She turns to glance over her shoulder just as the light flashes white and the small mob begins to cross.
Astaire’s jaw slacks and she plucks an ear bud out of her ear. “Oh, come on.”
“For the record, I wasn’t following you.” I lift my palms, walking in tandem with her. “I was at Peridot having brunch and I saw you from the window …”
“Convenient.” She lifts her hand to her ear, but I lower it.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay … after last night.”
“Most people … I don’t know … call or text,” she says. “They don’t borderline stalk.”
The woman with the poodle cranes her neck and shoots me a look.
“I’m serious. I just want to know if you’re okay.”
“Sure you do.” She sips her coffee, her fingers protruding out of her knit gloves. A hint of pink lip balm colors the white lid, signifying where her lips have been.
God, those lips.
Full, soft pillows I’d do anything to taste again …
After she bolted last night, I texted Deidre from 6A, thinking I could close my eyes and pretend she was Astaire for the sake of mentally finishing what I’d started, only when she showed up, she’d dyed her hair shit-brown, started peeling off her clothes before my door was shut, and told me she had twenty minutes before she had to meet some guy off Tinder for drinks.
I immediately lost my hard on, told her to get dressed, and sent her back to the sixth floor without another word.
I need the real thing.
I need Astaire.
And last night, I almost had her.
Almost.
That’s what I get for being honest, for telling her up front that it wasn’t anything more than sex.
It’s quite the conundrum I’m facing: Astaire Carraro needs to be wined and dined before she’ll let a man inside of her, and I need to be inside of Astaire Carraro.
“What are you doing this Friday?” I ask.
She shoots me a squint.
Or maybe it’s a wince. A painful wince.
Either way, it’s not enough to deter me.
“I want to take you out.” I nudge her arm with mine, an attempt at being playful and lighthearted, which is arguably a foreign language for me. “On a date. A real date.”
“No.”
I cough out a laugh. “No? Just … no?”
“No.” She walks faster.
I match my pace to hers. “Any particular reason?”
Her lips twist at one side. “Because it’s a bad idea.”
I slip my hand around her elbow and pull her aside, out of the pack of strangers surrounding us, and I find a section of brick outside an abandoned storefront.
“I can’t undo your first impression of me.” I capture her curious gaze. “Or your second. Or your third. But I would be remiss if I didn’t try to show you a better time.”
Astaire grips her coffee with both hands, chewing the inner corner of her mouth. “We’re night and day, you and me. And I know you’re only after one thing.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You said so last night. You told me I knew why you really invited me over …”
Fair enough. “All right. Fine. I find you incredibly sexy, Astaire. I won’t lie. But I also can’t get you out of my head. I close my eyes and you’re all I see. I re-read your emails every fucking day even if they’re just as infuriating as they were the first time. And maybe we don’t see eye to eye, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Her expression softens.
I’m getting through.
I need to get this woman out of my head, and the only way to do that is to get her out of my system. Only then will I be able to get her out of my life. Only then can we finally move on from this bizarre excuse for a divine intervention.
“Text me your address, Astaire.” I don’t tell her I already know it, that background checks come standard with that information. “I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday.”
I don’t linger. I don’t give her the chance to say no. I walk away. And I don’t look back.
I don’t need to.
I’ll see her again in six days.
21
Astaire
I dab perfume behind my ears Friday night—then I check my pulse. I swear it’s beating two hundred times a minute and that can’t be normal.
Then again, neither is accepting a date from a man who is the antithesis of everything you stand for.
A framed engagement photo from happier times catches my gaze from the corner of my dresser. Everything about this feels wrong, but on another level, I know it isn’t. I can’t help but get the sense that if Trevor were selecting someone for me to move on with, Bennett Schoenbach would be the last person on his list.
He’s taking me into the city tonight, to some rooftop restaurant overlooking the pier. The skies are clear tonight so there should be plenty of stars blanketing our view. With anyone else, it’d be a romantic feature, but with Bennett … I’m not sure that’s what he’s going for.
He says he can’t get me out of his head, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered by that. I’m only human.
I imagine part of his fixation boils down to the fact that we always want what we can’t have.
He can’t have me.
Or at least, he couldn’t.
Until tonight.
But I’m keeping my clothes on. Tonight’s about getting to know each other. Feeding our respective curiosities with conversation and quality time.
Nothing more, nothing less.
A knock at the door sends my runaway heart to the floor.
He’s here.
I give myself another once over, smoothing my hands down my fitted black dress, tucking a wave behind one ear, and slicking on a quick coat of pink lip balm before stepping into my heels and trotting to the door.
“Hi.” He wears an impeccable navy suit, a silver watch, and a smile.
It’s strange to see him smile. Unnatural. Even if he looks gorgeous doing so.
“These are for you.” He hands me a bouquet of pale pink roses wrapped in brown paper and tied with a black satin bow. The logo on the wrap tells me he spared no expense, going out of his way to stop at The Darling Peony on Halstead to pick these.
