“Hmm. I guess you can’t always tell about people, can you?”
A moment later, Jacob came out of the restroom and it was time to focus on baseball.
It was a gorgeous night. Ian couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed a game so much—especially since the Yankees pulled out a win in the bottom of the ninth with a squeeze play at home plate.
He had to admit that Kate was the main reason they had so much fun. She drew Jacob into the action by making everything into a drama—the way the pitcher and batter stared each other down, the way a pinch runner took a lead off first and threw the pitcher off his game, the magic of an inning-ending double play in the fourth, and an inside-the-park home run in the seventh.
He’d started off by suggesting that Jacob score the game with him—something he’d tried before with no success—but Kate waved him off. He gave in readily enough, enjoying her play-by-play patter so much he forgot to mark up his own scorecard.
It wasn’t until the eighth inning that he realized how much knowledge of the game she’d managed to impart along the way.
“Did you see the infield shift?” Jacob said excitedly. “They’re going to try to get Hernandez to hit into a double play.”
He’d never seen Jacob so enthusiastic. He was actually bouncing in his seat.
He caught Kate’s eye over the boy’s head, and she smiled at him.
It would have been physically impossible not to smile back. She had a streak of mustard on her chin, her jersey was covered with powdered sugar from her funnel cake, and she looked adorable.
Jacob talked a blue streak on the way back to Kate’s apartment, and since Ian wasn’t able to get a word in edgewise, he had plenty of time to remind himself that he shouldn’t walk Kate upstairs tonight. The urge to kiss her would be too strong, and he didn’t want to scare her off.
His resolution was aided by the fact that Jacob fell asleep against his shoulder a few minutes before they pulled up in front of Kate’s building.
Kate climbed out of the car on her side and then came around to his, motioning for him to roll down his window.
“I had a great time tonight, Ian. Thanks for letting a Sox fan use one of your tickets.”
After a week of being Hart, he was Ian again. That fact unexpectedly warmed him.
“I’m glad you had fun. Thanks for watching Jacob today, and for coming to the game with us. We had a great time, too.”
The mustard was gone, and she’d brushed off most of the powdered sugar, but she was still adorable.
Then she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Her baseball cap fell off when it knocked against the window, and her hair came tumbling down, brushing against his face. For an instant he was surrounded by the scent of jasmine. Then she picked up her cap, backed away from the car, and waved goodbye.
His cheek still tingled where she’d kissed him.
CHAPTER SIX
When Simone called the next day, she didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
“I need you,” she said as soon as Kate answered the phone. “Code red.”
For Kate, a code-red catastrophe meant wine and a Joss Whedon marathon—preferably Firefly. For Simone, it meant chocolate and a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Kate rolled onto her side and glanced at the clock. It was eight thirty.
“What are you doing up at this hour?” Simone usually partied until dawn on Friday nights and slept until noon the next day.
“I told you, I have a code red. Meet me on the steps at ten?”
“Will do.”
The day was cloudy but warm, and Kate enjoyed the walk across Central Park. She left early and took her time, stopping on the way for two espressos. When she passed a group of kids playing baseball, she found herself smiling.
She got to the Met at five minutes to ten, but Simone was there before her, sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees and a scowl on her face.
Another indication of her emotional state was the fact that she was wearing jeans and sneakers and no makeup and hadn’t done anything to her hair.
“I feel like I’m meeting my new roommate freshman year,” Kate said as she came up the steps. “You look so sweet and innocent and guileless.”
She handed Simone one of the espressos, which her friend downed in a few grateful gulps.
“I might not be sweet and innocent anymore, but I’m still guileless. If I had any guile, I would have figured a way out of going to Ireland this summer.”
Kate sat down on the steps beside her. “You’re going to Ireland? On a plane?”
Simone nodded glumly. “I can’t take a boat—I won’t have enough time between my work schedule here and the production schedule over there.”
Simone was terrified of flying. Which, of course, begged the question, “Why on earth did you agree to work on a show in Ireland?”
Simone crumpled her empty espresso cup in her hands. “Do you mind if we go inside first? I need the House of Dior around me now.”
Simone’s equivalent of comfort food was the Met’s Costume Institute exhibit.
Kate patted her on the shoulder. “Let’s get you in there.”
Walking through the costume wing was like walking through the tropical-bird room at a zoo: brilliant colors, gaudy jewels, and a bewildering variety of tones and textures. After half an hour, Kate and Simone sat down on a cushioned bench in front of an eighteenth-century French court dress.
Simone took a deep breath. “So, you know we have a visiting director from a British theater company?”
Kate nodded. Simone belonged to an experimental performance group and did everything from lighting design to set and production work, although costume design was her first love.
