Chapter 6
THE ELEVATOR DOORS PARTED and welcomed me out onto the rooftop.
Sitting atop a modern building that straddled the border of the Financial District and the Lower East Side, Hoshi was the type of place where you’d expect to spot a reality TV star out on the town, or the drummer from the band that had played Madison Square Garden the night before, or a young actor out on a date with a “mystery woman.”
I made my way to the model-like hostess stationed a few strides in front of me.
“Hi,” I began.
“Do you have a reservation?” she asked without looking up from her tablet.
“Yes, under Logan Peters,” I replied, a small smile flickering across my face. That was a feeling I could get used to.
Her eyes darted up to me. She quirked an eyebrow. Did I measure up in her assessment? She swiped a few times on the tablet in front of her.
“Right this way,” she muttered.
I followed the hostess as she sauntered through the restaurant, passing by various tables of pretty people, busy waiters racing around, and outdoor heaters that were working overtime to combat the crisp evening chill.
String lights formed a grid across the top of the dining area, making for an unquestionably romantic setting under the “stars”—the real night sky would be hidden by the city’s light pollution.
Just then, a familiar face popped into view: Logan’s.
“Your table, miss,” the hostess said before disappearing.
Logan’s eyes met mine, and he smiled. My stomach flipped.
“Jane?” he asked in that voice I knew well from my nights spent binging The Unforgivables.
“Hi.” I reached for my seat.
“Please, allow me.” He rose and came around to my side of the table. In my three-inch heels, we were about the same height. Surprising. He looked taller onscreen.
With his white V-neck T-shirt that definitely cost somewhere in the three digits, black designer jeans, and slick Chelsea boots that gave his height an extra boost, there was no doubt he had the put-together yet laid-back movie-star look down pat—to the point I felt a tad overdressed next to him.
He pulled out my seat for me, and I scooted in toward the table, catching a whiff of the distinct, fresh scent of Bleu de Chanel as he pushed the chair in behind me.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Logan took his seat across from me and raked a hand through his perfectly tousled earthy brown hair.
I couldn’t help but be a bit taken aback by the actor sitting across from me; his appearance didn’t exactly match the one I’d grown accustomed to. He was still good-looking, to be sure. But he wasn’t quite what the silver screen, a horde of makeup people, and the studio lights made him out to be.
“So, Jane, it’s lovely to meet you.” He bit his lip ever so slightly as he looked me up and down. Amber candlelight danced across his face.
“Likewise. Thank you for inviting me.”
“You been here before?” he asked, shifting his attention to the menu.
“No, but it’s been on my list.”
“Oh, then you’re in for a treat.”
A waitress appeared and placed chilled water glasses in front of us. She delivered a short speech, explaining the owner’s artistic vision and reciting the specials, each of them bearing exotic names.
“Are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?” she asked.
I opened my mouth to ask for a moment to look over the menu, but Logan held up a finger, signaling me to stop.
“If I may,” he said, eyeing me.
“Oh . . . sure,” I replied.
“We’ll do the bone marrow, scallops, and the crudité.” He jabbed at the menu with each order.
“And to drink?”
“You like white?” Logan pointed at me.
I nodded, hesitant. “Uh-huh.”
Logan Peters had just ordered for me within two minutes of meeting me. I couldn’t help but be drawn in by his self-assurance and yet put off by it at the same time.
I glanced down at the menu before the waitress collected them and rushed off. I would’ve gone for the tartare.
“You’ll thank me for that.” He winked and picked up his glass of water, taking a swig.
Our drinks soon arrived, and after exchanging a few more niceties, Logan asked me the dreaded first-date opener.
“So, tell me about yourself.”
The challenge to put my life into a neat, interesting little box never failed to leave me at a loss, especially when talking to someone like Logan, whose life was no doubt fascinating. Just like the people I wrote books for.
“Let’s see,” I began, “I’m a writer.” I’d longed all my life to utter those words. And while they were technically true, the times I’d been able to say them since starting with Carmichael had only felt half true, if that. More often than not, calling myself a writer felt fraudulent.