Who am I kidding? He probably has an assistant that handles this sort of thing.
“These are beautiful. Thank you.” I wave for him to come in, and he follows me to the kitchen, watching with his hands in his pockets while I fill a vase with water and arrange the roses as best I can.
The vase is too small and the roses droop.
We both pretend not to notice.
“Did you have a nice week?” I place the vase next to the sink, so the roses will get some daylight come morning. Engaging in small talk whilst pretending everything about this moment isn’t awkward as hell is ironically … awkward.
He’s really going to town with this whole date thing. Pulling out all the stops. Behaving as a perfect gentleman. This isn’t the man I’ve come to know.
It’s … flattering.
Unnerving, too, but in a good way.
“Car’s waiting downstairs.” He checks his watch. “We should probably head out if we want to make our reservations.”
“Of course.” I swipe my clutch off the counter—a clearance rack purchase I managed to find in the back of my closet last night, and we make our way to the hall. I swear his fingertips brush the small of my back as I lock up, though it could easily be my nerves.
It’s the strangest thing being nervous about this date. Most people get nervous when they want to impress someone, when they hope things go well so there’ll be a second date and a third. They get nervous when they like someone and wish more than anything for that feeling to be mutual.
None of those things apply and yet here I am, flushed and praying he doesn’t notice how shallow my breaths are as we take the elevator to the main floor.
The doors
ding and part, depositing us in the makeshift lobby, which is nothing more than a five-by-ten space filled with mailboxes and a couple of bulletin boards—nothing like the Worthington Heights penthouse he calls home.
Bennett gets the main door, leading the way to an idling SUV where a uniformed man waits, hands folded at his hips.
“Astaire, this is my driver, George,” he says. “George, this is Astaire Carraro.”
I can’t help but wonder if he gives the first and last names of all of his dates to his driver.
I slide across the backseat, the leather warm and butter-soft against the backs of my thighs. The city is beautiful this time of night, all lit up and full of life, filled with Friday night livewire energy.
He slides in beside me, our thighs touching by the time we pull away.
“Apologies, Astaire, I need to tend to a few personal emails.” Bennett retrieves his phone. The screen lights, showcasing the concerned lines sprawling across his forehead. “Once we arrive, I assure you you’ll have my full attention.”
I nod. “Do what you need to do.”
Turning to take in the traffic symphony of a drive, I decide to quell my nerves, live in the moment, and focus on all the questions I’m going to ask him later.
I’m dying to know what makes Bennett Schoenbach tick.
And tonight, I’m going to find out.
The menu is prix fixe and I can’t begin to pronounce the name of this place, but the Spanish guitarist making his rounds is lovely. We’re surrounded mostly by couples. Clinking wine glasses. Soft pockets of laughter. The sleepy glimmer of candlelight. Sweeping views of the pier below. A starry sky prettier than any painting I’ve seen.
Love is in the air.
And then there’s us.
It’s too dark to see much more than our outlines and the glints in our eyes as a slow flame flickers between us. Red wine intoxicates my veins, ready to loosen my lips without warning.
“Why did you check up on me?” I wait until we’re settled and our orders have been placed before diving into the first burning question of the evening.
“That came out of nowhere.” He smirks into his wine glass.
“You told me you had better things to do with your time, so it just seemed odd that you would take the time to look into me.”
“I didn’t take the time. I hired someone to take the time. Big difference. My time was still spent doing better things.” Bennett winks. “But to answer your question … I checked into you because I was curious. And because I can. Any other pressing questions?”
“Who was Larissa?”
His dark brows lift and his full mouth presses flat. “She was my sister. My adopted sister.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Bennett nods.
I don’t tell him I assumed she was his wife. And I sure as heck won’t be telling him I conjured up this beautiful love story between them.
“Were you close?” I run my hand along the linen napkin in my lap.
“Not particularly, no.” He takes a drink, looks away, looks back.
“You planned her memorial though,” I say.
“Someone had to.”
“Do you have any other siblings?” I can’t help myself. With each answer he gives, my mind conjures up a dozen additional questions.
“A brother. Two years older. And before you ask, no, we’re not close.” He takes another drink. “My father died five years ago. My mother lives around here. You’ll often find her brunching or shopping when she’s not stirring pots and manufacturing as much drama as humanly possible.”
I unpack these details, try to organize them and put them in little boxes to make sense of all of this. He isn’t close with his family. There are rifts and falling outs. I’d ask why, but I’d be grossly overstepping his boundaries.
“Have you ever been married?” I ask.
He smirks. “You’re not wasting any time here, are you? And no. Never. Never have, never will. It’s an antiquated concept—people belonging to each other like property. It serves no purpose in this day and age.”
“Maybe it’s not about belonging to each other like property, but about giving your heart to someone else to take care of. Like a gift.”
He sits straight. “Ever think about writing greeting cards?”
