Chapter 1 #2
He thinks for a second. “Not action. Maybe a romance? But it seemed sad. He was running after her, shouting her name and crying.”
“Hmm. I’m more the rom-com type myself,” I reply. “I’ll take a pass on the running and shouting and crying.”
“Same.” After a beat, he smiles. “Well. I could take a pass on the romance entirely. I’m more into action and fantasy.”
“I like fantasy,” I tell him. “I used to watch it with my dad. Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal were his favorites.”
Micah nods in approval. “You can’t go wrong with those.”
I’m just about to ask him about his favorite fantasy movie—I’m guessing Lord of the Rings—when Chef Philip claps his hands loudly. “Alright. Let’s get started.”
Tucking away the question for later, I fix my attention on our instructor.
Even though I’d honestly rather keep talking to Micah than listen to Chef, the work ethic my parents instilled in me is impossible to ignore.
Class is for learning, my dad always told me.
Not for socializing. Save that for later.
When you’re in class, you should give all your attention to your teacher.
Given that my dad was a neurosurgeon and my mom a dentist, it wasn’t surprising the value they placed on education. Most of the time, I didn’t mind. I liked school. I wanted to get good grades. And as a natural introvert, it was kind of a relief to have an excuse not to talk to my classmates.
“Are you ready?” Micah whispers. “No weapons or fires this time.”
I flash him a quick smile. “Just edible food. So you can take some chili home to enjoy.”
“That went a lot better than I expected.”
Micah looks over at me with a pleased smile. “I really thought the cornbread would get me this time,” he continues. “But I think it actually came out pretty well.”
“It did,” I agree. “Really well. Even Chef Philip said so.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Micah’s smile expands. “The best cornbread of anyone’s. Did you see Teacher’s Pet when Chef said that?”
“I did. And he didn’t look happy.”
“Nope.” Micah bumps my arm with his. “He sure didn’t.” He pauses. “Is it weird that I’m so invested in this? I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a cooking class. Not like we’re getting paid or trying to get a promotion.”
“It’s the principle of it,” I reply. “I don’t really care about being better than anyone else.
But when someone gets all braggy…” I shake my head.
“Maybe it’s just me being stubborn. But I was the same way back in school.
As soon as some know-it-all started acting like they were the smartest one in the class, it motivated me to study even harder. ”
“So you were the teacher’s pet?” he teases.
“Oh, no. I didn’t talk in class unless I had to. And I never bragged about my grades. It was more just… proving to myself that I could do it.”
We go quiet for a moment as we push through the double doors that lead to the sidewalk.
A sharp blast of cold hits me, and I shiver.
It’s not unseasonably cold for a night in early October—maybe fifty degrees or so—but after spending the last two and a half hours in a commercial kitchen, the change in temperature is jarring.
I try to wedge my to-go container under one arm so I can zip up my jacket, but I’ve only made one unsuccessful swipe at the zipper before Micah takes the container and stacks it on top of his. “I’ll carry it,” he says. “Sorry. I should have offered when we were leaving the kitchen.”
“It’s fine.” With both hands free, I make quick work of the zipper. “It’s not like the container is heavy. I’m perfectly capable of carrying it myself.”
“Still.” Micah’s expression is stubbornly set. “It’s good manners.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I reply with a chuckle. “You’re far more polite than most guys I’ve known.”
It’s the truth. I might not know Micah well, but I’ve seen enough to know how well-mannered he is.
He always holds the door for a woman, even if she’s a good twenty feet away.
If he’s waiting for something and a woman gets in line behind him, he’ll offer to swap places with her.
He walks me home from cooking class every week, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary, and he makes sure to walk on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from traffic.
When I was with my ex, Liam, I was lucky if he ever held the door for me. “I’d think you’d want to open the door yourself,” Liam retorted when I asked him about it. “Being an independent woman and all. Why would you need me to open the door for you?”
In hindsight, I should have taken that as a sign we weren’t meant for each other. Because I like chivalrous gestures. They remind me of my dad. And just because I can open a door for myself doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate when someone else does it for me.
Displeasure moves across Micah’s face, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again.