“No kidding? What do you write?” he asked.
“Well, I want to write fiction, but I’ve mostly ghostwritten memoirs.”
“That’s when you write a book for someone else, right?” Logan’s eyes narrowed questioningly.
“More or less.” I smiled.
“Who’ve you written for?”
“I’m not really supposed to say.” The general idea when ghostwriting a book was that no one should ever find out about my connection to it.
“It’ll be our little secret,” Logan whispered, leaning forward.
“No, really. It’s a whole big thing. I could get in trouble.” I shook my head.
“Aw, come on. Don’t make me beg.” Refusal didn’t seem like something he would accept. Maybe I’d just tell him one name. An actor would know better than to spill the beans to anyone else, right?
“Daisy O’Connor?” Having just seen her book, the Broadway star’s name was the latest on my mind.
“You’re joking.” Logan’s mouth hung open.
“I’m not.” I smiled awkwardly, surprised by his strong reaction.
“I dated her!”
A stab of jealousy pierced my stomach, followed by unease. Of course he knew her. Was this going to get back to Alexandria?
“Oh, wow, really?” I did my best to sound nonchalant. Though the little crack in my voice made me question how convincing I was. I reached for my glass of water and almost knocked it over.
“Yeah, yeah. We grew up together, went to acting classes together. Always knew she’d end up on Broadway.” He paused, clearly lost in an onslaught of fond memories.
I took the opportunity to walk back my breach of contract and downplay my involvement. “Well, to be honest, I only sort of helped out. She really did a lot of the heavy lifting.”
Logan nodded. Unsatisfied, I continued, “I really acted as more of an editor. Copyeditor. You know, grammar and all that.” Lies. All lies.
Change the subject. Change the subject. “So. You grew up in the city, then?”
“Yup,” he said. “I know, we’re a rare breed.”
I chuckled politely in response.
“What about you?” he asked. “Where’d you grow up?”
“Colorado. A little mountain town.”
“Oh, sweet. The skiing out there is phenomenal.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, despite never having been skiing.
“I go up to Vail every year with my buddy Ryan Gregory,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
I had. Rising movie director, known for his artsy movies that seemed more interested in getting the audience to think he was deep than telling a story that went anywhere. Somehow, their friendship didn’t surprise me.
Our waitress appeared, holding a few plates.
She gingerly placed them on the table to reveal the most beautiful food presentation I’d ever seen.
Masterful smears of colorful sauces, fresh herbs, and a heavenly aroma overwhelmed my senses.
The portions, however, weren’t exactly generous.
My empty stomach panged at the thought of having to share a single bite.
“Doesn’t it look fire?” Logan remarked.
“It really does.”
“Dig in!” he declared, puncturing a scallop and popping it into his mouth. I followed suit.
“So you like, uh, books, then?” Logan asked as he stabbed a paper-thin slice of cucumber.
“You could say that . . . Are you a reader?”
He chuckled. “Ah man, I’m gonna get in trouble here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, not really, no. Do scripts count? I’ve always got a pile of those laying around.” He grinned. “No, I’m just—I’m so busy, y’know?”
“Understandable.” I offered a shrug.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. They’re—they’re nice. Books.”
Nice was one word for them. Something told me he’d meant that word as a consolation prize, though.
Before I knew it, our plates were clean, free of the morsels that had been called entrées, and my stomach was still grumbling while Logan was recounting the antics of an ex-girlfriend and costar of his.
“They eventually had to write her off the show, ’cause she kept threatening to leak stuff to TMZ. And it was, like, just changing the vibes on set. So they had to kill her character off.” He shrugged, leaning back as he lazily stretched his arms up and clasped his hands behind his head.
“You’re kidding.” I feigned interest.
“Nah. She was crazy.” His finger traced a circle in the air.
We hit a lull as we both ran out of things to say. I took a sip of water to buy myself time.
“Anyone ever tell you how gorgeous your eyes are?” Logan was staring at me intensely.
