Chapter 9 #2
When the server has left, he lifts his glass, and I follow his lead and do the same. “Here’s to idiot men who don’t turn up to dinner with beautiful women.”
My heart flips and heat spreads up my body, circling and pressing like Mr. Black has me naked and is doing a physical inspection.
“You’re happy I got stood up?” I say, faux irritation in my voice.
“I’m happy I’m having dinner with you,” he says, like what he’s just said is no big deal.
“Oh,” is all I can say in reply.
“Oh?” he asks.
“I don’t think I expected you to say that.” It’s as honest an answer as I can give him.
“I think you’re very attractive,” he says matter-of-factly.
His comment chases the breath from my lungs. I’ve never known a man to just…come out and say something like that to someone he barely knows.
“How long have you lived in New York?” I ask. “You’re British, but you seem very…”
He smirks. “I’m blunt. To the point,” he finishes my sentence for me. “I don’t see the need to be any other way. I’m attracted to you. I’m pleased whoever that guy was didn’t show up, because it means I’m getting to have dinner with you. Would you like me to leave you to wonder what I’m thinking?”
My heart is thudding in my chest. I’m not sure any man has ever been so forward in telling me he liked me. Certainly no one I barely know. It feels kinda powerful and I bite back a smile. “Absolutely not. It’s just unexpected.”
“I like to have things very clear in all areas of my life. And you shouldn’t be left wondering.” He says it as if I’m something he wants to respect and treat like glass. As if he doesn’t play games because I deserve better.
It’s shocking. And more than I could hope for.
“And you stay in a hotel for three nights a week,” I say, wanting to know more about this man who seems to hold me in such high regard.
“Yes. The other four I spend with my six-year-old daughter.”
“Oh,” I reply. Tonight is full of surprises. It was the last thing I expected him to say. I thought maybe he had some kind of arrangement with his wife where he’s allowed to cheat as long as it’s in a hotel. “But if you live just around the corner, why don’t you just stay there?”
“Because Willow’s there with her mother on the nights I’m in the hotel.”
“So when you’re there, is Willow’s mother there too?”
“No. We’re not together. She moves out. She has a place nearby. We move in and out and Willow stays in her home. It provides Willow with a more stable, secure footing. The inconvenience is all mine and her mother’s. As it should be.”
He speaks with such authority, like he’s thought about everything and every t is crossed and every i is dotted.
“I’ve heard of that arrangement but never seen it in action. How long has it been like that?”
“Three years. It works.” He pauses. “For now. Being at Hotel on Ninth Street when I’m not at the townhouse means I’m close by in case anything happens and I need to be at the house quickly.”
My heart lifts in my chest at his comment. “You’re a dedicated father.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
“Tell me about you,” he commands. “Where were you before you came to Hotel on Ninth Street?”
I haven’t got enough of Deacon as I want, but I get the impression he doesn’t like to be in the spotlight for too long.
“I worked at a hotel in Chilternshire.”
“And you decided to up sticks and come to New York?”
“Kinda. Avril and Poppy, the owners of Hotel on Ninth, came to a wedding at the hotel a while ago, and before they left, they spoke to me about this opportunity. They’ve been pretty insistent, and I was…looking for a change.”
“A change?”
I nod, but don’t add to what I’ve said. He suspects there’s more. He probably thinks I broke up with someone. If only it was that simple.
“Are you enjoying it?” he asks.
“I’m still finding my feet. I finish my training at the end of next week and then I’ll be able to settle in a bit more. I’m here for the summer, and then I’ll go back at the beginning of September.”
“How are you finding New York?” His questions are short, blunt, like he’s being charged by the word. But it kind of suits him. And it makes me feel like I’m valuable that he’s spending his words on me.
“It’s so different to the UK, isn’t it?” I answer, my mouth curling into a half smile. “But I’m enjoying it. When did you come over?”
“I was about fifteen the first time. My father was in the army. We were based in California for a couple of years. Then we came to the East Coast. I went to university in the UK, but came back after graduation.”
“Who’s we?” I ask. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Yes.” He pauses and I don’t know why. What does he have to hide? “My younger sister, Chloe, is in London. She never left after university.”
I don’t know why, but something in the way he describes Chloe feels like he left the door open a crack. Like there’s something he half hopes I see, but he’s not going to show me.
