by Jamie Howard
“Is everyone gone?” Harper thumped her head back against the wall. “Ow.”
Hip resting against the prep counter, I yanked my sneaker off and rubbed the bottom of my foot. “No. One table left.”
“That is so not sanitary, and,” she pinched her nose, “your feet fucking stink.”
I slipped the sneaker back on and laced it. “I honestly don’t care. I’m this close to hacking them off, and hoping a prosthetic would be less painful.”
“Well, who’s the idiot taking yoga classes after spending all day and night on her feet? Oh wait, that’s you.” She gave me an exaggerated eye roll.
“Once I get past this first week and get into a routine, it won’t be nearly as bad.”
“Sure it will.” She shook her head, not even bothering to lift it from the wall. “Don’t you ever get tired? Maybe want to just spend a day at home vegging out?”
I moved over to the dishwasher and removed the newly dry dishes, transporting them to their assigned cabinets. “I go stir-crazy when I’m home alone. It’s just like . . .”
“Like?” she prompted.
Looking down at the white ceramic plate I held in my hands, I surveyed my distorted reflection. “Like when I was back home. At least then there was Cynthia too.”
“Cynthia?”
“The maid.”
Shoving off from the wall, she grabbed the plate from my hand. “You were friends with your maid?”
“No. That would have been improper. But when I was doing homework, I could hear her bumping around in the kitchen, or cursing when she stubbed her toe like she always did on the coffee table.” Cursing that eventually got her fired when my mom overheard her. Her replacement wasn’t nearly as friendly.
“Did you—”
My phone buzzed against my thigh from the depths of my pocket. I jumped practically a foot in the air, which surprised Harper enough that she dropped a plate on the metal counter with a loud bang. The plate saucered up and down, spinning until it finally came to a rest.
“What the hell is your problem?”
I laid a hand over my heart, trying to keep it from bursting through my ribcage. “Sorry. My phone just went off. No one ever texts me while I’m here.”
“Right, because I’m the only one who ever texts you,” she said with a smug grin.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out my phone. “It’s . . . Ian.”
Peering over my shoulder, she read the text with me.
Ian: Hey, it’s Ian. Any chance you’re free for dinner on Thursday?
“You look surprised,” Harper said. “Why are you surprised?”
“I didn’t think he was actually serious about hanging out again.”
Harper sauntered over to the kitchen door and peered out. No doubt checking on our last remaining table. They’d been here for hours, and I’d delivered their check to them nearly forty-five minutes ago. It was a toss-up whether they’d leave before we had to kick them out.
“Is there a reason you can’t be friends with him? You do seem to be rather sparse in the friends department.”
“You mean other than the fact that I want to run my tongue over his abs? No, none at all.”
That got her laughing. “That good, huh?”
I shrugged, trying to play it down. In truth, I was probably more attracted to him than I’d ever been to anyone else. Back home, the senator made it very clear that I was off-limits. Only the bravest of the brave had even bothered trying to befriend me, let alone try and date me. On top of that, my schedule had been so jam-packed that there’d been no time for dating anyway. Then, there’d been a few guys that made an effort in college, but I’d been too caught up in my schoolwork to bother wrenching my nose out of my textbooks. Besides, none of them made my mouth as dry as if I’d been wandering around the Sahara Desert without water for three days. Too bad Ian’s thoughts toward me seemed strictly platonic. It figured.
“Doesn’t matter anyway, I’ve got the dinner shift on Thursday.”
“We’ll switch. I’ll do dinner, you do lunch.”
“What’s the catch?”
Harper shook her head and took a lap around the small kitchen. “Not all of us are slimy politicians, Bianca. Some of us just like to do nice things.”
With my parents, every gift was tied with a caveat. It was hard rearranging my expectations to anything else. “Well, thanks, Harper. Now I just need to . . .”
I grabbed my phone and sent off a quick response.
Me: Sure. When? Where?