I smiled. “Thank you.” There wasn’t any question in my mind that we weren’t a match, but his compliment still felt good. Logan leaned forward, casting a shadow on his eyes, which fixed on me.
“Hey, you wanna get out of here?” he murmured. The gleam in his eye told me what he meant.
My words escaped me. After he’d brought up two of his exes, I hadn’t been naive enough to think he’d be begging to call me his girlfriend, but I also hadn’t expected such a straightforward invitation.
“We could go back to my place? There’s a new episode of Frontrunners on tonight, and I don’t want to watch it alone.” He winked.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Not a Frontrunners fan? There’s always Jonny & Sam reruns.” He flashed a charming smile and reached a hand toward my knee.
“I really don’t think—”
“I’ve got a bottle of MacArthur’s that I’ve been waiting to open—”
“No,” I declared, perhaps a tad too loudly. Logan’s head jerked back. He held up his hands and half laughed. Had I been too aggressive? I cleared my throat. “I mean, I—I have to catch up on work tomorrow, and—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted. “I wasn’t, like, trying to force you.”
“No, I know . . .”
An uncomfortable silence settled over us like an extra blanket that was one too many.
Logan motioned to the waitress for the check, which we split.
Minutes later, we were stiffly bidding one another farewell on the street below as he hopped into a taxi and took off.
As if mere minutes earlier, he hadn’t unreservedly asked me back to his apartment.
My eyes landed on a pizza shop down the street, cueing a sharp groan from my stomach. A hot slice of cheese pizza sounded like exactly what I needed.
The gooey mozzarella burned my tongue as I bit into the pizza slice. A glob of marinara sauce dribbled onto my dress.
Great. I quickly dabbed it up with a half-greasy napkin.
The streets were vacant, the entire city bracing itself for the season’s first snow, due to make its debut any minute. Faint lights from closed-up storefronts and high rises flooded the street, illuminating my path as I wandered down Wall Street.
It might have been romantic if I weren’t all alone, living a night that felt like a far cry from the sweeping romances I’d devoured as a teenager.
Hardly the storybook ending I’d envisioned for this date.
Against my better judgment, of course. In my years dating in the city, I’d spent more than just a few evenings sitting across from the kind of guy who could look me in the eyes and suggest “something casual” or “some fun back at my place,” to the point where I’d grown numb to it.
But tonight, I’d made a mistake. I had allowed myself to hope. More than being angry at Logan, I was angry at myself.
Hot tears stung my eyes, threatening to fall. I attempted to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat.
It was taking every ounce of effort I had not to beat myself up and show no mercy.
I’d had the tiniest glimmer of hope—a foolish hope, I now understood—that finally, after months .
. . years . . . of disappointing dates that led nowhere, I might walk away from this evening with a guy I could call mine. Maybe this time.
With every minute that had passed on my date with Logan, my hope had seeped out, slowly but surely.
Resignation had replaced that hope, like water trickling in through a tiny puncture.
And with the words, “Want to go back to my place?” which, regretfully, I hadn’t always been wise enough to refuse, the final nail was in the coffin.
Was that really all I was? All I would ever be? Was I just not the kind of girl who got committed to? Proposed to?
Tonight, I knew better than to think that accepting Logan’s offer would ever lead to something serious, lasting, or fulfilling. But younger Jane hadn’t always understood that.
A snowflake, pure and ivory, landed on my nose.
I gazed up at the dreary, steel blue sky.
The arctic breeze carried my thoughts to the Sunday school lessons that had told me of the God who was “in the heavens.” We’d recited Bible verses and sung sweet songs and been assured that God was always with us.
I didn’t feel him with me tonight, though. I hadn’t for years.
Had I disappointed God too much to expect anything? Run up the bill on the grace and forgiveness and compassion that I was always promised he had in spades?
The flurries had started to stick. Soon, the streets would be hidden beneath a perfect, sparkling blanket of white, concealing their grime and imperfections.
I stood, my face turned upward, and let the snow cover me too. My hair, my skin, my pain, my embarrassment.