Stay(16)

The phone buzzes, and I lift it to read the face. You don’t need a hero.

Raising my eyebrows, I appreciate the vote of confidence. I tap out the obvious question. Are you calling me a hero?

It only takes a moment for him to reply. You’re no damsel in distress.

My thumbs move quickly. So I don’t need you.

Let’s find out.





6





Stephen


“I take it you don’t cook much.” I’m standing in the small kitchenette of Emmy’s fourth-floor walk-up.

She’s behind wood and glass doors. White curtains cover them, but I can see her silhouette moving in the background. It’s sexy, and I look away… to a heavier white curtain surrounding something in the corner of the kitchen. When I pull it aside, I nod. It’s a bathtub.

“Sorry?” She opens the double doors, and my throat goes dry.

She’s wearing a silky yellow dress that stops mid-thigh, showing off her shapely legs, accentuated with platform espadrilles. The part that kills me, as my eyes slide up her body, over the embroidered flowers on the bodice, is the neckline. It’s off the shoulder, and damn. Emmy Barton has lovely shoulders.

“Is this okay?” She looks down and a lock of blond hair slips to the front. “Lou found it at a vintage store, and I’ve never worn it.”

“You’re beautiful.” Her cheeks tinge a pretty shade of pink. She has already informed me I’m not her hero—not sure where that came from—but I don’t mind rocking her little boat with a compliment. “I see you have the requisite kitchen-bath.”

Her eyes actually light, and she crosses the tiny space to the even tinier kitchen. “Isn’t it nuts? You hear about these apartments in Greenwich Village with tubs in the kitchens, but the truth is they’re pretty rare now. Most of the walk-ups have separate baths these days.”

I take a step to the door beside her Barbie dream stove. Behind it, a narrow tunnel leads to a toilet on a riser. “Something like this?”

She joins me at the door, and her fresh scent surrounds me, flowers and soap. My dick twitches, and I take a step back, clearing my throat. I can’t make an adjustment with her this close.

“It’s a pretty tight fit. Don’t bump your head.” She points to the archway above the steps leading to the elevated toilet.

“Why would they construct it this way?” I look at the strange configuration.

“I think it has something to do with the pipes below.” She turns and goes to a minuscule closet just outside the doors separating her bedroom from the living area.

I see a queen-sized bed inside. “One bit of luxury?” I motion toward it.

“When we first moved here, Eli slept with me. Now he prefers being on the futon. Most nights.”

“What happens when he needs his own room?”

Her lips tighten, and that old irritation is back. “I appreciate you trying to help me save face or whatever in front of Burt today, but you and I are not friends.”

“I thought we were… a while back.”

“Really? And when did you get back to Manhattan?”

“Six years ago.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I thought I hadn’t seen you around.”

“You were married.”

“Did you know?”

I shake my head no, glancing at my loafers.

“Did you care?”

“I was a bit preoccupied.” Trying to find Ximena, learning she’d died, dealing with my emotions, my anger at the injustice of it all.

“Yeah, I have a life, too.” She’s angry, but I don’t want our night to go this way, both of us fighting. I want to know her better.

“Friends or not…” I slip my hands in the front pockets of my slacks, doing my best to redirect. “You have to eat, and I did make reservations.” Her brow lowers, but I push through. “Think of it as a cost-benefit scenario. You spend a few hours with me, and in return, you get a great meal.”

She thinks several seconds, then puts her purse on her shoulder and walks to the door. “I suppose I don’t like eating alone. Where are you taking me?”



* * *



The Hearth is a short walk from her apartment. The streets are crowded like always, and every time I reach out to touch her, to protect her from the mob, she pulls away. When we reach the restaurant, she at least lets me hold the door for her.

The dining room is dark wood and yellow lighting. It’s dim and cozy, and the long, rustic tables are polished to a high shine. We’re led to a small one by a window, and I order us a bottle of red wine and warm Italian butter beans.

“Butter beans.” She leans forward and emits a low laugh as the appetizer is served.

“You know how these New York chefs are. Always taking simple things and reinventing.”

We take a bite, and I’m about to take it all back. “Damn!” She covers her mouth with one hand. “That’s some good ass butter beans.”

I shake my head, covering my laugh with my napkin. She lifts the globe of pinot noir and takes a sip, her eyes fixed on me.

“What?”

Leaning forward, she puts the glass on the table. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I ate a butter bean.”