International Player(63)

“Wait,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this.” He paused and blew out a breath. “I know you’re different. You’re special. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”

My heart clanged against my ribcage. I’d never thought I’d hear this from him.

“But, there are no guarantees in life. I can’t tell you how I’m going to feel in a few months or years. Whether or not I want kids or whether I’ll want to be playing Scrabble in my old age. I just never look that far ahead.” He shook his head, his mouth tight as he struggled to find the words.

I nodded. I knew who this man was, and I couldn’t blame him for being himself. “I get it. We’re different. We want different things.” I needed more. I needed certainty.

Silence stretched between us before he stepped forward and cupped my face. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he placed a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m so sorry, I just . . .”

“I know,” I replied and stepped back, letting the truth of how incompatible we were solidify between us. And then I turned away, into the cold London night. This time I knew for certain he wouldn’t be following me.





Thirty-Three





Noah


In New York all the views were skyward. And that’s what I needed: a fresh perspective. I stepped out of the car and glanced up. New York felt so much smaller than London—more compact. Less sprawling. New York was decisive and sharp against London’s worn softness. I breathed in the contrast, the sounds of the taxi horns and the yelling of the hot dog sellers. The tightness around my ribcage that I’d had since my conversation with Truly just a few days ago loosened, and I knew I was in the right place.

Refusing the offer of a porter’s help, I took my carry-on from the driver and headed through the lobby of the Time Warner building toward the lift to the Mandarin Oriental hotel lobby located on the thirty-fifth floor.

“Noah,” a female voice said from behind me. I turned to find Francesca Sanderson smiling at me. “I’d recognize the back of that head anywhere. Good to see you.”

The lift pinged open and I stepped aside to let Francesca through. “It’s days like today when Manhattan feels small. How are you?” I asked. I’d known Francesca two or three years ago. For about three months of one particularly sidewalk-melting summer.

“Perfect.” She beamed. “Just down for the night from the Hamptons. I’ve given up my place in the city, so this hotel is like a home away from home. What about you?”

“I’m here from London for a board meeting.” I’d been due to fly out on Monday but decided to come early after my conversation with Truly at the winter ball. Part of the reason I liked Truly was that she was always surprising me. But the last thing I’d been expecting was her to end things between us. On the surface, we’d left things amicably, but I was pissed off and I wasn’t sure why or what to do about it. I just knew that I didn’t want to see Truly. I wanted to stop thinking about her. I needed a break from London.

“Oh, you went back. I heard about the float. Congratulations.” She smiled at me, her auburn hair looking like she’d just been to the salon and her makeup emphasizing her dazzling green eyes. She’d always been gorgeous.

“Thanks. I’m still on the board but . . .” I felt a disconnection to the business now that it was owned by someone else.

“It’s not yours anymore? I guess it feels weird.”

I chuckled. “Yeah. A little. What are you up to now?”

“Oh, you know. Still consulting.”

“Still working too hard?” Francesca was one of the most disciplined women I’d ever met. She got up at five to work out, something her inside thigh muscle grip could vouch for. She was in the office by seven, and even when we’d gone for brunch at the weekends, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a magazine shoot—glossy and glamorous. She was Truly Harbury’s exact opposite.

“Always.” The doors slid open at the lobby level of the hotel, and I held the doors as Francesca stepped out. “We should grab a drink,” she said as she glanced at her expensive watch. “Unless you have plans?”

“Sure,” I said. It was nice to see Francesca. She was always sweet and uncomplicated, and from what I remembered, decent in bed. Spending the evening with a friendly face felt like a good distraction from what I’d left behind in London.

“The lobby bar is open already, unless you want to change?” she asked.

“No, I’m good. Let’s check in and I’ll meet you over there.”

She smiled, and we split off toward separate check-in desks.

I was done first, and I made my way over to the bar and grabbed a seat by one of the floor-length windows overlooking the park. It was a picture-postcard view—the green parkland sunk into the middle of the towering skyscrapers. I hadn’t even thought about the four years I’d spent here since I’d been in London. Seeing Francesca brought a little bit of my history into my present. I couldn’t remember giving her a second thought after we split, either. I was good at moving on, leaving my past in the past. My relationship with Francesca had been simple. There had been a lot of sex and some dinner dates. I didn’t remember us talking or sharing things. I certainly never had to escape to a different continent in an attempt to stop thinking about her.