IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(33)

I began to nod when Wells asked, “How much time will it take?”

The man’s smile didn’t drop but his eyes moved to me before returning to answer Wells. “It’s a forty-minute loop through the park.”

The corners of Wells’s lip turned down briefly before he let out an impatient sigh. “Fine,” he said, stepping forward to hand me up into the carriage.

I hesitated. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “No. Why?”

“Then why does it matter how long the ride will be?” I asked.

He opened his mouth to answer and then closed it. Then he frowned. “I’m just… not used to spending time idle I guess.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “This whole afternoon was your idea,” I reminded him. “Carriage rides are supposed to be fun.”

He gave me a long look, his expression unchanging. “Yay,” he finally said in the most deadpan voice I’d ever heard.

I blinked at him. “Did you just make a joke?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

Before I could respond, he waved his hand, still outstretched and ready to help me up into the carriage. I took it, wishing for the briefest moment we both weren’t wearing gloves.

Once we were both settled, the driver turned and smiled. “My name is Scotty, and I’ll be your tour guide this afternoon. There’s a blanket there if you’d like it. Let me know if you have any questions as we make our way around. I’ll point out some places of interest, but feel free to ask me anything in the meantime.”

He faced forward and began directing the horse to do a U-turn right there in the middle of the Manhattan city traffic.

I turned to Wells and saw him clutching the side of the carriage as it lurched around. He was so clearly out of his comfort zone I couldn’t help but grin. This was going to be fun.

“Blanket?” I asked, reaching for the faux-fur monstrosity on the seat in front of us.





12





Wells





There was nothing more humiliating to a New Yorker than looking like a damned tourist. I avoided nonsense like this because it was bullshit meant to separate people from their money.

Conor, however, was in full tourist mode. “Oh look! A real-life dog walker,” he said, pointing to a young woman struggling to manage six different dogs on various leashes.

“Do you have a dog?” he asked, turning toward me. I leaned over to tuck the ends of his new scarf into the front of his coat and caught a whiff of the patchouli scent coming off it from the market stand where he’d bought it. It was normally a smell that completely turned me off, but of course on him it was intoxicating. I needed to get control of my attraction to him before I did or said something inappropriate.

I finished tucking the scarf before clearing my throat and glancing away. “No.”

He continued to look at me as if expecting more. I clenched my hand into a fist and cleared my throat. “No, I don’t have a dog.”

Conor laughed again. “Do we need to score you some weed? Or a few shots of tequila? Or would this be a good time to remind you that this whole ‘getting to know each other’ bullshit was your idea.”

I blew out a breath. He was right. “I’m sorry. I’m just… this isn’t what I’m used to.” I met his eyes. “But I do want to get to know you.”

He studied me for a minute. “Why?”

I was saved from answering by our driver pointing out the building where Lady Gaga apparently owned a penthouse.

Conor leaned forward. “Ooh, where?” he asked. The driver pointed, launching into a story about the time he’d actually seen her. Or someone who looked a lot like her at least. Conor listened with interest, and it took me a moment to realize it wasn’t feigned interest either.

“You a Lady Gaga fan?” I asked when the driver finished his story and Conor settled back in his seat.

He shrugged. “Isn’t everyone when you’re drunk on the dance floor?”

I didn’t have an answer to that. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been somewhere with a dance floor.

My expression must have been enough for him to read my mind because he chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t picture you as the clubgoing type. You seem more like a…” His eyes roved over me, taking me in from head to toe. I resisted the urge to shift and pull my shoulders straighter. “Private-club kind of guy. Expensive cigars, ridiculously expensive wine. Ungodly expensive scotch.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong. “The Brandy Library is my preferred haunt.”

Conor leaned closer to the carriage driver. “Have you heard of that one, Scotty?”

The man nodded. “It’s over in Tribeca.”

“Let me guess, pretentious as hell?”

“Let’s just say if James Spader is ever cast in a remake of Pretty in Pink, you’ll find him there with an elbow on the bar. Oh, and he’ll be hanging out with the bro dudes from his old fraternity who are all iBankers now. And they’ll be trading war stories about where they were when they heard the inheritance tax went up.”

Conor laughed, full-throated with his head thrown back. It was a beautiful sight. My eyes dropped to the patch of skin under his jaw, just visible above his new scarf. I wanted to lick it, I realized abruptly. To press my lips against it and feel the sound of his laughter infuse me.