“We’re doing Twelfth Night and A Midsummer Night’s Dream here in New York, and then we’re going to Ireland to perform there. I didn’t think they’d need me, but the director is insisting that the entire production team go along.”
The lighting in this wing was dim, but even so, Kate couldn’t miss the flush that stole into Simone’s cheeks.
Interesting.
“This is the director you met for the first time last night?” She asked the question casually, but she was watching her friend like a hawk.
“That’s right.”
No doubt about it—the blush was deepening. Even Simone’s ears were turning red.
“I think I need to hear more about this director.”
Simone glanced at her sideways. “Why?”
“Because you’re blushing like a schoolgirl, that’s why.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Just because you have a crush on a guy doesn’t mean that I—”
“Hey! I do not have a crush on a guy.”
Simone rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I was there at Rosalind’s when ‘Spike’ came in. Talk about blushing like a schoolgirl. And that reminds me—how was the game? Did the Sox win?”
“They were ahead until the bottom of the ninth, when the Yankees scored three runs.”
“And what about Ian?”
“What about him?”
“Did he score last night?”
It was Kate’s turn to roll her eyes. “Very funny. And no.”
Simone grinned. “Then what the hell is wrong with you? You need to hit that, girlfriend. Talk about a quality rebound.”
“May I remind you that this is the man who cancelled my show?”
“So let him make it up to you. And anyway, hasn’t he helped you out since then? If you ask me, you’re just hanging onto the whole ‘he cancelled my show’ thing to avoid dealing with the fact that you have the hots for him.”
Kate would have delivered a snappy comeback, but Simone was so unexpectedly on the mark that for a moment Kate was tongue-tied.
“I knew it,” Simone said smugly. “You want to drag him into your cave and have your way with him.”
Also on the mark.
“And about your show—weren’t you telling me just a few weeks ago that you were starting to feel a little stale? But you said it was hard to walk away from a fantastic production team and the fat paychecks. So maybe this was a blessing in disguise.”
Did Simone have a point? “Well . . . maybe. But I always meant to write my own ending, you know? I was going to walk away from the show when I was ready. I don’t like it when other people write my endings for me.”
“The way Chris did?”
She winced. “That’s different. I wasn’t planning to walk away from Chris.”
“Maybe you should have.”
Kate stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
Simone hesitated. “It wasn’t my place to say so, but . . . I was never sure that Chris was the right guy for you. I mean, I know the two of you got along great. You made a good team in a lot of ways. But you never seemed really passionate about each other.”
Kate looked away. “I don’t know if I’m the passionate type. In my writing, yes. But I don’t think I’m cut out for it in real life. I mean, look at that night at the club. I went out looking for excitement, and nothing happened. And upon sober reflection, I think that was for the best.”
“Whoa. You don’t think Ian qualifies as exciting?”
“Nothing’s going to happen with Ian.”
“It could if you wanted it to.”
Kate shook her head. “I couldn’t handle a guy like that. You know the women at the network have the lowdown on every bachelor there, right?”
“Sure.”
“Ian never goes out with anyone he works with, which is a point in his favor—but the word on the street is that he’s hooked up with a wide selection of Manhattan women. And he’s never with any of them for more than a few weeks. This is not a guy who does relationships.”
“So don’t have a relationship with him. Have the rebound fling of a lifetime.”
“I don’t think I’m cut out for a fling.”
“I thought you wanted to shake up your life a little.”
“Well, I’ve reconsidered. I wouldn’t know what to do with a man like Ian. Why do you think I was with Chris? He was sweet and gentle and—”
“A cheating bastard.”
“Okay, yes, the cheating thing took me by surprise. But even though I might fantasize about Ian—”
“I knew it!”
“There’s a big difference between fantasy and reality. I think I’m better off sticking to the slow lane when it comes to romance. I know it didn’t work out with Chris, but I still think a man like him would be more my speed.”
Simone opened her mouth, but Kate held up a hand. “That’s enough about my love life. You’re the one who called me, remember? Tell me about this director. What’s his name?”
Simone sighed. “Zachary Hammond.”
“That sounds familiar.”
Simone slumped back against the wall. “Seven years ago he played Orlando in the movie version of As You Like It.”
Kate snapped her fingers. “Of course! That’s the one you made me see with you twice. And then, as I recall, you saw it by yourself another three times.”
“I was interested in the costume design,” Simone said stiffly.
“Of course you were.”
Simone slumped lower. “Okay, fine. I was totally obsessed with Zach Hammond that summer. It broke my heart when he announced that he was leaving the movies to focus on theater directing.”