The phone buzzed in my hand seconds later, and Harper raised an eyebrow at the quick response.
Ian: Brady’s Bar & Grill, you know it? Meet you there at seven?
Me: See you then.
Harper nibbled on her lip like she might a tiny piece of corn on the cob. “This guy, he’s an enigma.”
“Enigma?”
“Yeah, you know, like a puzzle, a—”
I waved her off. “I know what an enigma is. I meant why do you think he’s an enigma?”
“The guy—”
“Ian,” I interjected.
“Right, Ian. God, that’s a sexy name. I think every man I know with that name is one hot ball of sexiness.” She gave her head a brief shake, the long strands of her hair swinging from side to side in her ponytail. “Seriously, I cannot think of one guy named Ian who didn’t win the genetic lottery. Especially—”
I held up a finger. “You’re running off on a tangent again.”
“Right. sorry,” she barked out a laugh. “Back on point. The guy, I’m sorry, Ian, bombs your first night out. Claims he was nervous, right?”
She paced in front of me, the prosecutor laying out the facts for the jury.
“Right.”
“I think he’s into you. I mean, if he wasn’t attracted to you, then what would he have to be nervous about?”
I nodded, and she went on, counting her points on the tips of her long, thin fingers. “I also find it interesting how quickly he responded. It’s like he was actually waiting for your response. Hence, showing more than just a casual interest.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her. “Which one of us is going to be a lawyer again?”
“I am a woman of many talents.” She gave me an elaborate bow.
“Don’t I know it.”
“Honey,” she said, with a grin splitting her face, “you don’t know the half of it.”
Chapter 13: Bianca
Dear Bianca,
Your absence was noted at this year’s Fourth of July party. In all truth, we hoped you would have given up on this childish charade by now. As of yet it hasn’t been necessary to make a statement about your ill-advised decision to remain in New York and postpone taking the bar. Unless such an instance occurs in which we need to answer the question directly, we will continue to provide a non-answer. Please persist with maintaining a low profile so that we can avoid any unnecessary complications.
Sincerely,
Mom and Dad
Their first communication in over a month, and not even one sentence had been wasted asking how I was. I reread the e-mail for the second time before closing it without a response. What was there to even say? Their indifference stung, and the good mood I’d maintained for weeks immediately plummeted.
Just in time for my dinner with Ian.
I ran a hand over my face, careful not to smear any of my painstakingly, but lightly, applied makeup. Harper had already come and gone, certifying my outfit as casual dinner appropriate. I still felt underdressed in a jean skirt and a scoop-neck green shirt with short cap sleeves. Harper’s supposition—if he really wasn’t attracted to me, then he wouldn’t bother scoping out my rack.
Taking one last quick look in the mirror, I slipped on a pair of wedge sandals that made my legs look impossibly long, and headed out front. While I preferred to walk, I also preferred not to show up at the restaurant smelling like a dirty gym locker. Stepping up to the curb, I waved down a cab.
Sliding in
to the seat, I gave the driver the address, wrinkling my nose at the stench of cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes like a nasty perfume. My phone let out a little ding as I leaned back against the seat.
Ian: I got us a table. Just give Zack my name and he’ll bring you back.
Not the host, or the person at the front, but Zack. So, this was a place he’d been before. Maybe someplace he went to often if he knew the waitstaff by name.
I’ve always detested people who respond to text messages with one word responses—ok, yes, no, or the absolute worst—k. So, I opted for no response. I’d be there in a few minutes anyway.
I passed forward the fare when we stopped, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The wind whipped my hair in front of my face, tugging my shirt away from my skin and sending a round of goosebumps traipsing up my bare stomach. A horn blared as I pulled open the door to Brady’s, the sound of it getting cut off when the door closed behind me.
I’d looked the place up online beforehand, checking out the menu so I knew exactly what I would order ahead of time. The best way to describe it would be to say that it was a pub, similar to Blackrose, but smaller, cozier. The room was edged with booths, a few high-top tables breaking up the open floor space. A bar was pushed up against one wall; a row of TVs circled the outer edge.
