Chapter 25
OWEN
When I got home from my early morning outing with Zoe, I took a long, hot shower. By the time I towelled off and got dressed, there was indeed a new email from her waiting for me, just as promised.
Which I promptly ignored in favor of making myself an omelet and taking my time eating it. (I’m not proud.)
I go ahead, now, though, and click to open the email.
From: Zoe Wilde zoetrope@
To: Owen Wilde owen@
Date: December 22, 9:07 AM
Subject: Ask and you shall receive!
I heard you, cuz. And while I do wish you had given my original list a tiny bit more of a chance, I will admit that I may have been trying to push you a smidge further out of your comfort zone than you might, er, be comfortable with.
So here you are, sir, a brand-new, custom-tailored New York City itinerary to keep you busy (at least for today, because I have another article to turn in, and truth be known, I think I might just need to sit for a few hours to fully recover from this morning.
Can you believe people do that for fun?).
Anyhoo, attached, please see my New List of Awesome Ideas.
Xoxo,
Zo
And, yep, attached, there is an actual file named “New List of Awesome Ideas.”
My finger hovers over the download button, but I just… can’t.
Just the idea of what might be inside fills me with so much exhaustion, I just can’t make myself read it. Maybe I’ll look at it a little later. Maybe I’ll tell her there was a technical glitch and I wasn’t able to open the file…
So, instead, I putter around the apartment.
I drop onto the sofa and watch a local morning news show until I realize I’m not really absorbing what the hosts are discussing, and I don’t particularly care about it either.
After that, I wander into George’s office and pull out the first Sebastian Steele book—Beg, Borrow, or Steele—settling myself into George’s cozy reading chair to see what the fuss is about.
But despite it having been a runaway success—and I remember seeing the movie trailers and thinking it looked okay—I just can’t get into it. I give up after a couple of chapters. The one takeaway I leave with is it really doesn’t sound much like George to me.
Which is ridiculous because, first of all, it obviously is George. And second of all, how the hell would I know what George sounds like?
Still, none of the warmth and humor that comes through in the man’s emails are there in the pages of the book. Oh, it’s good. Technically flawless—even I can tell that. But, for all the flash and glamour and excitement, it lacks a certain sweetness I’ve come to associate with the man.
Not that I recognized it before now.
And not that it’s remotely real because between a guy who exchanged a couple of emails with the man and his millions of devoted fans, I am definitely not the one to be deciding who the real George Knight is.
I slide the book back onto the shelf, feeling a little guilty. If you’re staying in the guy’s apartment, it feels like it’s only common courtesy to like his books.
After that, I do half of the crossword in today’s New York Times (George has it delivered), do fifty push-ups and a hundred sit-ups, and carve a penguin out of the bar of soap I find in the half bath before finally admitting to myself I’m going absolutely stir crazy.
Is it weird that I kind of want to email George and see how he’s doing?
Yes. Yes, it is weird. And also intrusive because George agreed to this arrangement in the first place specifically so he could focus on his writing.
But I am going to go insane if I stay here any longer. Plus, I’m getting hungry.
I bundle up and go to grab a sandwich at a deli a few blocks over whose menu I found in the pile George left for me.
But while wandering around the neighborhood in the general direction back to the apartment, I find myself walking past a market.
I pause to look at the display of fruits and nuts stacked in the window. Screw it. I go inside.
An hour later, I’m unloading grocery bags and setting to work kneading dough for a loaf of bread. While that is rising, I chop herbs and mix up a fresh vinaigrette, then roast some vegetables to toss it with.
Once that is chilling, I whip up a batch of my standard recipe granola bars—this time with a variety of dried fruits you can’t find in Moonlake Village, bake the bread, then set about deciding what my main course will be tonight.
I settle on an improvised pasta dish, filling the apartment with mouthwatering aromas as garlic and peppers sizzle in a very high-end but clearly rarely used pan. I swear, there’s not a single scratch on it.
I splash a dash of wine over the vegetables and wonder when the last time George cooked anything here was. A long time ago, I’d guess. Maybe when Luca was still around? Or maybe they hadn’t cooked at all.
I can’t imagine it. To me, the sights, sounds, and smells of a home-cooked meal are what make a home. Maybe that isn’t the case for George. Probably he’s one of those classic New Yorkers who thinks kitchens are for storing your takeout and cooking is something moms do. In the suburbs. In the 1950s.
Still, as I swirl crushed tomatoes into the pan and set the water on to boil for the fresh pasta I’ve splurged on, I feel like I’m doing a service, somehow righting a wrong, by taking the shiny, disused kitchen out for a spin.
I’m just taking the sauce off the flame when my phone rings.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Zoe asks, sounding seriously out of breath.
“No… did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Huh? Oh, I’m just out running errands for the wedding.
You’d think Luca and Cory would have gotten their rings sized—which they have had for a month by the way—before the last possible second, especially considering how busy jewelers are the week before Christmas.
Hello, this is shopping 101. It’s like they aren’t even gay. ”
I chuckle. Zoe can be a lot, but I’ve still missed her today. “Pretty sure they would not be marrying each other if that were the case.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But I can hear the smile in her voice. “Anyway, I need a break, so you are taking me out to dinner.”
Ugh. There’s that exhausted feeling again. “Zoe, I—”
“No! No. You are not begging off again. I never see you, and now you’re in the city, and I want to spend time with my favorite cousin, dammit.
And this morning doesn’t count because I was too busy trying not to trip over my own shoelaces.
Plus, I’ve had a day, and you owe me. We did it your way the other night. ”
All of this is true, plus I want to spend time with her, too, really. I sigh. “I just made dinner, though.”
There’s a knock at the door.
I squeeze my eyes shut. What now?
“Hang on, Zo, I need to get the—” I swing the door open and… there she is.
“Perfect! I’ll eat your food—mmm it smells yummy! You’ve always been such a great cook, O.” She peels off her coat and thrusts it at me. “But then, after that, you are taking me out. I want a gigantic cocktail and people and loud, and you can’t say no to me because I’ve had a hell of a day.”
I blink at her.
“What? Oh. Luca and Cory’s jeweler is right around the corner.”
“Ah,” I manage. I hang her coat in the front closet.
“Sooo.” She grins. “What’s for dinner? And how’d you make out with today’s to-do list? Better, right?”
I clear my throat.
“Pasta.” I lead the way to the dining table. “And, you know what, going out for a drink sounds great! Where are you planning to take me?”
She grins. “You’ll see. I have the perfect place in mind. Oooh, is that homemade bread?!” She grabs the loaf and tears off a hunk.
“I’ll just go make us plates.”
“Mmm, George has pasta bowls, second cabinet on the left,” she says around a mouthful of bread.
“Got it!”
Crisis averted, at least for now. As long as I keep her focused on the meal, maybe I can avoid talking about the list…