“And now he comes to New York to work with your company. A very Shakespearean twist of fate, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would not. Especially since he’s making me get on a plane.” She sat up straight and smacked herself on the forehead. “I forgot to tell you worst part. Zach was outside the theater when Jessica dropped me off last night, and she recognized him. She hopped out of the car and introduced herself and talked for ten minutes about how she’d seen him perform Hamlet in London and how much she loved all his movies, blah blah blah . . . and then she asked him to do a reading from Shakespeare at her wedding.”
Kate’s jaw dropped. “What did he say?”
“He said yes.”
“He did?”
“Well, she sort of cornered him. She asked what the performance schedule was for the play and found out that opening night isn’t until two weeks after the wedding. Then she talked about what great friends we are and how I’m one of her bridesmaids—as if knowing me was going to be some kind of in with Zach Hammond—and then she hit him with it.”
“You must have been mortified.”
“I wanted to die. Once she finally left, I apologized and told him he didn’t have to do it. He just laughed and said he didn’t mind at all.”
“Wow. Handsome as sin and a nice guy to boot.”
“I don’t think he agreed because he’s nice. I think the whole situation amused him.”
Kate thought for a moment. “Okay, so what brought on the code red? The prospect of taking a six-hour flight across the Atlantic, your hopeless crush on a former movie star, or the fact that Jessica is making him perform at the wedding from hell?”
Simone slumped down again, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I don’t know. Probably all three. I need chocolate.”
“Do you want to go to Jacques Torres?”
“God, yes.”
On Tuesday afternoon, Kate met Jacob after school again. It was raining, so they took a cab back to Ian’s apartment. They bought hot chocolates at the Starbucks next door and carried them upstairs to watch The Avengers on Ian’s big-screen TV.
Once the movie was over, Jacob disappeared to do his homework and Kate pulled out her tablet to work on a pitch for an appointment the following week. But the project she’d decided to present turned out to be uninspiring, and after half an hour she put the tablet back in her purse and got up to get a glass of water.
She’d learned over time that when she felt blocked creatively, it helped to take a break and let her subconscious work out the problem. After she drank her water, she wandered around Ian’s living room for a few minutes, wondering why it was so devoid of personality. There was very little of Ian—or Jacob—to be seen here. Everything she saw was high-quality, expensive, and generic.
There was more of Jacob in his room, of course. Maybe Ian’s bedroom revealed something about the man who slept there, too. And there were other rooms she hadn’t been in. Maybe he had an office or a study that was full of personal photos and knickknacks.
Not that she would ever know. She had no reason, absolutely none, to go snooping through Ian’s apartment.
Of course, the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to. What made Ian Hart tick? What did he love, hate, fear, wish for?
She remembered what Simone had said at the Met: that she was hanging onto the fact that Ian had cancelled her show as a way to avoid dealing with other feelings that might be developing.
There was no doubt that Ian was a complex man. He didn’t do relationships, but he had a chivalrous side. He could be cold-blooded when it came to business, but it was obvious that he loved his nephew with all his heart. She’d spent the last two years thinking of him as a refugee from a Brooks Brothers catalog, but it turned out that underneath those conservative suits he was sporting tattoos—tattoos he never let anyone see.
Kate went to the beige leather sofa and sat down, pulling out her phone and staring at it for almost a minute. Then she pulled up Ian’s contact info and started typing an email.
So when are you going to tell me about your tattoos? When you got them, where you got them, why you got them?
The moment she hit send, she regretted it. Ian was at work, for God’s sake. She knew
what he was like at work: all business.
She got up from the couch and started to pace. Not only had she bothered Ian with a trivial personal question in the middle of a workday, but now she was stuck waiting for a response that probably wouldn’t come.
She felt like a high school girl who texted a guy and then had to spend the rest of the day waiting for him to text her back . . . if he ever did. What in the world had possessed her to—
Beep.
She went back to the sofa and sat down before opening the email. Her heart was beating absurdly fast.
I suppose I might be persuaded to tell you someday . . . for the right price.
She read it over several times, her heart still racing and warmth creeping into her cheeks. After a moment she realized she was grinning like an idiot.
Was he flirting? It sounded like he was flirting. But maybe he was just teasing. Teasing wasn’t the same thing as flirting.
Not that she wanted him to flirt with her. Hadn’t she made a huge point of explaining that they shouldn’t cross that line?
But flirting wouldn’t really cross the line, would it? Kissing would cross the line. There was a big difference between kissing and flirting.
If he even was flirting. The more she read his email, the less certain she felt.
What kind of price are we talking?
Send.
A simple question. Not overtly flirtatious but not closing the door, either.
What are you offering?
Oh, great—the ball was back in her court.
She chewed on her lip for a moment.
Do you have a sweet tooth? I’m a pretty good baker.
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