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The problem is, I can’t tell if I have any hold on her. She smiles and laughs when she’s with me. I know we make each other happy. But there’s something in her distant looks, and in the way she stops short of telling me things, the way she did when we were talking about Sarah’s husband. I’m letting her in, no matter how scary it is to do so, yet her defenses are up.
We promised each other we weren’t going to do this. To overanalyze whatever is going on between us. Just take it slow. Natural. But I’m afraid I’m going to let a woman in, let her put my heart in a vise, mess with everything I’ve worked so long and hard for, and she doesn’t feel the same.
‘This isn’t healthy,’ I say into the empty room, exasperated with my clouded head, with myself.
I finally leave the sofa and go in search of my laptop. Booting it up, I deal with low-hanging fruit in my inbox, then work on a few ongoing cases.
By the time I’m done, it’s after nine. See, there’s no need to overthink. This works well. We see each other. Have a great time together. She goes to the restaurant, and I get my work done. I can do this; friends with benefits that isn’t detrimental to my partnership.
At nine thirty, I get a text message from Marty, telling me he’s headed out if I want to meet him for drinks. I contemplate it for only a matter of seconds before I determine I don’t want to go out and try to pick up women, not when I could have one amazing woman.
I tell him I’m not up for it tonight and receive a barrage of insults in return, not unkindly meant, I’m sure.
Becky won’t be done until late tonight. Maybe even the morning. I pull on my sweatpants and take to the streets, pounding the sidewalk until sweat is running from every follicle of my skin.
It’s after eleven when I get back to my apartment. The most ridiculous buzz takes me over. She’ll be done soon.
After showering, I run some product through my hair and pull on a pair of jeans, my staple plain T-shirt, black today, and my leather jacket, then take my Aston Martin out for a drive. The whole time I’m out, my excitement is building. My stomach is tying itself in knots.
What in the hell is wrong with me? I’m a grown man, for Christ’s sake, not a kid going to see Santa Claus.
I pull up to the sidewalk outside Edmond’s place shortly before midnight. Through the glass windows, I can see there are only a few tables of diners left, and none of them are eating. Becky must be done for the night.
I get out of the car and lean back against it, my hands in my pockets, despite the warm breeze. I once read somewhere that men put their hands in their pockets when they’re thinking about sex. Well, I most certainly am. I’ve been thinking about sex with Becky since I last had sex with Becky. That’s pretty much all I’ve thought about for 70 per cent of my day.
Saving me from my own rogue thoughts, I see Becky leave the kitchen and make her way through the restaurant to the outside door. It’s a shame the sexy mini-dress has gone, but the figure-hugging jeans and shirt she has on do just as much for me. She’s talking to two men who are vaguely familiar to me from times I’ve been seated at a table by the open kitchen.
She stops still outside the restaurant doors when she sees me. The change from shock to happiness on her face actually makes my insides leap.
‘Good evening, Mr Harrington,’ she says, her British accent in full tilt, her eyes alight.
‘Becky.’
The two others say their goodbyes and she comes toward me, carrying a large bag. There’s already charged energy between us, and we’re standing a yard apart. She takes a step toward my black Aston Martin and runs her fingers along the roof.
‘Nice wheels.’
‘I like to get it out every now and again.’
‘Are you here to take me for a ride?’
I chuckle. ‘The ride of your life, babe.’
Laughing, she hands me the bag she’s been carrying. ‘Well, it’s a good thing I brought clothes for tomorrow this time.’
I raise a brow as I take the bag from her. ‘I wasn’t aware you Brits are quite so presumptuous.’
‘Hopeful. And, of course, do tell me if I read this situation incorrectly.’
Shaking my head with a grin, I walk around the car and hold open the passenger door, dropping her bag into the back almost-seat.
When I pull out into the road, she’s still looking around the interior and touching everything on the dash. ‘I’ve never been in a car like this. I feel like a Bond girl. Can we drive a while, James?’
‘Why yes, Vesper. Where do you want to go?’
‘For the record, if that was an attempt at James Bond’s English accent, it was terrible. To answer your question, I have absolutely no idea.’
She has me laughing, again. I wonder if I have a quota of happiness in a year because she’s probably used it up in less than three weeks. I drive us out toward Long Island. Becky takes in everything we pass: people, buildings, street names. The way she views everything has me seeing the city in a different light, even seeing it for the first time. It reminds me how great the place can be.
