by Karen Rock
It’s work, not a date!! Be home soon.
Her cell vibrated through the small purse against her hip before she could lower her glass.
Haha—is that what you call it these days?! Don’t rush but you owe me a Pinkberry’s. Love ya—L.
Chocolate and granola it is. And it’s not a date!!
She replied then slipped her phone back into her purse. Sheesh.
“You must get along well with your roommate.” Eli held a bottle of Parmesan out to her. She tried to ignore the way his biceps flexed as he passed the jar.
She shook the white flakes on her remaining two slices and passed it back, her fingers tingling where they touched his. “How can you tell?”
“You smile whenever you talk to her or about her.”
Was it her imagination, or did he suddenly look a bit wistful? Living with his kids and rarely getting out except on business must be lonely. She had a friend at home. Whom did he have? Was there a way she could be that person for Eli without investing too much of her heart?
“I met Laura at Columbia. It was friendship at first sight.” And it had been. Her future roommate had arrived late to class, stopped the lecture to beg everyone, including the professor, to search for her missing diamond earring, then offered to buy the group cappuccinos afterward. Only an intrigued Christie had taken her up on it and they’d been tight ever since. “How about you? Where did you study photography?”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I earned a master’s in Visual Arts at NYU.” A closed expression shut down his face.
Touchy subject. Maybe it was where he’d met his wife? Ex-wife, she corrected herself. Either way, best to drop it. But despite her intentions, curiosity surged about his relationship history. She chomped on her second slice. Ham and pineapple. Sweet and salty. What was it about opposites making the best combinations? It hadn’t worked for Eli and his ex, though. Their approach to parenting, at least, seemed to be at odds.
“How did you get into fashion photography?”
“My ex-wife, Jacqueline, was interning at Faire du Charme and convinced them to give me a shot when I graduated.”
The magazine his ex-wife currently edited with her new husband, she recalled. It was the industry’s go-to, must-have fashion authority. Impressive that they’d hired someone so fresh out of college. He must be very talented. No wonder he maintained a comfortable lifestyle with his graphic-design business.
“Laura’s mother shares her copies with us every month. It’s her bible.” While her roommate had wealthy parents in the Hamptons, Christie had worked for every dime since middle school. Growing up with a chronically ill brother with hefty medical bills meant she paid her own way and pitched in when she could with babysitting savings. She blinked back the image of her parents huddled over a dining-room table littered with invoices, organizing them in piles: must pay, wait to pay, and wish we could, but can’t pay.
Eli chewed on an ice cube and studied her. “How about you?” His eyes lingered on her outfit, making her flush. Thank goodness the blouse’s high neckline hid her telltale splotches. “Do you follow fashion?”
She snorted through her nose, her mouth too full of pizza to allow the sudden laugh an escape route. “Only if it’s on the Home Shopping Network or at a clearance sale,” she mumbled.
His wide shoulders relaxed against the booth. He wore an apple-green polo shirt that brought out the blue of his eyes and hugged his defined chest. He looked like the guy in front of the camera instead of behind it.
“I don’t know that channel.”
What? Impossible. Her throat burned as her Sprite threatened to go down the wrong hole. Did he live in a cave? She pictured his chaotic apartment. Then again, maybe he did.
She pointed her straw his way. “You haven’t lived until you’ve beaten out thousands for the last Marie Osmond Baby Olive doll. One time, I even made it on air.”
His mouth parted, his pupils wide. “And you were excited about this?”
“Definitely. I actually spoke to Marie. Now I just need the Amaya Holiday Tiny Tot and my collection is complete.” She smiled, picturing the porcelain doll’s brown curly hair, blue satin dress and gold lamé slippers. “Trust me. They’re incredible.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Amusement warmed his voice. He tossed a crust on his oil-soaked plate, looking shell-shocked but fascinated.
“Mary would like them. She sews, right? Makes Becca’s dance costumes?” She started on the last slice, her sweet-banana-pepper-and-barbecue-chicken combo.
He lowered his glass, his fingers drawing lines in the condensation. “No. I do.”
She tried summoning a vision of this tall, brooding guy hunched over a machine, stitching sequined hems. It was too improbable. Then again, he would do anything for his kids. Hadn’t he proved that by inviting her into their lives?
“And the outfits...they come out—” Oh, dear. How to say this? She pictured poor Becca in puckered seams and crooked hems.
He put his elbows on the table, his dimples popping. Was it possible to be this nice, this handsome and this available in Manhattan? Yet here he was, the poster child for every Match.com advertisement. Only he wasn’t looking for a date and neither was she.
“Haven’t had any complaints. In fact, the other mothers ask me to make their daughters’ costumes, too.”
Other mothers? Jealousy seized her at the thought of other women clamoring for Eli’s attention. She forced her tense fingers to release the daily-specials placard. She was being irrational. “How did you get started making costumes?”
His eyes wandered to a woman feeding her toddler bits of pizza. “Jacqueline left the day before Becca’s recital without making her costume.”
Her hand rose to her mouth. No wonder Eli had such a pessimistic view on life. “That’s awful.”
He looked at her, the blue depths of his eyes calm. “In some ways it was good. I was too busy teaching myself to sew to think about her.”
