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“What’s your friend’s name?”
I don’t actually know his name, but I can describe his dark eyes in detail, and he ordered a martini with a splash of St-Germain.
Yeah. That won’t fly.
I move my head, trying to see the computer screen where I assume the reservations are kept.
The hostess frowns. “Uh…ma’am? The name?”
So much for my bright idea.
“Never mind. Thank you anyway.” This time I head to the bathroom. I don’t actually have to go, but I look at myself in the mirror.
My makeup still looks good, and my lipstick—lip stain from Susanne cosmetics—is still perfect. That stuff doesn’t ever move. I run a comb through my hair quickly and add a bit of gloss to my lips. Then I wash my hands and head back to the table.
Tom’s calamari has been delivered, and he’s munching on it. “This is delicious,” he says. “Can I tempt you with a piece?”
“Sure, maybe just one.” I grab my fork, spear a piece of calamari, and dip it in the marinara sauce. It is good—nice and crunchy and not too rubbery.
“So tell me what you do at the magazine,” he says.
I like talking about my work. I love fashion, I love women’s interests, and I especially love it when I get to do some of the investigative reporting.
“I do a lot of things,” I say. “I write stories, I edit, and sometimes I even do some photography.”
“You’re certainly a Jacqueline of all trades.” He chuckles. “Photographer, too?”
“Very amateur, but with the photography equipment available today, even an amateur can make something look good. We do have photographers on staff, though. I only take my own photos if one of them isn’t available to go with me.”
“What are you working on right now?”
“An investigative piece. I’m not at liberty to say what it’s about.”
Actually, I can tell anyone what I’m working on. I’m not under any nondisclosure agreement with the magazine. But this seems very private to me. I don’t want to tell Tom Carson about it.
In fact…I really want this date to end.
He’s a perfectly pleasant gentleman. Very nice-looking, professional—everything I should be wanting in a man. But I can’t get Phantom off my mind.
Especially when I take another sip of my martini.
So crisp, like a blustery fall day. With the warmth of Phantom’s cape around me.
“You seem to be really enjoying that,” Tom says after swallowing another bite of calamari.
“I am.”
“You seemed so surprised when they said someone else ordered it.”
“Did I?”
“Frankie, what’s going on here? Are you involved with someone?”
“If I were, I wouldn’t have accepted a date with you, Tom.”
It’s not a lie. I wish Phantom and I were involved, but we’re not. Sure, we had amazing sex. But how can I be involved with someone when I’ve never seen his face? When I don’t know his real identity? When he promised he’d tell me his name last Saturday, and I was too flustered by my afterglow to press him on it?
And to think… He was in this restaurant tonight.
If Tom and I had come earlier…
But I wouldn’t know him if I saw him.
I’ve never seen his face. Only his eyes.
Would I recognize him?
I know his general build. His jawline. His hair and eye color. His deep and melodic voice.
“You’re a million miles away again,” Tom says.
I take the last swallow of my martini, feeling a strange loss that it’s gone. “I apologize. It was just a long day at work.”
God, I hate lying! Makes me feel like a heel.
“Why did you accept this date with me?” Tom asks.
“Because you’re a nice guy. Why wouldn’t I accept?”
“Your mind is definitely somewhere else, Frankie. I realize this is only our first date, but I don’t normally have this hard of a time capturing a woman’s attention.”
“I’m so sorry.” I shove the martini glass to the side of the table for the busboy to pick up. “You have my undivided attention now.”
“Good.” He smiles. “Tell me what you like to do in your spare time. What are your hobbies?”
“I love to read. I like to cook. And I exercise a lot. I like running, yoga, Pilates.”
“I love running. I’m training for a marathon. Maybe we should run together sometime.”
“If you’re training for a marathon, I’m sure I’d hold you back,” I say. “Five Ks are my limit.”
“Then let’s do a Five K run sometime. You up for one tomorrow morning?”
Am I? I do usually run on Saturday mornings.
“Sure,” I say. “You want to meet in Central Park?”
“Sure. Or I could come pick you up.”
“It’s no problem to just meet.”
“I see.” He looks down.
“I’m just being cautious,” I say. “You and I hardly know each other. I’m not ready to give out my address yet.”
“I understand, but you’re going to find out, Frankie, that I’m a stand-up guy.”
“I’m sure you are, but a woman in New York can never be too cautious.”
