Page 2 of The Vow

“Did you apologize?”

“What?”

“Did you apologize to your neighbors? Because now they think they have an asshole living downstairs who likes to wake them in the middle of the night by banging on the ceiling with a baseball bat. In fact, they could probably hear the radio too.”

Nick was right. I should become a priest. I made a mental note to research where the nearest seminary is located. “I made it up. I live in a bungalow. I was trying to break the ice.”

“With a lie? Let me guess? Lawyer?”

She gave me the once-over, and I never wanted to strip down to my boxers so fast in my life, and it had everything to do with being aroused.

“No.”

“Did you just come back from a funeral or something? My name’s Alexandra Adams, by the way. No A.A. jokes,” she said, raising her fresh mug to her luscious lips.

“Phillip. But my friends call me Pippo.”

“This bum bothering you?”

“He’s fine,” Alexandra told Nick.

“I was talking to Pip. I’m joking, lady. Enjoy your afternoon tea.”

When Nick was out of earshot, the lady had more to say. “Pip?”

“Short for Pippo. Which is a nickname for Filippo. Which is Italian for Phillip. Phillip Conti. What do your friends call you Alexandra?”

Her raven hair fell to the middle of her back. I wanted to run my fingers through the silky strands. Even beneath her long peasant skirt, I could tell she had curves to rival Ginger Grant, but what intrigued me most was her smart mouth.

“What friends? I work too much to socialize.”

“Well, we’re socializing now.”

“That’s because I needed a mind eraser.”

“Bad day?”

“That’s an understatement. Alex... you can call me Alex.”

Growing up without pop meant that I had to learn about the fairer sex from my buddies, my Phys Ed teacher Mr. Conroy who smelled like a mix of Old Spice and bourbon, and my mother who told me that rule number one was to remain a gentleman, and gentlemen treat ladies to drinks. “Would you like another beer? You can tell me about your bad day.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I understand,” I said, feeling like I was sucker-punched.

“Talk about my day, I mean. But I’ll take that beer if you’re buying.”

I caught Nick’s eye and waved two fingers over both our mugs. Every ounce of protective instinct in me kicked in – as an Italian, a boxer, and a man – but I tried to ignore the pained look on her face and changed the subject.

“What do you do for work, Alex?”

“I’m an author.”

“Impressive,” I said, not-so-discreetly tucking my little black book into my suit jacket pocket.

“Not really. I epitomize the starving artist.”

To illustrate that point, she grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl Nick had left on the bar and stored them in her cheek like my grandfather used to do with his chewing tobacco. She was hungry, and she was a kindred spirit. I was remembering when I was fifteen and landed a job as a valet at The Grand, the city’s fanciest hotel. I had lied about my age to cover up the fact that I didn’t have a driver’s license. They must have been desperate for help because it was obvious that I was too young. I hadn’t even learned to shave. Since then, I’ve lied a lot, but not for any nefarious reason; to help people. Parking cars meant that ma didn’t have to work so hard, and what I said next was meant to give Alex a break.