We still had some time before tonight’s baseball games, but already the fans were starting to trickle in, outfitted in their teams’ jerseys. So far, I spotted a handful of Yankees and Mets fans, with the odd sprinkling of Red Sox, Phillies, and a random Cubs fan thrown in for good measure. The place would be a madhouse in no time, I was sure.
“Evening, ma’am. Can I get you a table or will you be sitting at the bar?”
I searched in vain for some type of nametag to see if this was Zack. His burgundy T-shirt held the restaurant’s logo, but nothing else. “Actually, I’m looking for Ian.”
“Are you now? And who would you be?” Folding his arms across his chest, he drew his eyes from my toes all the way to the top of my head. A small part of me would have been flattered that he was checking me out; he had an older, George Clooney, sexy vibe going on. Except there was absolutely no heat in his gaze. If anything, I would describe it as frosty. Judgmental and frosty.
“I’m Bianca,” I said with a pointed glare. “Look, he told me to give you his name when I got here. Is there a problem?” I tipped my chin up, infusing as much of my mother’s authoritative tone as I could manage into my voice. I hated that tone. Mainly because it was always accompanied by a flare of her nostrils and an imperious lift of her eyebrow, but there were times when it served its purpose.
He laughed, a full belly laugh that started all the way down in his toes and took its time vibrating up through his broad chest and out through his lips. Using two fingers, he smoothed out his salt and pepper goatee. “No, no problem.” His head tilted toward the back. “Back booth on your left.”
“Thank you.” I tucked my purse tighter under my arm and stepped around him. A few quick strides had me to the booth Zack pointed out. I came up alongside the high-backed booth and found Ian fiddling with his phone, one leg bouncing a mile a minute.
“Hey.” Sliding across the red leather bench, I scooted my purse up against the wall and folded my hands in my lap.
“Hey,” he replied, letting out a heavy breath.
“Is everything okay?” I frowned. “I’m not late, am I?” I searched the room to my left for a clock, but couldn’t find one. I was sure I was right on time, a few minutes early even. “Late” wasn’t a word that existed in my vocabulary.
“No, no, you’re not late. It’s just when you didn’t answer me . . .” Ian shrugged, the left corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile. “Forget it.”
Wrapping both hands around his pint of beer, he rotated the glass, his fingers creating tracks through the frosted condensation. Seconds passed, then a full minute. I nibbled on my lip, keeping my hands rooted in my lap to keep them from tapping out a rhythm on the tabletop.
“So, what’s the deal with Zack? Family, friend . . . bodyguard?” I gave a short laugh.
Ian chuckled, his eyes still studying the amber liquid in front of him. “Just a friend. He didn’t give you a hard time, did he?” By the time he got around to asking the question, he’d finally been able to haul his eyes up to meet mine.
“Not really, he just seemed a little protective of you.”
“Yeah.” As we trailed into silence again and his eyes shifted away from mine, I let my gaze roam over him. No thermal tonight, but a black V-neck T-shirt on top. His hair had a haphazard messiness going on that made it unclear whether it was natural bed head or the effects of actual styling.
Inevitably, my eyes drifted down to the artwork that patterned his arm. From where I sat, I could pick out a blue daisy and a fox, the edge of a pocket watch peeking out from the edge of his sleeve. Someday I’d like to take the time to luxuriate in their details and unravel their hidden meanings. Assuming they had meaning, that is, and that I ever had the opportunity to study him that closely.
The appearance of our waitress put an end to our conversational stalemate. Her voice was velvety and smooth like a cup of thick hot chocolate, flowing out from between lips that were painted an obscenely bright shade of red. “Can I get you something to drink, hun?”
“Perrier, please.”
She nodded and looked over to Ian, letting one finger trail across her collarbone. “You ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes? I’d be happy to come back.”
