Chapter 5
AERYN
Brushing my teeth on Sunday morning and glaring at myself in a steamed hotel mirror, I try to forget the way Gage stared at me—like he was looking at a ghost.
No. Not a ghost. A zombie. Something from his past that refuses to die, no matter how many times he tries to break free.
Okay, Rider. What do we do now?
It’s my own goddamn fault I spent last night alone. I asked a question, when I should have made a statement. I gave a feckin’ option, when I should have taken exactly what I wanted.
Gage wanted me. I felt that in his hands when he helped me across the street, and I saw it in his face when my time was up on the ice. I heard it in his voice, when he said, “Now, you get into the car with Curtis, and he’ll take you back to the Waldorf. I’ll take a cab back to Brooklyn.”
And stupid me, I went along with his eejit plan—because I’m going back to Chicago on Tuesday morning, because I was afraid of how much I wanted him to touch me, because Logan would have hated everything I’ve done in the past forty-eight hours.
So, Sunday morning with my hair dried and my makeup perfect, with my Tori Burch skirt and top pulled on like a feckin’ uniform, I take out my phone and study my plan for the day.
I gave up my reservations at Gotham Tavern for last night’s stupid mistake.
I call to see if they have a last-minute opening for tonight, and the host laughs so hard he starts to choke.
Fuck him. Fuck all of them.
There’s no reason to abandon the plan I built so carefully when I planned this trip from Chicago.
Sure, it’s Sunday morning, and brunch is a notorious dead-zone for serious chefs.
Too many customers want bottomless mimosas with cheap, greasy food to soak up the alcohol.
Even the best menus are forced to balance heavy breakfasts with light lunches.
But dim sum is a different thing altogether.
Aunt Li is a massive restaurant in Chinatown, taking up three stories of an ancient building on Mott Street.
The place is famous for its dumplings, pork sticky rice, and custard tarts.
It’s as different as possible from the hearty Irish fare I’ve eaten all my life.
I grab the leather-bound notebook I use to take notes and head downstairs for a cab.
Steamed sausage rolls. Shrimp dumplings. Fried turnip cake. I sample all of those, and more. The Chinese family at the round table next to me sees me studying their choices, and they send over the more adventurous dishes: Stewed chicken feet. Steamed beef tripe. Glutinous rice dumplings.
I’m in heaven.
I eat until I can’t manage another bite. When the waiter brings my bill, I put down my platinum American Express card, telling him I’m picking up the tab for my new Chinese friends. I leave before they discover my little Christmas present.
That’s what it means to be a Reardon, an Irish mob princess.
I can take care of the people around me.
Da’s a millionaire many times over, and he takes pride in providing for his family—all of us, even me, the only girl.
I’m thirty-one years old, and I already have a million dollars in my savings account.
Of course that’s nothing compared to Gage Rider’s billions. If I live to be 80, I’ll have fifty-six dollars a day to spend, every day of my life. If I had Gage’s money, I’d have twenty-three hundred dollars an hour.
So, yeah. The eighteen hundred he gave that woman for me to skate last night was pocket change.
I dig my fingernails into my palms. I don’t want to think about skating. I don’t want to remember the wind in my hair, the thrill of spinning at center ice almost out of control, the hunger I saw in Gage’s eyes when I came back to the bench—I know it was there.
Okay, Rider. What do we do now?
I’m a feckin’ eejit.
I yank the belt tight on my coat, slip my notebook into my pocket, and head out of Aunt Li’s. I don’t have another reservation until eight tonight, at Dancing Beet, a vegetarian restaurant on the Upper West Side that’s been getting rave reviews.
I could take a cab back to the Waldorf, but I already know I’d just sit in my room and mope. Instead, I decide to walk up Broadway.
I’m wearing Doc Martens, in deference to last night’s snow. The laces are tight around my ankles, almost as tight as my skates were last night.
Don’t think about skates.
Many of the storefronts I pass are decorated for Christmas. Gold and silver garlands line windows, and colored holiday lights flash around doors. Chinatown gives way to the Bowery, which fades into Greenwich Village.
For a few blocks, I trail behind a quartet of drunken Santa Clauses.
Through the window of a coffee shop, I glimpse a grown-up Grinch handing a cup of hot chocolate to a very little Cindy Lou Who.
I’m earwormed with Christmas carols—“I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” and dogs barking “Jingle Bells” and four feckin’ repeats of “Last Christmas”.
