2. Edie
EDIE
I look up into the face of the hot bartender from Barnes and Noble. He’s taken off his tie and loosened his collar and he is not looking any less hot.
“Go ahead,” he says, gesturing to the chair with an open hand in a strangely old-fashioned way.
“You’re the guy from…” I lift my arm and point towards Barnes and Noble, and he gives a brief nod and a half smile.
“I made my escape.”
A brief wind ruffles his dark hair, and he reaches up, raking it back with one hand.
“So…” He looks from me to the table with a faintly amused expression.
“Oh. Yes. Um—” And I have no idea where this comes from, but maybe it’s three glasses of champagne or Annabel’s pep talk, but my mouth forms the words before my brain has time to put on the brakes. “There’s only one table left. You can share if you’d like?”
He smiles. “That sounds like the perfect solution. ”
Oh shit. Now I’m sitting at a table with a man who is objectively very handsome indeed. “It was a glass of wine here,” I babble, “or a Big Mac and a strawberry milkshake in my hotel room.”
He sits opposite me. “Both have their merits.”
As he stretches his legs out, he brushes my thigh with his knee, and I suck in a breath, trying to steady myself by pressing my hand on the wooden table.
“More champagne?” He picks up the menu.
“Oh god, no.” I shake my head vigorously. “I hate it.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.” His brows lift slightly.
“That’s not an American accent.”
“It’s not.”
It’s Scottish, like mine, but where mine has faded from a decade of living in London, his is the soft burr from the Highlands.
“Well, I could definitely do with a drink.” He lifts the menu and scans it briefly. “Shall we get you something that’s not champagne?”
“Please.”
Fortunately, a waitress appears a second later, saving me from launching into another mildly tipsy torrent of unadulterated bollocks.
I order a white wine, and he orders an IPA.
He’s very still and calm, like a lion surveying his kingdom.
I, on the other hand, drop my phone, then knock the menu off the table.
“So,” I begin again, sitting back in my chair and trying to appear slightly less chaotic. “Do you do a lot of these Barnes and Noble book events?”
“I am very happy to say I don’t.” He gives a brief laugh. “My idea of hell. But needs must. And so here we are.”
Our drinks arrive, accompanied by a bowl of potato chips. He passes me my wine and tips his beer bottle towards my glass.
“Slainte.” For a moment, he sits back, closing his eyes as he savours his first sip of beer, and I size him up quickly.
He’s around my age – mid-thirties, maybe a little older?
The shadows under his eyes suggest he’s been burning the candle at both ends or working too hard.
Dark hairs show at the collar of his shirt where he’s loosened the top couple of buttons and at the cuffs of his sleeves.
His eyes snap open and he looks at me intently.
“So, what brought you to the book launch?”
“I—” I twirl the stem of my glass, stalling for a moment, feeling the cool drips of condensation running over my fingertips.
I’m here because seeing my words in print might be the closest I ever get to being a published author – which, let’s be honest, sounds pretty bloody tragic. I think of Annabel telling me to have an adventure. I’m a storyteller, so fuck it, he can have a story.
“I’m here for some research. I’m… an investigative journalist.”
I’m sure Anna won’t mind me borrowing her job for the evening. I’ve spent the last five years writing other people’s words. Tonight, I’m going off-script.
He stills for a moment. It’s barely noticeable. Then just as quickly he recovers and takes a drink.
I nod, and now, I’m fully committed. “Big piece. A look behind the scenes of the book world.”
He lets out a quiet exhale that might be amusement or something else.
“The book world,” he says. “Okay, now I’m intrigued. ”
Saying I write for Super Pets Insurance has never quite had the same impact on men.
I take a drink. “Oh, it’s a job, you know.”
“Go on.” He leans in slightly, resting an elbow on the table.
“It’s a cut-throat business.”
His lips curve slightly. “And you’re uncovering the truth at any cost?”
I take a sip of ice-cold wine and nod. “Absolutely.”
“What exactly are you investigating?” His voice is casual, but I feel myself frowning for a brief second. Shit, what if he actually does work in publishing?
“You’re not an industry plant, are you? Bartender by day, cutthroat literary agent by night?”
He almost smiles. Almost. “Not quite.” He takes another swig of his beer.
“I can categorically state that I know nothing about the publishing business. I can also tell you the last time I read a book was a shamefully long time ago, for which I blame the internet, and that I have no desire to ever write one. Does that help?”