“So you have just one sibling?” I ask.
His eyes slide to mine and his Adam’s apple bobs when he talks. “My older sister died when she was fourteen.”
My stomach churns, and I reach for his hand across the table, but he removes it before I can comfort him. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” His gaze focuses on the salt and pepper pots on the table between us.
“But still that must have been difficult for you.”
“It was. She was…the best. And so beautiful and vivacious and also incredibly sad.” His entire body droops as he talks about her and I wish there was something I can do. “I was ten when she took her life.”
I hold my breath, desperate not to make a sound when what he’s just said might be one of the most shocking things I’ve ever heard.
“When I became a father, her death hit me again like a wrecking ball,” he says. “How could someone so young, with so much out in front of them get to a point of such hopelessness that they don’t want to exist anymore?”
He glances up to meet my eyes.
“Deacon,” I say.
He shakes his head, like he doesn’t want me to say anything. I reach for his hand, but he slides them under the table. A waiter interrupts us to top up our wine.
I hope he doesn’t regret telling me. I wish I could say something that would make him feel better about sharing. Does he think he’s shared too much? Is it too painful?
“Life’s tough,” he says.
“For some more than others,” I say.
“How’s the new job?” he asks, clearly wanting to change the subject, but I don’t want to talk about work when he’s shared what he has.
But I can tell from the lines across his forehead and the pain in his eyes that telling me about his sister has almost been too much. He needs the conversation to move on.
“It’s great really. It’s been easier to adjust than I expected. Has New York been home to you long?” I ask. I wonder if anywhere other than Woolton would really feel like home to me. I can’t imagine feeling like New York was home.
He pulls in a breath, his jaw softens, and it’s as if a layer of sadness has been wiped away. “I’m not sure. I live here, so I suppose that makes it home.”
I can’t help but smile at the thought that he’s not sure where his home is. But maybe it’s not funny. Maybe it’s sad. Or maybe it’s not sad, and it’s actually quite freeing to think that anywhere you live is home.
Somewhere in the back of my head is a voice that tells me that tonight, this dinner, with this man, is important. Life-changing even. That it will have me seeing the world in a slightly different way for the rest of my life.
“How old are you?” I ask, with uncharacteristic bluntness. “Thirty-two? How long have you lived in New York?”
“I’m thirty-seven. I just take excellent care of my skin, so I look thirty-two.” He grins.
“I need details on your moisturizing regime,” I say. “I’m thirty-six.” I don’t know why I offer the information, but it feels like another secret. Thirty-six and single. I don’t have a daughter to go home to and I don’t think I ever will.
He doesn’t say I don’t look it, but I’m not offended. How could I be? He’s already told me he’s attracted to me.
“I’ve been in New York fifteen years.”
“Where are your family, your parents?” I ask.
“My parents are back in the UK. In Oxfordshire. They’re retired.”
“Are you close?”
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
Maybe that’s why I feel like I could never permanently leave Woolton.
I have so many deep ties there. I guess that’s what home is—the place where your connections are deepest. But the idea that I might have a home outside of that place…
that New York could be my home…well, the idea feels like a sprouting seed in my brain.
Before I know it, we’ve finished our food and our wine and our waitress comes over and asks us if there’s anything else we want.
There isn’t, but I’m not sure if I want the evening to be over. No, I am sure—I don’t want it to be over.
Deacon doesn’t make a move to leave. He stares at me like he’s trying to figure me out. Maybe he can see I’m an open book.
I shift in my seat, thinking I should be the first to leave. But Deacon slides his leg between mine and I freeze. It’s just the graze of his suit-covered leg, but it feels like he’s claimed me in that moment.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“A thousand things,” I answer. My brain is such a jumble of thoughts, I don’t know what to pull out and tell him.
“Tell me one.”
My cheeks heat as I start to wonder how bold, how brazen I should be.
“Say it,” he says, his voice thick and deep.
“I’m pleased I got stood up tonight.”
He nods. “Careful. You might start to enjoy New York.”
I hadn’t told him I wasn’t enjoying it. Can he see that in me? Does he see how conflicted I am about being an ocean away from everything I know?
Is it a guess? A throwaway line? Do I care?
“Maybe I will.”
His eyes darken and something in his expression tells me that he wants to change the way I feel about this city.
And maybe he will.