When my legs get tired, I take a break in a Yemeni coffee shop.
They have a fake fireplace against one wall, with stockings hung across the mantel.
I think about the silk stockings I rolled down my thighs once I got back to the hotel last night.
Just as Gage predicted, the silk was shredded by my skates.
Don’t think about stockings.
Fortified by caffeine, I make my way past the Flatiron Building, heading to midtown. I’ve covered a couple of miles; I’m halfway to Dancing Beet. My toes are cold and my cheeks feel flushed, but for the first time in two days, I’m back in control of my life.
I never should have gone to Kynk with Will. Once I was there, I never should have let Gage order me that Jameson. Once I drank the whiskey, I never should have agreed to a tour of the club. Once I let Gage show me around, I never should have accepted his invitation to meet the Diamond Ring.
There were so many times I could have stepped aside. So many ways I could have taken back my independence. So many chances to remember that I’m Aeryn Reardon, I belong in Chicago, and I have nothing but bad memories from the time I lived in New York City.
But Gage’s hands were gentle when he helped me into his massive Rivian. His voice was kind as he told his driver to take me to the Waldorf. His eyes were sad as he softly closed the vehicle’s door.
Don’t think about Gage.
I’m early for my dinner reservation, but there are seats at the bar. I order whiskey but change my mind before the bartender can grab a glass. I ask for a vodka martini instead, extra dirty. It comes with four olives on a silver pick.
Dancing Beet lives up to its reputation. I order all eight appetizers on the menu, just so I can study the chef’s technique. It takes me almost fifteen minutes to identify the flavor folded into my smoked rutabaga carpaccio. It turns out to be minced sea beans.
I take notes. I savor a late-harvest Tokaji instead of dessert. I assure the server I loved the meal, even though I decline to take any of my leftovers back to my hotel.
Back in my suite, I’m forced to stare at the cashmere sweater I wore to Radio City. The skirt, too. They’re my favorite winter clothes, and now I want to burn them. They’re tainted, ruined by Gage’s touch at the small of my back, by his palm on my elbow, by the way he—
Do not think abut Gage Feckin’ Rider.
I should be knackered after my long walk. I should be studying my notes for tomorrow’s restaurants. I should be packing my clothes, getting a head start on my early-Tuesday-morning departure.
I wonder if Gage is at the club right now. Or maybe he’s watching his hockey team. The Aces are on the road, playing in Toronto. He could have taken a private plane up to Canada.
I hate that I know the Aces’ schedule. I hate that I still check their standings every morning, exactly the way I did when Logan was still alive. I hate that they’re having their best year in a decade, that they’re finally in contention for the Stanley Cup.
The press will have a field day if the Aces go all the way this year. Gage will have back-to-back interviews for weeks. Everyone will want to know how it feels to win in this anniversary year of Logan’s death.
Do not fucking think about Gage Fucking Rider.
I don’t realize I’ve made a decision until I’m pulling on my sexiest knickers—high-cut black lace, with a trio of tiny red roses centered over each hip. I add the matching bra. I cover up with a Prada knit dress in pine green.
My feet scream when I slip on my Louboutin stilettos. It hurts to be beautiful—that’s what Mam always said. I can manage. It’s not like I’ll be walking the length of Manhattan again.
The doorman hands me into my taxi without a second glance. The cabbie shakes his head in confusion when I give him the address, but he passes me his phone and lets me type in the destination.
As we make our way toward the Brooklyn Bridge, I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. Kynk is a private club. I’m not a member. There is no way in hell I’m getting past the dangerously efficient door dragon, much less the security guards in the lobby.
But I don’t tell the driver to turn around.
The shadows framing the door seem darker tonight than they did when I arrived with Will. The walk from the curb seems longer. My fingers hover over the latch for a full minute before I find the courage to step inside.
A stranger sits behind the desk. She’s tall and curvy and blonde, and according to the flag pins on her lapel, she speaks different languages than Lydia. But her smile is the identical cool professional greeting as she says, “Good evening.”
“I’m Aeryn Reardon,” I say.
I’m about to ask her to summon Gage so I can plead my case. But the woman’s fingers move before I can beg for help. She taps her tablet, and she nods precisely at what she sees.
“Excellent, Ms. Reardon. I see you’re on our guest list. Welcome to the Mistletoe Masquerade.”