“Very much so.” Reassured, I sit forward, putting my elbows on the table and resting my chin on my steepled hands. “Don’t worry, your scandalous secrets are safe with me.”
His mouth twitches. “How do you know I have any scandalous secrets?”
“I’m an investigative journalist,” I repeat, with a raise of my eyebrows. I like playing New York Edie . “I notice things.”
“Like a psychic,” he says, making me laugh. “Come on then, Miss Journalist, tell me what you can see.”
“You’re the sort of man who doesn’t like small talk. You don’t like sticking around in one place too long. And you definitely don’t want to spend your Thursday night at book launches.”
His lips twitch. “All of which are glaringly obvious.”
“But true?” I fold my arms and look at him.
He nods. “Yes, undeniably. And despite all of the above, here I am.”
“Here you are.” I smirk. “Which does rather beg the question – what are you doing here?”
His eyes rake over my body for a moment and the lines at the corners of his eyes fan as he smiles. “I was coming for a quick drink. Then a pretty redhead appeared out of nowhere and now I’m being quizzed. So, let’s turn the tables. Was this how your evening was supposed to turn out?”
“Oh god, no.” I grimace. “I was supposed to be making a good impression. Instead, I made a quick exit, and now here we are.”
He glances around, taking in the packed beer garden. It’s full of tourists, the tables untidy with harried servers trying to keep up.
“Not exactly glamorous.”
He shifts on his chair, his leg brushing against mine under the table once again. It’s the smallest touch, but my breath hitches in my throat as he tilts his head slightly, looking at me thoughtfully. “So how long are you working in New York?”
I lift my glass, taking a slow sip. “Just for tonight. I fly home tomorrow lunchtime.”
His fingers tighten slightly around his bottle, his expression unreadable, but something shifts in his posture.
“Just for the night,” he repeats, his voice lower now.
“Mm-hmm.” I set my glass down, tracing a finger along the rim. “I fly out at lunchtime. ”
There’s a pause – long enough to register that something in the air between us has changed. His eyes flicker down to my mouth for a moment and rest there a second, and then he leans in slightly, his forearm brushing lightly against mine.
“Well then.”
He sits back in the chair, his long legs stretched out to the side, and I watch as he removes a set of cufflinks and drops them on the table with a heavy clunk and I glance at them for a second – they’ve got that soft glow of well-worn silver and I wonder if they’ve been passed down from an older relative.
Then he rolls up his sleeves, revealing muscled arms dusted with dark hair and a tattoo on his left forearm.
His watch is chunky and clearly expensive.
I realize I’m staring and pull my gaze away, pretending to be incredibly interested in the contents of my wine glass.
When I look up again his eyes meet mine.
His expression is half amused, half challenging.
“So, this is your last night in New York,” he says, resting his chin on his hand and looking at me with the ghost of a smile curving his mouth. “I think we can improve on this.” He gestures to the bar.
I take a breath in and bite my lip. My heart’s beating faster as if it knows something I don’t. “You do?”
“I do. Drink up.”
He finishes his beer and puts the glass down decisively, leaving more than enough money to cover the bill and a generous service charge.
I look at him, and for a split second, I consider grabbing my bag, thanking him for the drink, and skipping the part where I walk into the Manhattan night with this abrupt, handsome stranger.
But I remember Annabel’s words and make the choice.
Tonight, I am going to be someone else. Not Edie who gets steamrollered into doing what works for other people, but someone who sees what they want, and then takes it.
“One rule for tonight.” He steps aside to usher me inside the bar a block away, around the corner from my hotel.
I pause for a moment and look up at him. “Go on?”
“No names, no pack drill.”
“No names?”
“Not literally,” he says dryly as we take the last available table tucked in the corner of the crowded bar.
Once he’s ordered, I sit forward, my chin balanced on a fingertip, and look at him, my skin prickling with anticipation.
“So,” I say.
God, that faint smile is sexy. It barely lifts the corners of his mouth but the lines at the sides of his eyes fan out, as if amused.
“Rory,” he says, putting out a hand and shaking mine briefly. I feel a jolt of desire which pins me to the chair and almost takes my breath away, so much so that I half expect to see sparks shooting out from my fingers as I pull them away.
“I thought you said no names?”
“I said not literally.” He fixes me with a level gaze, and heat rises in my cheeks. Thank God, it’s dark in here. I shift in my chair and pull at the neckline of my dress, looking up to see his eyes have dropped to my cleavage. He notices me noticing and looks away with a half-smile.
