Page 25 of Manhattan Kiss

“Tell me about you,” he commands. “Where were you before you came to Hotel on Ninth Street?”

I haven’t got enough of Deacon as I want, but I get the impression he doesn’t like to be in the spotlight for too long.

“I worked at a hotel in Chilternshire.”

“And you decided to up sticks and come to New York?”

“Kinda. Avril and Poppy, the owners of Hotel on Ninth, came to a wedding at the hotel a while ago, and before they left, they spoke to me about this opportunity. They’ve been pretty insistent, and I was…looking for a change.”

“A change?”

I nod, but don’t add to what I’ve said. He suspects there’s more. He probably thinks I broke up with someone. If only it was that simple.

“Are you enjoying it?” he asks.

“I’m still finding my feet. I finish my training at the end of next week and then I’ll be able to settle in a bit more. I’m here for the summer, and then I’ll go back at the beginning of September.”

“How are you finding New York?” His questions are short, blunt, like he’s being charged by the word. But it kind of suits him. And it makes me feel like I’m valuable that he’s spending his words on me.

“It’s so different to the UK, isn’t it?” I answer, my mouth curling into a half smile. “But I’m enjoying it. When did you come over?”

“I was about fifteen the first time. My father was in the army. We were based in California for a couple of years. Then we came to the East Coast. I went to university in the UK, but came back after graduation.”

“Who’s we?” I ask. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Yes.” He pauses and I don’t know why. What does he have to hide? “My younger sister, Chloe, is in London. She never left after university.”

I don’t know why, but something in the way he describes Chloe feels like he left the door open a crack. Like there’s something he half hopes I see, but he’s not going to show me.

“So you have just one sibling?” I ask.

His eyes slide to mine and his Adam’s apple bobs when he talks. “My older sister died when she was fourteen.”

My stomach churns, and I reach for his hand across the table, but he removes it before I can comfort him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” His gaze focuses on the salt and pepper pots on the table between us.

“But still that must have been difficult for you.”

“It was. She was…the best. And so beautiful and vivacious and also incredibly sad.” His entire body droops as he talks about her and I wish there was something I can do. “I was ten when she took her life.”

I hold my breath, desperate not to make a sound when what he’s just said might be one of the most shocking things I’ve ever heard.

“When I became a father, her death hit me again like a wrecking ball,” he says. “How could someone so young, with so much out in front of them get to a point of such hopelessness that they don’t want to exist anymore?”

He glances up to meet my eyes.

“Deacon,” I say.

He shakes his head, like he doesn’t want me to say anything. I reach for his hand, but he slides them under the table. A waiter interrupts us to top up our wine.

I hope he doesn’t regret telling me. I wish I could say something that would make him feel better about sharing. Does he think he’s shared too much? Is it too painful?

“Life’s tough,” he says.

“For some more than others,” I say.

“How’s the new job?” he asks, clearly wanting to change the subject, but I don’t want to talk about work when he’s shared what he has.