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“I came to speak with you.”
“Can you keep your voice down?”
“You mean not yell?” He asked ruefully.
She bit down on her lip.
“We need to talk,” he insisted. “This has to be sorted out.”
This? Did he mean Charlotte? Her hackles rose at the hint of inconvenience in that choice of phrasing. But perhaps indifference was a godsend. Perhaps he was recanting his earlier reaction, and wanted to back away from Charlotte after all.
“Okay,” she agreed after a pause. “Come in.” She stood back, too overwhelmed by him to be embarrassed by her meager apartment. It was cozy and quaint, which was realtor talk for tiny. Still, the ceilings were high with original art deco details and cornicing, and the window from this lounge area showed a beautiful outlook of established trees in the wide street. On sunny afternoons, she took Charlotte down to the front stoop and sat while neighborhood children played hopscotch and rehearsed TikTok dances on the sidewalk.
“Have you eaten?” He asked, casting his eyes around the apartment with an expression that gave nothing away.
“I had Charlotte’s leftovers,” she said with a tight smile, locking the door behind them out of habit, so she missed the flicker of disapproval that crossed his face.
“Well, I’m starving. Mind if I uber something?”
“Will you be here that long?”
His eyes narrowed. “We have a lot to discuss,” he said cryptically, lifting his phone from his pocket and loading up an app. He clicked some buttons, momentarily distracted, so she allowed herself the small indulgence of observing him, of drinking in his physical beauty, before he lifted his face and speared her with the full force of his attention.
“Would you like something to drink?” The small courtesy seemed like the least she could do.
“Wine?”
Her cheeks heated when she thought of the stunning vintages he usually drank.
“Um, just a bottle from the bodega; it’s really sweet. What about a beer?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Sure.”
She moved to the fridge and removed a can, opening it and pouring the amber liquid into a long glass, the way her mom had drunk beer – just one, every Sunday – then placed it on the kitchen counter, rather than handing it to him. It was childish but she didn’t want to risk any kind of physical contact.
He took it, then turned, performing a longer inspection of her apartment. This time, his gaze lingered on the details. Cushions scattered across the sofa, photographs that were framed on the walls – of Angie, her mom, and of course, Charlotte. Even in profile, she could see the tightening in his face as he crossed the room, beer in hand, staring at the picture for so long she wondered if he was in a sort of trance. When he turned back to her, there was the hint of moisture in his eyes. Surely she was imagining that? Men like Grayson didn’t cry. Ever. Not only was he as British upper class as they came, he was also some macho tough guy, whose natural setting was to hide emotion – if he even felt them.
“This is Charlotte?” He gestured to the picture with his thumb.
She nodded gently. “She’s about twelve weeks old there.”
He lifted a finger to the frame, touching it to her nose, before dropping it, straightening, and taking a long draw on his beer.
She stayed where she was, in the tiny kitchen, feeling somehow protected and insulated by the narrow cabinetry.
His inspection continued – to a photograph of Abby and her cousin Michael, taken when she last visited her mom. She loved the photo, and most of all, she loved what it represented. “That was about a month before Charlotte was born,” she said softly. It was the first time, since Grayson had left, when she’d felt truly happy. When she’d started to feel like herself again. She’d laughed at something Michael had said, he’d put an arm around her shoulders to pull her closer, to laugh with her, and Abby’s mom Winona had snapped the picture.
He compressed his lips, moving on, but there was very little else to see. A narrow doorway led to Charlotte’s room – really just space for a bed and a small chest of drawers – and that was the apartment.
“I know it’s not exactly roomy,” she said with an apologetic smile, before she caught herself, refusing to offer that sentiment to him. After all, she’d worked hard to keep this roof over their heads, and it was more than adequate for Charlotte’s needs.Right now, a little voice insisted. Because Charlotte was only fifteen months, and could be placated with walks to the playground where she’d go on the swings and the miniature slide, but what about when she was older and needed more space to express herself? The room she slept in wasn’t big enough for a proper bed; they’d have to move at some point.
“New York apartments don’t tend to be,” he said, taking another drink of his beer.
“Says he of the Upper East Side sky palace.”
A grim smile was his only response.
“What did you want to talk about?”
