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He shook his head slightly and pulled her closer to him. For a moment Violet thought it was an embrace, that he might kiss her there in the middle of Central Park.
Almost as quickly, she realized he’d only pulled her closer to loosen the slack of the leash so he could step out, one foot, then the other. He released her and knelt down, scooping up Coco and unclipping her leash.
Violet bent and untangled her leather boots from the red leash as Cain gently but firmly placed Coco back in her purse.
“She wants to walk,” Violet protested, only to frown when Coco made two full turns within the bag, the way she did when preparing to nap, then happily curled into a tiny ball.
Cain’s smile was smug.
“Congratulations,” she sweetly. “If only you read women half as well as you read female dogs.”
“I read you better than you know, Duchess.”
“I hate that nickname,” she snapped.
“Well, if we all got everything we wanted, I wouldn’t be here,” he shot back.
“Here right now in the park, or the situation at large?”
His jaw ticked, and he looked away. “I don’t hate the park.”
Violet hid her smile. As far as progress went, it was next to nothing, but it was still something.
“So what’s next?” Cain asked warily. “A lecture on the evils of clip-on bow ties? Suffering through the theater?”
“It’s Monday,” Violet said.
“And?”
“Broadway’s dark on Mondays.”
“Hold on a sec, give me a chance to write that down,” he deadpanned.
She looked to the sky. “You forgot to tell me what to do if I don’t want to catch the fly.”
“What are you going on about?”
“Chatting with my grandmother about honey and vinegar,” she said. “Okay, so you’re not into theater. Noted. Anything you do like? Besides sex and sulking?”
His very white teeth flashed briefly, as though his grin caught him by surprise, and he had to recover to wipe it away. “I have some hobbies.”
“Edge of my seat here,” she said as they walked again.
Cain said nothing, and she glanced over, a little surprised to see he seemed almost embarrassed.
“Needlepoint?” she prodded.
He rolled his eyes. “I read. And I like jazz.”
Her head whipped around, pulse thrumming. “Jazz?”
She loved jazz.
Cain lifted a shoulder. “Mock all you want. Doesn’t matter anyway. Nobody does it like New Orleans.”
“Oh, I wasn’t mocking,” Violet said earnestly. “But you should start preparing now.”
“For?”
She smiled. “To eat your words.”
* * *
“No! You have to fold it.”
“Fold it?” Cain asked, the pizza paused halfway to his face as he shot her an incredulous look. He glanced down at the paper plate, then shrugged. He picked up the pointy part of his pepperoni slice and began folding it back to the crust.
“No,” Violet said with a laugh. “The other way.”
She reached out and curled both ends of the crust toward each other. “There. Like that.”
Violet did the same with her own cheese slice, and together they took a bite at the same time.
She closed her eyes in pleasure as the salty, chewy, tangy flavors rolled over her tongue. Even better than the pretzel.
When she opened her eyes, she found Cain watching her, though his gaze cut away the second it met hers, and he took another large bite.
“So? Verdict on your first New York slice?” she asked.
“Good,” Cain admitted. “Not as good as the jazz, but it hits the spot.”
“I told you,” she said smugly, picking a string of cheese off her plate and eating it. “The jazz clubs here are amazing.”
“As promised,” he said. Cain looked down at his pizza. Frowned. “Thanks for staying for the double set.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked as they began making their way downtown, pizza still in hand. “I loved it. I can barely find anyone to go to shows with me, and definitely no one to stay for two.”
He gave her a surprised look. “You really are a jazz fan.”
“Did you think I was lying?”
“Yup.”
“Does it ever occur to you to mince your words?” she asked cheerfully, in too good a mood to be bothered that he doubted her.
“Nope.”
After Central Park, they’d dropped Coco off with Alvin, who’d declared the dog “just the thing” to take his mind off the ringing in his ears that, according to him, was either tinnitus or a brain tumor, and he was leaning toward the latter.
Since they had time to kill before the first jazz set of the night, Violet had dragged Cain on a tour of some of Midtown’s highlights. The library. Grand Central. Bryant Park.
He hadn’t exactly gushed over the experience, but neither had he complained. Much.
She’d even been able to coax out a few details of his life over their pasta dinner. She now knew that he grew up in a small town on the bayou, but currently lived in a small studio in the French Quarter, owned a motorcycle, and hated cauliflower.
