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“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I—” He coughed. “—put your number in my phone.”
It was nice to hear.
“So,” I said, my voice low and full of gravel, “how are you?”
“I’m good,” he said quickly. “You?”
“I just got stitches.” I grinned, because God, he sounded good. “So I’m a little beat to shit, if you wanna know the truth.”
“You got—who hurt you?”
“I’m a cop. You know how it is.”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t, actually.”
I grunted. “It happens. I’ll live.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Why did he sound scared? “Are you all right?”
“I don’t want to scare you.”
“Why would you?”
“I, um”—he hedged—“I’m in New York. I have been for a week.”
There had to be more.
“Duncan?”
“Yeah, still here.”
“Are you—is that freaking you out?”
“You do business all over the world, yeah?”
The man built high-end real estate across the globe. I couldn’t even fathom the amount of traveling he did.
“Yes.”
“So you probably hafta come to New York a lot, right?”
“I do, yes.”
“I guess I’m not getting why you being here would be weird.”
“I merely”—his voice cracked—“didn’t want you to think I was stalking you or something else.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be amazing?” I mused.
“Amazing?”
“Yeah, I mean, that’d be cool, right? How many guys could say that Aaron Sutter was following them around? I should be so lucky.”
He whimpered.
