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"We’ve been co-hosts for what, three years now?"
"Three and a-half, actually," Ivy retorts.
"Counting the number of days you spend with me, I see?" Wolfgang says in a smirky-pants voice.
I chuckle.
Ivy snorts. "More like counting the days because I’d have preferred to spend them with someone else."
Wolfgang laughs. "Touché, but I digress. My point is, we’ve known each other for so long, but you’ve never once mentioned if there’s anyone special in your life. It makes me wonder—"
"What?" she asks, cautious.
"Whether you aren’t nursing a broken heart? Or perhaps, you have a special someone in your life you’re holding out for? Or—"
"Or?" Her voice is almost bored.
"Or perhaps, you can’t stop thinking about a certain handsome co-host of yours when you leave the studio."
Ivy pretends to laugh. "No one can accuse you of being humble, Wolf."
"No one can say you aren’t…smart and pretty and clever and—"
"Nope."
"Excuse me?" He seems taken aback.
"The answer is no."
"Didn’t ask a question."
"You were going to."
"I was." He blows out a breath. "If you’re not attached..."
"I am."
Silence. Then... "Sorry, what did you say?"
"I’m attached. He was my brother’s best friend, and—"
A thick silence fills the air as I lean over and shut off the radio.
I glance sideways, expecting him to say something, but other than a nerve that throbs at his temple, he stays still. The muscles of his shoulders bunch; the tendons of his throat are outlined in sharp relief. He eases the car onto Tottenham Court Road, then into Soho. He pulls up in front of a building I haven’t been to before, but which I know houses Zara’s office.
"How did you know that—"
"That my sister offered you a job yesterday, and that you emailed your resignation to your company and were looking to start at Zara’s PR agency today?" He finally turns his mismatched gaze in my direction, and my breath catches.
Every time he looks at me, it’s like he can see right through my carefully constructed image to the scared woman I am inside. Every time he takes in my features, it’s as if I can sense his touch on my skin. Every time I’m near him, it’s as if I can’t stop myself from saying or doing something I’m going to regret later.
"So, you’re spying on me?”
"Why ask me a rhetorical question?"
I blink. Something deep inside flares to life. My heart begins to race. "So, youarespying on me.”
When he doesn’t reply, I swallow. My pulse rate spikes. A bead of sweat slides down my spine. I’ve spent my life around mafia men, so it’s not too much of a leap in my mind when I ask, “D-do you have eyes on my apartment?”