I gave my head a little shake, but Ian seemed completely oblivious to her innuendo. He looked over to me. “Do you need a minute?”
“No, I’m good. I’m going to have a chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side, please.”
“Alright.” She scribbled into her notepad. “For you, Ian? Your usual?”
I shot a look between the two of them. She knew him too?
“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Tucking the pen into her apron, she gave him a quick wink and disappeared.
“Come here a lot?” I asked.
He grinned. “How could you tell?”
“Besides everyone knowing your name?”
“Ah.” He leaned back against the wood back of the booth, dropping his hands out of view. “Yeah, my name is no secret around here.”
I leaned my arms against the tabletop and angled toward him. It was brief, just a millisecond, but I caught his gaze detouring from my face southward. Interesting. “You mind letting me in on the secret?”
His forehead creased as he drew his eyebrows together. I liked his eyebrows, which all in all was an odd sentiment to have. But they were thick and bold, not plucked and waxed like some guys had taken to doing. “What secret?”
“Your name.” I laughed. “I’ve only caught the first half of it.”
“Right.” He laughed with me, shaking his head to himself. He reached his hand across to the table toward me. “Ian Xavier Mathis.”
I fit my hand into his. “Bianca Catherine Easton.”
“It’s very nice to officially meet you.” Perhaps involuntarily, he circled the rough pad of his thumb against the back of my hand, and it felt like someone took a full syringe of electricity and shot it straight into my veins.
“Likewise.”
His thumb stilled its pattern tracing, his smile slipping just a fraction of an inch, and he pulled his hand back to his side of the table. Reaching for his beer, he took a healthy swallow. “So, are you from around here?”
I sat back as the waitress finally returned with my Perrier. Cracking it open, I slipped the straw in and took a small sip, letting the bubbles dance across my tongue. “No, Texan born and raised.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed that.” His eyes narrowed as he scratched a finger against his chin. “There’s not even a hint of southern twang that comes through in your voice.”
“Well, my tutor would be very happy to hear that.” I rolled
my eyes at that memory, and the hours I’d spent eradicating that exact drawl from my voice. “How about you?”
“I’m from upstate originally, moved to the city a few years back. My brother lives in the city too, but my mom’s still up north. Your family still in Texas?”
“Yup, my parents are still there.” Hoping to make a move to DC soon, though, I finished the thought in my head.
“No siblings?”
I drew my lip between my teeth and bit down on it, shaking my head. “Nope, just me.” An odd, but familiar, pang hit me squarely in the chest, and I felt the vibrant smile on my face starting to wane. Ian shifted forward toward me, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he took in my change in expression. Fending off his oncoming question and rearranging my features into a happier semblance, I asked, “So, what do you do here in the city? Job-wise, I mean.”
“I’m a musician.”
I took a moment to swallow down a mouthful of my drink. “Would I have heard any of your stuff?”
He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “I guess that depends on what kind of music you listen to.”
“Classical music mostly. You don’t happen to play the violin or the piccolo, do you?”
He barked out a laugh that was nearly drowned out by the steadily increasing volume of the crowd around us. “C’mon, can you actually picture these dainty things flying across the keys of a piccolo?” Holding his hands up at me, he wiggled his fingers.
In the past ten minutes, the temperature had spiked upwards a good ten degrees as people packed in around us, but with that comment, it easily went up another twenty. I could certainly picture his hands, his very large hands, doing plenty of things, but they had absolutely nothing to do with a piccolo.
I covered my mouth with my hand and cleared my throat, turning it into a semi-believable cough. Taking a pull of Perrier through the red-striped straw, I swallowed it down and firmly jerked my mind out of the gutter. “Fine, no piccolo, no violin.” I crossed my arms across my chest and surveyed him through narrowed eyes. I held out my hand toward him and curled my fingers in a gimme gesture. “Let me see your hands.”