Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(16)

After a moment of silence, Allison asks, “So . . . what do you do? For a living, I mean.”

“What is this, an interview?”

She shrugs, not sure what this is, exactly. She just knows that she’s curious about him—and anyway, he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s smiling.

“I told you about my job,” she points out.

“True.” He taps the cigarette with his forefinger, dropping an ash. “I sell advertising for a television network.”

“Really?”

“You sound shocked.”

“Shocked is . . . I mean, that’s a strong word. But I am surprised.”

“Why?”

The wine is making her unusually candid. “I don’t know—that just sounds kind of . . . I don’t know, more laid back than . . . uh . . .”

“Than I am?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry.” He breaks off to yawn deeply, then adds, “Trust me, a lot of people say that. Usually people who haven’t known me for very long.”

“Why? Have you changed?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Not me.

Allison always knew what she wanted out of life, and that it would mean putting Centerfield behind her. She prides herself in having set goals and stuck to her plan for achieving them.

“But,” Mack says, “it’s too bad people have to go and change, because if they didn’t, relationships would be a hell of a lot easier, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know about that.” Relationships—is he talking about his wife?

“C’mon—you know it’s true. Think about it . . .”

She doesn’t want to think about it. She’s tired, and she might be drunk, and he might be drunk, too—and this conversation has gone on too long.

Allison pokes around inside her bag, looking for her keys. “Uh-oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My keys . . .” Suddenly remembering where she put them, she unzips the lining pocket. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought I lost them.”

“That would not be good.”

“No, but Kristina—do you know Kristina Haines? She lives upstairs?”

“Yeah, I know Kristina.”

The bit of edge in his voice causes something to click in Allison’s brain, and she remembers what Kristina said the other day about married men.

Is it possible that Kristina and Mack . . . ?

“What about her?” Mack is asking.

As Kristina herself said, anything’s possible. Even carrying on a sordid affair right under Allison’s nose—not to mention Carrie’s.

For some reason, she’d really like to believe that Mr. Nice Guy here is happily married. Somebody has to be, right? Somebody other than her brother in Nebraska, anyway.

Brett got married right out of high school. His wife is from Hayes Township and her name is Cynthia Louise. Naturally, everyone calls her Cindy-Lou—except Brett, who calls her Cindy Lou-Who.

And Allison, who insists on calling her just plain Cindy.

Her brother lives with his wife and their kids on Cindy’s parents’ cattle farm—a fate worse than death, Allison thinks, but she’d never say it to Brett.

No, because if she did, she’s pretty sure he’d say the same thing about her living here, and she really doesn’t want to hear it.

“Kristina . . .” Mack prods.

“No, Allison.”

“No—I mean, you were saying something about Kristina?”

“Oh! Right.” Allison clears her throat. “Just—we gave each other spare sets of keys a while back, but I wouldn’t want to wake her up at this hour to get mine. Anyway . . . now that I have them . . .” She jangles the keychain and checks her watch. “Wow—it’s really late. I’d better go in. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah? What’s going on?”

She smiles. “You really want to know? This maternity clothes designer, Liz Lange, is doing the first Fashion Week maternity show ever and she’s actually using pregnant models.”

“That’s . . . great.” Mack isn’t smiling, and he suddenly seems very interested in tapping a nonexistent ash from the end of his cigarette.

Did I say something wrong? Allison wonders.

She hesitates for a moment. “Well, good night. I’d better go get some sleep.”

“Wish I could do the same thing.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Insomnia.”

“Oh.” She eyes his drink and cigarette, wondering whether she should inform him that alcohol and nicotine aren’t exactly sleep aids.

Probably not. He probably already knows that, and if he doesn’t, why should she be the bearer of bad news?

“Maybe you should try warm milk or something,” she suggests.

“That would be like trying to put down an elephant with a Tylenol PM.”

“Well then maybe you should try a tranquilizer dart.”

Her quip is rewarded with an actual laugh.

“Believe me, I’ve tried just about everything. I’ve been dealing with this for as long as I can remember.”

“That stinks.”