“I’m Edie.”
“Edie,” he repeats in his low voice. “That’s a very pretty name.”
“D’you think?” I don’t know what to do with myself. “It’s my grandma’s name. I always hated it.”
“Are you always this terrible at accepting compliments? ”
That makes me laugh. The server puts our drinks down on the table and I lace my fingers around my glass. “I’m British. Worse than that, I’m Scottish. You know we’re incapable of taking a compliment without turning into a joke.”
“I do.” He sips his whisky and looks at me steadily.
“So, Rory. Do you live here?” I sound like I’m interviewing him for a job.
“Yes and no.”
It’s my turn to raise a brow.
“It’s complicated,” he says, with a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Snapping a pretzel, he offers me half.
“That’s not an answer,” I say, taking it from him, my fingers brushing his. “That’s what men say when they mean they’ve got a secret wife in Connecticut and an apartment they swear is just for work.”
His expression is cool, but his eyes are anything but. “No wife, no secret apartment.”
“A lover in Paris?” I tease him.
“A trail of ruined women in my wake.”
I feel a prickle of heat creeping up my spine and try to regain the upper hand. One night only Edie is a hell of a lot braver than my usual self.
“Oh, you think you’re going to ruin me?” I ask, realizing a second later what I’ve said.
His gaze locks onto mine, slow and deliberate. I feel the shift between us – the heavy and electric air.
“That comes later.” I catch the scent of his aftershave – something subtle and woody. It smells expensive.
And then he sits back, casually. “Now, let’s talk about something else before you start accusing me of industrial espionage.”
I mirror him, sitting back and folding my arms, casting a glance over his body for a moment. “You do give off a bit of on-a-watchlist energy.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” But something flickers behind his smile, and for a moment it feels like I touched a nerve.
I laugh and take a sip of my drink. “Okay. No espionage, no wives. What’s left for us to talk about?”
His eyes travel from my glass up to my face, his chin lifting slightly as if he’s sizing me up. “What’s your worst habit?”
“I buy books faster than I read them. And I talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“That explains a lot.”
He’s finished his drink already, while I take a sip of mine. “Rude.”
“Merely an observation.”
“Fine,” I say. “Your turn. What’s yours?”
“Letting people think they’re in control when they’re not.”
My heart starts thumping.
“That’s a terrible habit.”
“You have no idea.” He gazes at me for a long moment.
I’m vaguely aware of the hum of chatter and the clink of glasses going on somewhere around me, but it feels like it’s a world away.
I don’t know what’s happening here and suddenly I feel completely out of my depth, my heart banging against my rib cage while I play this weird game without knowing the rules.
My eyes are bright and sparkling, and there’s a hectic flush to my cheeks when I go to the bathroom.
I’ve never had much of a game face… in fact, Anna always says that whatever I’m thinking is pretty much written in capital letters for an yone to see.
Right now, I’m half surprised not to see the words FUCK ME on my forehead.
When I get back, I have to squeeze by him to get into my chair. He’s standing up and I feel the heat of his skin through the still crisp white of his shirt.
“Sorry.” I’m not remotely sorry.
A half-smile lifts his mouth and his eyes darken as they meet mine. “I’m not complaining.”
“Tell me what you love about New York?”
He pushes his hands through his hair and frowns. “It’s not home, but it feels like it. I can be invisible here.”
“That makes sense. I like London for the same reason. Back home in Edinburgh, everyone knows everyone.”
He glances out of the window, the words almost casual. “And here we can do what we like.”
It’s a simple statement, but the meaning behind the words is clear. I nod, unable to stop smiling. “We can do anything we want.”
Rory glances at my glass a couple of hours later. Somehow the place has emptied out while we’ve been talking, and now the lights are dim and the music’s low. “Another?”
I look up at the clock on the wall. “I should probably?—”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
My breath hitches. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”
He reaches over and cups my face. A wave of desire passes through me like an electric current and I bite down on my lower lip, my eyes meeting his .
“You were about to make an excuse, Edie, pretend you’re not thinking about this as much as I am, and then leave.”
He’s right. But not tonight. This is the one night of my life when I can pretend to be someone else, the sort of girl who says yes to everything everyday Edie wouldn’t dream of. “My hotel is around the corner,” I say instead.
He takes my hand and draws me up from the table.
“Then let’s go.”