suddenly hit her in a different way, and they felt true and honest from deep down. Eva sat with a thump on the bed. This had started as another fun romp with a handsome guy, but it had turned on her. She had developed serious feelings for him.
Now what? If he was really falling for her, as he said, would he invite her to this dinner and all the others like it, or keep her hidden? Would he be like Natalie with Tom and try to turn her into what he really wanted?
“Eva?” Chris sounded worried. “You’re acting weird. Are you okay? What’s really happening?”
Eva stared at the wall opposite her bed, all of four feet away. She was suddenly terribly homesick for the relaxed, open spaces of California. She could breathe there. She was at peace.
“I think I’m falling in love with him.”
* * *
MAYBE HE SHOULD call just to see how—
Ames’s phone rang. He yanked the device out of his pocket so hard he nearly let go of it, which would have sent it halfway across the room.
It wasn’t Eva. It was the battle-ax. He could not ignore her any longer.
“Well, hello, Ames. I’m so glad you remembered how to answer your phone.”
He didn’t bother making excuses. “I know. I owe you an RSVP.”
“Really, take your time.”
He sighed. A picture rose in his mind of the elegant white tablecloths in the private dining room at La Grenouille Laide, the space full of sleekly elegant couples—Mr. and Mrs. Boyce, some of their best customers, generally older and impeccably styled, the rest of the senior sales team and their dressed-for-success wives, Ames in a tuxedo and Eva, hair in seven or eight ponytails, wearing her usual joyous assortment of colors and styles, maybe those red high-top sneakers she’d worn on one of their dates.
He pictured himself there without her. The room looked darker without her. Plainer. The joy was gone, the company dull.
Then he pictured Eva sitting home alone, aware that he’d rejected her, and why.
My God, he was an ass.
“There will be two of us.”
“Thank you.” She sounded totally exasperated. “Does she have a name?”
“Eva Meyer.” He gave a long, sappy sigh, giddy with happiness, and suddenly wanting to stick it to Delores for being so unpleasant all these years he’d been with the company. “I’m in love with her, Delores. I think she might be the one.”
Silence. Ames had to work not to crack up.
“She’s incredible. I mean, really incredible, Delores. I’ve never met anyone like her. But she’s not my usual type, you know? She dresses kind of crazy, piercings and tattoos and stuff, so I hesitated to invite her. But then today I thought, what the eff? I love her—who cares what those stuffy bastards think? Am I right, Delores?”
He waited, grinning. He’d gone completely off the deep end. Word would get to his boss and his boss would fire him. And guess what? Not having this job wouldn’t be the end of his world.
“I think you are right, Ames, yes.” Her voice had softened. She sniffed a few times. “My family thought I’d married beneath me. I’ve never regretted the time I had with William, not for a single day. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
Ames blinked, stunned and incredibly touched. How many more times would he judge people on first impressions and be proved wrong before he finally learned? “Thank you, Delores. Thank you very much.”
He hung up the phone, feeling incredibly light. No more wasting time worrying about what his boss and colleagues thought about his choices. If they didn’t like them, there were other jobs, other, younger companies that would be more liberal and accepting.
Eva had done to him what she’d been doing to NYEspresso—bringing in color and fun, getting rid of sharp edges and straight lines, celebrating a mixture of styles.
His gaze was drawn abruptly to one bare corner of his apartment. He knew what he had to do.
But first, he was going to call her.
* * *
EVA DRIFTED INTO the living room, walked around its perimeter, which didn’t take long, and back into her bedroom. Did it again. Then flopped onto the bed with a groan of frustration.
