Chapter 1 #2
I hang up before she can argue and stand there for a moment, staring at the spot where the SUV was parked. My hands are still shaking. My pulse is still racing. I have no idea why a thirty-second encounter with a stranger has left me feeling like I've just run a marathon.
Get it together, Winslow.
I draw in a breath, trying to shake off the strange encounter. I’ll never see him again, so why am I still thinking about it?
And why does the thought that he’s gone forever make me feel as if there’s something hollow in my stomach?
The brownstone's front steps are steep, and I take them carefully in my heeled boots, balancing the pastry box in one hand while I reach for the doorbell with the other. A moment later, the door swings open.
A middle-aged woman in neat black pants and a button-down shirt opens the door, smiling at me. “Mr. Cattaneo said you would be arriving this morning. Mara?”
“That’s me.” I step inside, ignoring how odd it still seems to me to have a housekeeper. I can’t imagine having staff, although I know Annie has lived in households with staff her whole life. “Where’s Annie?”
“Upstairs, second floor, first bedroom on the left. I can show you—”
“I’m sure I can find it,” I assure her. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
Before she can argue, I hurry toward the stairs, a gorgeous wrought-iron and mahogany staircase that curves up to the second floor. I make my way up, heels clicking on the shiny wood, and knock on the first door on the left.
“Come in?” I hear Annie’s tired voice from inside, and I nudge the door open, stepping into the bedroom.
I can smell woodsmoke from a fireplace at one end of the room—that’s one luxury I wouldn’t mind stealing for my own apartment, a fireplace in the bedroom—and the lavender scent of a candle.
Annie is in the massive four-poster bed with a pale blue duvet tucked around her and a mountain of pillows behind her, and the moment she sees me, she sits straight up.
"Mara!"
She’s wearing silk long-sleeved pajamas and a cashmere robe, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looks so happy to see me that I forget all about the man and the SUV.
"Surprise!" I hold up the pastry box. "I brought breakfast."
She pulls me into a hug as I approach after setting down the coffee and food on the side table, squeezing me tightly as I carefully embrace her back. When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes.
"You didn't have to come all this way," she says, but she's smiling, and I can see the relief in her face. I’m sure she’s been lonely when Elio isn’t home, trapped in this house with nothing to do but worry about the baby and try to keep herself occupied.
"Of course I did," I tell her, following her inside. "You're my best friend. What else would I do?”
“Oh, I don’t know—but I do know you have plenty to do that’s more important than coming to Boston to entertain me.”
“Not in the slightest,” I promise her, handing her the latte as I flip open the pastry box.
“Oh, you didn’t!” Annie exclaims. “Oh my god, I’ve been craving those like crazy, but I’ve felt so bad sending someone out for them when I’m not even sure what I can keep down these days.”
“Well,l if you throw them back up, I won’t be insulted,” I promise teasingly, setting a croissant on a cream-colored napkin and handing it to her. “How are you feeling? You look good.” Her cheeks have a nice amount of color in them, and she doesn’t look as if she’s lost too much weight.
"I look like I haven't left the house in a week," Annie says, but she's smiling as she takes the pastry. "Oh my God, you got the chocolate croissants. I love you."
"I know you do." I take a croissant of my own and perch on the end of the bed, exactly as we used to do in our dorm years ago. "So tell me everything. How was the honeymoon? How's Elio and Margaret? How are you really feeling?"
Annie brightens, immediately launching into a story about her honeymoon with Elio, the beautiful sunsets and delicious food. I listen and laugh and try to focus on what she’s saying. But part of my mind is still outside, still standing on the sidewalk, still locked in that moment with the stranger.
I could mention him. I should ask Annie if she knows who he was, if Elio had a meeting this morning, if there's any reason a man in a multi-thousand-dollar suit would be leaving her house at nine in the morning. But something stops me. This is the first time I’ve seen my friend in person in well over two years, and I don’t want one of the first things we talk about to be a man, especially not some stranger.