I laugh through my nose. “What can I say? I’m sentimental to a fault.”
“So what about you? I mean, you gave me your life history in that one novel-length email you sent me, but I’m sure there’s more to it. Your adoptive mom, what was she like?”
I twist the stem of my chalice between my fingers. “She was incredible. Full-blooded Italian. Larger than life. Big hair. Bigger smile. The biggest hugs. The loudest laugh. We used to joke that you could hear her laughing two states away.” Tears prick my eyes, but I force them away. I don’t get to speak of her nearly enough. “Her name was Linda. And she changed my life.”
His all-pervading gaze blankets me. He listens, says nothing.
“She was a schoolteacher,” I continue. “Taught fifth grade at a public school in Indianapolis, where I’m from. She and her husband were always waiting for the right time to start a family—but then they waited too long and it just didn’t happen. He eventually left her for a younger woman. Had a couple of kids with her. That’s when Linda decided she was tired of waiting for the perfect time to become a mom. A year later, she took in her first foster child—me. It wasn’t easy at first. For either of us. I was certain she was just going to reject me like the others did, so I pushed her away before she had a chance to prove she was in it for the long haul. But eventually, she broke down all of my walls. She dedicated every spare moment she had to getting to know me—the real me, to helping me figure out who I was and who I wanted to be and who I was going to be when I hadn’t so much as thought about next weekend. In the strangest way, it’s as if she knew she only had a limited amount of time with me and she was trying to cram in as many life lessons as she could.”
I pause, reaching for my wine, swallowing away the painful catch in my throat.
“She didn’t live to see me finish my freshman year of college.” I place my glass down. “But no one ever said life’s fair.”
“You and your bumper sticker quotes.” Bennett flashes a smile that takes all the heaviness from this moment, and I’m grateful for that.
Before I have a chance to respond, our first course arrives and we exchange our heavy conversation for forks, full bellies, and friendlier topics of conversation.
“I’d invite you in, but I feel like this is the perfect place to end this night.” I run my hand down the lapel of his suit coat, gaze pausing on the buttons of his shirt as I recall his adamancy on leaving it on the other night.
The Bennett Schoenbach walking me to my door at the end of our date is different from the one who showed up mere hours ago, flowers in hand. His eyes are softer. His posture more relaxed.
I know now that he attended Harvard School of Business. His father was a businessman. His grandfather founded Schoenbach Corporation shortly after World War II with a five-thousand-dollar bank loan and unstoppable perseverance. His relationships with his mother and brother are strained and he wasn’t close with his adopted sister—though we never ventured deep into those territories. Another time, perhaps. The man was an open book, suffering through my incessant questions with polite smirks and witty answers, and I didn’t want to press my luck.
“Thank you.” I remove my keys from my clutch. “For tonight. For everything.”
He checks his timepiece. “It’s still early if you want to grab a drink at Ophelia’s.”
Shameless.
We might have had a perfectly lovely time tonight, but beneath it all is a man who wants more than anything in the world to sleep with me for some insane reason.
Lifting on my toes, I kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Bennett.”
And then I head inside, smelling of his opulent cologne, half-wishing he was truly the man he pretend
ed to be tonight.
22
Bennett
“Honor, I’d like you to meet your uncle, Bennett.” Jeannie takes the girl by the hand, walking her through my foyer, her glittery canvas shoes scuffing against the freshly-waxed floor as she stares up at me with the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Her pigtails are shiny and curled, accented with pink ribbons. It reminds me of the day my mother brought Larissa home, fluffed and decked out like a show dog.
I imagine Jeannie wanted to ensure the child made a good impression, but it’s unnecessary because my mind’s already made up.
I crouch to her level. The vague scent of strawberry ice cream and baby powder fills my nostrils—a scent this penthouse has never known.
She isn’t smiling as she was in her school photos.
In fact, she looks downright terrified.
“Lovely to meet you, Honor.” I extend my hand. “I look forward to getting to know you, and I hope you’ll be quite comfortable here.”
Astaire’s words from our date eight days ago echo in my mind, the way she spoke of her adoptive mother, the way that woman changed the entire trajectory of Astaire’s life for the better with just a few short, meaningful years.
I’m not a sentimental man nor have I ever been emotional in any sense of the word, but her story moved me in a way nothing has before.
If only Larissa had a “Linda” of her own, things might have been different.
It takes a moment, but Honor releases Jeannie’s hand, her rosy lips curl up at the sides, and she runs into my arms, nearly knocking me over in the process. Her arms wrapped around my shoulder in a grip tighter than a kindergartener should have.
For an endless second, she breathes me in and holds onto me for dear life.
I don’t know this child.
I don’t know why her mother left her to me.
I still don’t know if I’m capable of being what she needs in this world.
But I do know she didn’t ask to be born into this family—and I’m going to do everything in my power to see to it she doesn’t suffer another minute for it.
The Cruelest Stranger Page 10