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“Oh my god!”
He beams at me, and right then those lopsided dimples appear. The smile that tugs at my belly.
This is his genuine smile—I recognize it as such instinctively. It’s the smile that cameras never capture, the one that’s not part of the Powerful Prince Henry show. Real. And so human.
Was he teasing me with the smell thing?
The elevator stops. The door opens.
And he’s on, folks. He’s straightened up and giving the million-dollar smiles to the group of senior execs. He places his beautifully masculine hand on the elevator door to keep it open and he turns to me, waiting. Ladies first and all that.
He’s greeting the men by name, joking with them as they file in. They treat him with deference, like he’s a minor deity.
We head out through the fabulous lobby with Henry carrying Smuckers. He’s macho enough to carry a little dog. All eyes are on him. He knows all names.
I may control fifty-one percent of the company, but the world is Henry’s billion-dollar oyster.
And how does he remember so many names?
It’s a crisp, sunny day, cool for September in New York. Magically, a limo is there. The driver opens the door.
Henry turns to me, eyes a lighter, brighter shade of blue out in the sunshine. “How do you feel about walking a bit?”
“I’d love a walk.”
He puts Smuckers down, and we set out through the crowds.
I catch people staring at us and I get the old familiar stir of worry that I’ve been recognized in spite of my hair-color change—long curly red hair was one of the more remarkable features of Vonda O’Neil.
Then I realize it’s Henry they’re watching. Even outside! Young starchitect billionaire Henry Locke. Sure, they’re looking at me, but only to see who he’s with.
And then somebody snaps a picture of us.
My heart starts to pound. It’s okay if someone takes my picture, but what if they put it online? I look very different with my glasses and dark hair, but it’s not like I’ve gotten plastic surgery. Discreetly, I slide on my sunglasses. And then he looks over at me and I wonder if he noticed the cause and effect of that.
My thoughts are interrupted by a fight up ahead—two guys have gotten out of their cars. There’s glass on the road. Fender bender. Voices are raised.
Henry grabs my arm and puts me on the other side of him and sweeps Smuckers up in his arms, all this without even breaking stride. He mumbles something about the menace of texting while driving, but I’m stuck on the weird chivalry of him.
The crowds thicken even more near the subway station, but he keeps Smuckers under control. Strangers usually can’t hold Smuckers right. Henry gets Smuckers.
“You’re good with him.”
“We grew up with these dogs,” he says flatly.
Just then I recognize the corner we’re on. “Hey, we have to walk up the next street. Come on.” I lead down the block and turn, and there it is. “Griffin Place.”
“What?”
“Griffin Place, my fave building.” I point at the statue halfway up, the crouched winged lion. “See? My sister, Carly, and I…it’s just one of our favorites.”
“Oh, the Reinhold building,” he says.
“Right,” I say. “You probably know all the names.”
“Being a smirkitect, you know. It goes with the territory.”
“The Reinhold,” I say, trying it out, like finally learning the name of an old friend.