Christie’s breath hitched. She would have fallen apart, run away, but Eli...he hadn’t missed a beat. Amazing. “How did you do it?” She meant that question on so many levels.
He shrugged. “I searched for ‘hemstitch’ using Google, pulled an all-nighter and the rest is history.” His laced fingers stretched overhead as he shot her a smile. “I’m practically a legend at feather appliqué.”
She laughed. If he could joke about that terrible time, then she’d follow his lead. “Another use for your arts degree, then.”
“I have the battle wounds to prove it.” He pointed to a small white line on the back of his hand. “Got that while cutting tulle. Do you have any idea how flimsy that fabric is?”
She nodded, smiling. “I made my own dance costumes, too, once I was old enough.” She held up her palm and showed him a similar scar. “We match.”
A strange look crossed his face. “Yes. We do,” he said, though it didn’t sound as though he considered it a good thing.
Topic-shuffle time. “How’s counseling going with Joan?”
Eli grimaced. “Pretty good. Tommy talks a blue streak but Becca barely says a word. You’re the only one she opens up to.”
There wasn’t a formula to predict why a teenager related to one person over another. Joan was lovely. But Christie and Becca had a common past that the troubled girl must sense. She should try to see her more.
“I’d like to watch Becca dance sometime.” She tidied up the table, stacking the empty plates and crumpled napkins.
His lips twisted upward in a crooked, adorable way, the left side followed by the right. “Actually, Becca wanted me to mention that to you. She invited her mother to her recital but she hasn’t answered Becca’s voice mail. It’d be good if you were there in case—” He stirred his drink with his straw, lids lowered, a tic appearing in his right che
ekbone. “In case she doesn’t show.”
“But maybe she will.” Christie offered him a hopeful smile. Perhaps she was away and would return in time to get the message. It seemed improbable that a mother wouldn’t see her daughter dance. “Have you tried calling her office?”
Eli raised weary eyes. “A dozen times, but her assistant claims she’s too busy to come to the phone.”
Christie felt her smile slip and held it in place with a wish and a prayer. She needed to stay upbeat for Eli. “Then at least she knows about it.”
“She’s known about a lot of things,” Eli said in a hollow voice. “It rarely makes a difference. Look. I know it’s short notice, so I don’t know if you...” his voice faltered “...if you have a date this Saturday?”
She could almost hear her gran laughing at this one. She hadn’t had a date in, well, a really long time, even if last year’s food-vendor visit with a male nurse counted. It was the closest she could imagine. Definitely a big fat N-O to her having any plans. Still, she didn’t want to jump at the first suggestion of something...romantic? “May I get back to you on that?”
Something dark flashed in his eyes. “So, you have to check with someone? Like a boyfriend?”
A subarctic chill frosted his voice. Was he jealous?
She exchanged the salt for the pepper shaker against the plastic wine-list holder then changed them back. Why had she played coy? Honesty was always the best policy. And bottom line, she wanted to get to know him better.
Plus, she hadn’t forgotten there were eager dance moms chasing after him with costume requests.
“No. I—I might have to work. Sometimes they stick us on longer shifts.” Phew. At least that was true. An actual possibility. Her speeding pulse slowed. Hopefully it wouldn’t happen on Saturday. Her eyes slid to Eli. She’d love to see the family again. All of them, now that she was being honest.
His shoulders lowered as he breathed out long and hard. “Oh. Good.” He popped a red-and-white-striped mint into his mouth, his eyes suddenly crinkling in confusion. “I mean, that wouldn’t be good, you having to work overtime. The kids enjoyed your company and we—” He looked over at the mother, who now held a sippy cup to her fussing baby. “I mean, they would like to see you. I still haven’t thanked you for all you did with Becca. That boyfriend, I swear I could have—” His hands curled on the table.
She put her hand on top of his. She hated seeing him upset. “It wasn’t me. Becca stood up to the creep. All I did was—”
She broke off when his hand turned under hers, their fingers suddenly entwined. The sensation of his palm against hers short-circuited her brain. Total system meltdown. What had she been talking about? And why was he holding her hand? Pleasure burst inside her chest like a bubble.
Eli squeezed her hand and pulled away, looking as confused as she felt. Did he feel the chemistry, too? She clasped her hands in her lap, wishing away the emptiness he’d left behind. She was glad he’d let go. Neither of them could afford to hold on. Not to each other. Could she fall for a guy with a bigger threat to her heart than Eli would be? A cancer survivor... She blinked fast to keep her emotions in check. He couldn’t afford to get involved any more than she could. He’d lost too much already. He deserved someone who’d commit to him without reservation, without baggage heavy enough to bury her.
And still, that didn’t stop her from wanting to use herself as a barrier between him and the dance moms. She was such a mess.
Hurrying to the receptacle to throw out their trash, she had a minute to calm her spinning senses. Hopefully, she’d be less affected by him when his kids acted as a buffer. This one-on-one thing was too much to handle. Exactly the reason why she avoided getting personally involved with her clients.
“Ready to go?” He held out her purse when he joined her.
Why was a manly guy holding a woman’s purse one of the most endearing things ever?
