Page 77 of The Devil of Downtown

She’s dressed like a magazine spread—tailored coat, glossy auburn hair, sunglasses perched on her head. She steps behind the counter without asking, like she used to.

“I didn’t know you were back from Paris,” I say, neutral.

“I missed New York.” A pause. “I missed you.” Her hand grazes my arm like we’re still something. “I thought... maybe we could talk.”

“We’re talking now,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “And I’m busy.”

She follows my eyes toward Ivy, seated with her elbows on the table, chin in her hand, reading the drink menu like it’s a thriller. Her expression tightens for a fraction of a second.

I see,” she says, her gaze lingering on Ivy. “You’ve moved on quickly.”

I meet her look, let it sit unanswered, then turn back to the machine, the hiss of steam filling the space she’s left hanging.

Her smile falters before she drags it back into place.

“Well,” she says, smoothing her hair, her gaze flicking once more to Ivy, “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, anyway. I’ve been invited to your father’s engagement party.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Perfect.” She touches my arm like she still has the right—she doesn’t—then turns and leaves.

I go back to Ivy, who doesn’t ask a single question. Doesn’t even look curious.

Somehow, that bothers me more than if she had.

Time is tight, so we take the coffees to go and head for the car. Ivy gives directions to the rehearsal building, and once we’re moving, she starts chatting about the show—how the numbers are coming together, how often they rehearse, the chaos of it all. It’s nothing like my world, yet I find myself wanting to hear more.

I pull up outside her rehearsal building. The moment the engine cuts out, the car falls into awkward silence. She looks at the building; I look at her, and neither of us moves. I finally break first. “I’ll call you.”

She gives me a quiet nod and unclips her seatbelt, already opening the door.

Then she steps out. No hesitation, no second glance over her shoulder. Just goes — quick, graceful, like she can’t risk staying still long enough for something to matter.

And I sit there gripping the wheel, pulse too tight for something I can’t even name.

I’m not used to wanting someone to stay.

I’m not used to someone choosing distance.

I’m not used to any of this.

But I know one thing with absolute, stubborn clarity:

This—her—whatever it is; I want more.

Chapter nineteen

Ivy

Our instructor finally claps her hands, merciful at last. “That’s it for today.”

Relief ripples through the room. I grab my water bottle and glance toward the glass wall that looks out onto the hall.

For half a second, I expect to see him there, the way I did the first time he showed up two weeks ago—watching me like he owned the view.

I take a long pull from my bottle, push the thought down—I’ve been doing a lot of that lately—then head for the door where Jennie is already waiting.

Jennie stretches her arms over her head as we spill out of the rehearsal studio, her face flushed from the last run-through.