And Annie is so animated, talking about her honeymoon and about Margaret, her shoulders relaxing and the worry lines at the corners of her eyes smoothing out.
I don’t want to bring anything up that might taint it.
What if the man was someone she or Elio don’t particularly like?
Or what if she would just warn me away from him?
I’m never going to see him again anyway. I’m going back to New York in a few days, and I have no interest in trying something long-distance. Better to keep it as an odd, romantic moment than spoil it with reality.
"Mara? You okay?"
I blink, realizing Annie has stopped talking and is looking at me with concern. "Yeah, sorry. Just tired from the flight."
"You sure? You seem distracted."
"I'm fine," I lie, taking a bite of my croissant. "Just thinking about work. Claire called on my way here about a Monet that just became available."
Annie's eyes light up. "A Monet? That's huge."
"It could be. If the price is right and the provenance checks out." I shrug with a smile. "But enough about work. I'm here for you. What do you need? What can I do?"
We spend the next hour talking and laughing, and slowly, the strangeness of the morning fades. Annie tells me about Margaret’s latest milestones—she's walking now, getting into everything—and promises that I’ll get to meet her later.
I tell her about the gallery, about a recent show and some new, exciting clients, and a trip to Paris that was half business, half pleasure.
Annie listens with a girlish excitement as I tell her about the handsome Frenchman I met at dinner my first day in the city, that I spent every night with until I left after that.
The conversation is easy and happy and comfortable, the way it always is with Annie.
She’s one of those friends who, no matter how long we go without seeing each other in person or even if we go a while without finding time to talk to each other, our friendship never feels as if it’s lessened or been chipped away at.
We complement each other well. She’s warm and open and optimistic, whereas I tend to be more reserved and guarded, and suspicious.
We balance each other out, and I can't imagine my life without her in it.
"I'm so glad you're here," Annie says, reaching across the bed to squeeze my hand. "I've been going crazy stuck in this house. Elio means well, but he treats me like I'm going to break if I move too fast. And the doctor was very insistent that I stay in bed until my next appointment."
"He’s just worried, I’m sure. After all, you guys were apart for so long, and now—I’m sure he’s worried that something might happen to you.”
“You have no idea.” Annie gives a little laugh. “But you know me. I like to do things myself."
"I do know you." I smile at her. "Which is why I'm here. To keep you company and make sure you don't go completely insane."
"You're the best." She pauses, studying my face. "Are you sure you're okay? You still seem a little off."
I open my mouth to brush off her concern again, but something in her expression stops me. Annie knows me too well. She can always tell when I'm hiding something. But I can't tell her about the man—I can't explain something I don't understand myself.
"Just tired," I say finally. "And worried about you. But I'm fine. Really."
She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she lets it go, and we move on to talking about her pregnancy. She shows me pictures of how she wants to decorate the nursery, and I show her my new apartment in Manhattan, that I moved into recently, in a nicer part of town than I was in before.
“It’s been a good year.” I flick through the photos, showing her the 1920s accents in the apartment that I fell in love with. “I finally felt confident enough to move out of the studio I rented during grad school.”
“Finally,” Annie teases. “I thought you were going to live there forever.”
“It was rent-controlled.” I laugh. “But it was time I gave myself some more space, and I’m sure someone else will love it. Another student who needs that kind of thing more than I do now.”
Even as the morning wears on, though, and we talk for hours, I can’t completely shake the feeling that the encounter left me with.
It felt as if something shifted, changed, and I’m left with a sensation that has me feeling slightly off-kilter hours after the meeting—if you can even call it that—actually took place.
I tell myself I'm being ridiculous. It was just a look. Just a moment of attraction to a handsome stranger. But I keep thinking about him—the intensity in his eyes, the way my body responded, hot and electric, drawn to him as if there was something inevitable about him.
About the way he'd looked at me like I was already his.