Annoyance that I mentioned his manners, I wonder? Is he unhappy that I haven’t known many men who’ve been as polite as him? Or is it just a reaction to the cold, and I’m reading far more into his expression than I should be?
“Well,” Micah says. “It’s just what my dad taught me.
My grandfather, too.” He takes a quick sidestep so he’s on my right, closer to the street.
“Opening doors, standing when a woman comes into the room… It’s not meant to undermine what women are capable of.
It’s just a way of showing respect. And doing what you can to protect them. ”
“I think it’s nice. My dad was the same way.
” We come to the intersection of 55th and 8th and stop while we wait for the light to change.
“My dad insisted on opening the car door to help my mom out of the car. Every time. It didn’t matter how long the trip was.
She could do it herself, of course. But he liked doing it for her. ”
Except when she was so sick at the end, she didn’t have the strength to push the door open. And my dad had to basically carry her from the car to the house, cracking little jokes about whisking her off her feet to make her feel better about it.
My throat goes tight. Twenty years later, and there are still times when her loss feels just as fresh as if it happened yesterday. And remembering how great my dad was with her, how he never acted like taking care of her was an imposition…
That’s the kind of love I want. Except without the tragic ending part of it.
“You okay, Ruby?” Micah asks. When I jerk my gaze back to his, there’s obvious concern in his eyes. Then I glance at the traffic light to see the walk signal clearly illuminated. Everyone else is hurrying across the street, while Micah and I are still standing at the edge of the sidewalk.
“Oh, yes.” I dart onto the crosswalk, moving at a quick clip to cross the street before the light turns. “I’m good.”
Once we reach the other side, I flash Micah a reassuring smile. “Just woolgathering, was all. Everything’s fine.”
He studies me for a second. “Okay.” As we continue along the sidewalk, he adds, “So, how’s work been going? I didn’t get to ask during class. Read any interesting manuscripts lately?”
Micah knows I’m an editor—line editing and proofreading, mainly, although I’ll do fact-checking on special request—and he’ll often ask about the manuscripts I read for my clients.
I don’t tell him the details, since that’s protected by an NDA, but I don’t see the harm in sharing some of the general ideas.
“I’m copy-editing a memoir right now,” I tell him, “and it’s really interesting. The author worked for a carnival for twenty years. One of those traveling ones. She was in charge of finding talent, whether it was an acrobat or a contortionist or a set of conjoined twins.”
“Really? They still have those?”
“Well, she quit about ten years ago. So I’m not sure if carnivals are the same now. But they had a special exhibition for all the… wonders, they’d call them. Some of the wonders were real. Others were well-constructed fakes, with prosthetics and stuff.”
Micah nods thoughtfully. “That sounds like a really interesting book to read.”
“It is so far,” I agree. “When it’s published, I’ll get you a copy.”
Well, assuming we’re still friends by then. In another year, when the book finally comes out, it’s highly unlikely we’ll still be taking cooking classes and spending three hours every Tuesday night together. Although we could still keep in touch. Meet up for coffee once in a while.
Unless he’s dating someone, that is. I doubt his girlfriend would much appreciate Micah heading off to spend time with another woman.
Something cold and unpleasant settles in my stomach.
I’m not trying to date Micah. But I don’t like thinking about him being with another woman either. Is it rational? No. But it’s there just the same.
“That would be great,” Micah says, mercifully oblivious to my private thoughts. “I’d really like to read it.”
“Okay.” I smile at him. “I’ll see if I can get the author to sign it for you.”
A man comes up along the sidewalk from behind us, singing at the top of his lungs. Actually, singing might be too generous. To be more accurate, it might be considered screaming.
Before I can even react, Micah wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him.
As our bodies touch, heat blasts through my body. My breath catches.
Once the singing slash shouting man passes us, Micah releases me, leaving me even colder than before. “Sorry,” he says as he flashes me a small, apologetic smile. “I just didn’t want him to bump into you.”
“It’s fine,” I reply. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
It shouldn’t come as a surprise, given who Micah is. Twelve years' active duty in the Army, and now head of the Canine Services Division at Fox & Falcon Securities, a highly respected private security firm in Manhattan, he’s spent the better part of two decades protecting people.
“Of course.” Micah lifts his chin. “Always.”