With a nod, she followed him out onto the street. The air had cooled slightly and a small breeze blew back her hair. She jumped over a crack as they walked to the curb.
Eli flicked his eyes in her direction. “Whose back are you trying to save?”
Another break in the cement made her detour to the left. “My gran’s. She had a hernia repaired last year.”
They stopped under an overhead lamp, the light giving Eli’s hair a soft glow. “You know this superstitious stuff doesn’t work, right?”
She looked down at her pinched feet. Never again would she put fashion ahead of comfort. Even for Eli. She looked away from his gorgeous eyes. Especially for Eli.
“I’ve seen it work too many times.”
“And fail, too, I’m guessing.” His long arm shot up and caught the attention of a cab. “Want to share?”
She gulped. An intimate ride in the backseat of a cab with him was more than she could handle right now. “I’ll get the next one. I have to stop at Pinkberry anyway.”
His eyebrows rose, his eyes searching hers. “Then take this one. I’ll have Becca call you about the recital.”
Yes. Becca calling. Much, much safer. “Sounds good.” She ducked into the taxi and he shut the door behind her. Pushing a button got the window down before he could turn away.
“Thanks, Eli. I’ll see you soon.”
His face brightened. “We’ll look forward to it.”
She watched him walk back to the street corner and stop beneath the pool of light. He looked like a movie star, one hand raised and waving down another cab.
After giving her driver directions, she leaned forward and watched Eli bend his large form inside a taxi that jutted into traffic ahead of hers. For a couple of blocks they followed, his solitary head outlined against the rear window.
Like millions of New Yorkers, he rode home alone. Would he feel lonely when he arrived? Or would he think of her and relive every moment of their time together tonight, the way she would?
A dangerous warmth curled through her, settling in her heart. She knew better than to daydream about him. Yet tonight, she would do just that, and thoughts of this complex, compelling man would fill that aching void inside her.
* * *
ELI PAID LITTLE attention to the buildings, cars and people flashing by his window. Instead he pictured Christie in that purple top, its silky material begging to be touched. Would it feel as smooth as her skin? Impossible. He’d never felt anything so soft except his newborn children.
He couldn’t believe he’d actually held her hand tonight. Of all the dumb things to do. Yet when she’d reached for him, he’d acted on instinct. The desire to touch her was elemental. Basic. And far too strong to resist.
The driver honked to move jaywalkers out of the way as they swerved off Broadway onto Broome Street.
The feeling of her fingers wrapped around his lingered, the sense of rightness burning away the cold doubts plaguing him. With her hand in his, he’d felt lighter, more positive...her optimism seeping into his flesh. Her touch made him want to believe that everything could be all right.
He rubbed a hand across his face and watched a man and woman strolling down the street, their arms linked. It was the kind of simple, day-to-day companionship he’d always longed for. But life had dealt him a different hand of cards and he had to play the one he’d gotten. Believing anything else was dangerous.
Hope was a four-letter word he didn’t dare say, let alone think. His body had healed but his spirit would never be the same. When his chemo friends had succumbed to their illnesses he’d learned that it was better to keep his expectations low rather than getting his hopes up only to be crushed by despair. But he didn’t want his kids to think that way.
Becca had spoken to him once this week—about Christie, but still...that was an improvement. And at Joan’s urging, she’d also written an apology to the girl who smoked. Even better, she was playi
ng with Tommy again and spending less time texting. To keep this trend going, he needed Christie. They needed her. If only his feelings didn’t grow every minute they spent together. The bond they’d formed over John was strong, something they’d always share.
The cab jolted to a halt outside his building. He paid the driver then greeted a departing neighbor who held the door open. Inside, he raced up the stairs. Ever since the blackout, he’d been running them the way he had before cancer. And each day he felt faster, stronger. Maybe he could jog again. Even pick up his Nikon and add his own photography to the graphic-design business. Was there room in his life for second chances?
And was Christie one of them? Maybe he could share her optimism. Hold her hand again. He didn’t have to deny himself everything. The more he thought about it, the more right it felt. He was going to spend time with her anyway. He could take her to a movie sometime. Have a grown-up life away from his kids.
Besides, the loner inside him sensed that she felt alone in a crowd as often as he did. Together...
He stopped on the fifth floor and shook out his throbbing calf. What he was thinking was dangerous. But he knew he’d never get her out of his head.
Why was it so hard to start acting as if he had a future? As if he had the right to wish for tomorrow?
He resumed his climb, this time at a walk. He’d take things one step at a time, starting with including Christie in his kids’ lives. Letting her go wasn’t an option. The heck with Becca calling her about the recital. He’d call her himself. Make sure she wasn’t going anywhere. It was something to hope for. To wish for, even.
He paused with his key in the lock. There. He’d said it. Hope. It wasn’t so hard.
So why did such a small word feel more like a curse than a blessing?
* * *
LATER THAT NIGHT in her loft, Christie’s phone rang. She tightened the string on her sleep shorts and grabbed her cell, trying to calm the fierce rush of her heartbeat. Could it be Eli?
“Hello?” She flopped onto her bed and curved an arm under her head, her pulse thudding in her ears.