The Other Man (Rose Gold Book 1)

by Nicole French

  But Annie wasn’t one of those women. And more importantly, I was starting to realize that I wasn’t that guy either. Or at least, I didn’t want to be.

  I didn’t want to lie to her. I didn’t want to lie to anyone anymore.

  So instead of wrapping an arm around her waist and calling her “baby” like she wanted, I offered a brief smile and turned back to Layla and Nico, who started chattering about other family news. He continued to name drop people I hadn’t seen in years. Aunties and uncles and random cousins from my mother’s side of the family—people I’d all but cut off after she left us.

  “Saw your mom a couple of weeks ago,” Nico was saying. “Tía Alba had another get together. Your sister was there with her kids too.”

  “Yeah, Lea told me.” I didn’t mean to be short, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  Nico clearly noticed. “Sorry, man. I don’t mean to overstep.”

  “No, it’s fine. But you know, we don’t really get along, her and me.”

  Nico nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know how that goes.”

  We looked at each other with the silent acknowledgement shared between two people who maybe came from something a little darker than the norm. For a second, Layla looked like she wanted to cry. Annie just blinked, clearly sensing some kind of subtext, but not really comprehending any of it.

  “So, anyway,” I broke the awkward silence. “It was good to see you, man. We should get a beer or something. Or have you guys over to the house. You and your kids are welcome any time.”

  Nico returned my handshake. “Yeah, man. That sounds good.” He offered Annie another brief kiss on the cheek while I did the same with Layla. “Nice to meet you, Annalisa. Tell this asshole not to steal my favorite place next time, all right?”

  Annie’s smile was shy as it darted between us. “Um, okay. Yes.”

  Nico and Layla disappeared into another part of the museum. I watched them for a bit more before I realized that Annie was watching me.

  “You, um, ready to go?” I asked, for want of anything better to say. The way she was looking at me was unnerving. Like a puppy begging to be pet. “I actually have a lot of work to do this evening. I need to get you home.”

  With a bit of regret, she nodded. “Okay.”

  We walked back the way we came, letting the crunch of our feet on the gravel fill the silence.

  Say something, I told myself. Anything. Don’t be an asshole, you fuckin’ asshole.

  “What do you think, honey?” I asked suddenly. “Should we go out again?”

  What in the fuck? Did I really just ask her that?

  Annie shrugged, a lot less enthusiastic than she had been an hour ago. She wasn’t stupid, this girl. Naive, maybe. But not dumb. And she deserved better than what I was giving her.

  So I stopped, tugging on her hand. She turned, looking a bit more hopeful.

  I slipped a hand around her chin and tipped it up, examining her for a moment. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. A sign? A lightning bolt? Here I was, with a girl as beautiful as one of the flowers in the gardens outside, ready and willing for me to pluck if I wanted.

  “All right,” I said, almost more to myself than to her. “How about next week? We’ll get dinner. And I won’t work after, I promise.”

  I reached out and brushed a bit of hair from her face. She had nice hair. A shiny, dark brown that curled slightly around her temples. Her face tipped up like she wanted to kiss me. Her lips were thin, but they still looked soft. It might have been nice.

  But instead, I dropped her hand and stepped back. “Tuesday?”

  Her eyes brightened. “Tuesday. Okay.” Then she sighed contentedly. “You are very nice.”

  Nice? Nice?

  “You think so?” I felt like a complete fraud. This girl had no idea how completely not nice I really was.

  “Not like the other boys I know at home,” she said. “All whistles and shouts and hands up your skirt.”

  An opera box. A red skirt. My fingers. Her thigh.

  I shook my head again, trying to ignore the want that lanced through me at the memory. No, I needed to stay here. Now. This girl. This moment.

  Tentatively, Annie reached out to touch my shirt. I was still in my Sunday clothes, just like her. Another three-piece suit, light gray, appropriate for spring.

  “You are…how do you say…a gentleman, yes?”

  She pulled lightly at my tie until it was completely out of my vest. Then she gave it a little tug. And I couldn’t lie—it was like a direct line to my dick.

  For a moment, I considered correcting her. I thought about shoving her against the brick wall and showing her just how far from a gentleman I really was. I thought about closing my eyes and putting a hand over her mouth, pretending that her scent of gardenias was actually roses and the hair running between my fingers wasn’t brown, but blonde.

  I could teach this sweet, innocent little girl what a bastard I really was. Hell, maybe she’d even like it. I’d definitely like it. And maybe, if we were lucky, we’d like it a few more times, tucked into my bed in Brooklyn or maybe whatever spare room she had above Tino’s restaurant.

  But then it would be the same as ever. And Annie wasn’t one of these unscrupulous bitches dripping in diamonds. She’d wake up worried about the sins she’d committed, whether she’d given up too much of herself too early for a man all too eager to take it. I’d wake up wanting to take a fucking whip to my back.

  That’s the problem with living a lie. Whether it’s a lie to be bad or a lie to be good, it’s a lie either way. And it can cost you your soul.

  So instead of pulling Annie into one of the shadowed corners of the rebuilt abbey, I gently untangled my tie from her fingers and tucked it back into place.

  “Come on, honey,” I said as I tucked her hand into my elbow and turned us back toward the car. “Time to get you home.”

  Annie smiled and walked as if nothing was wrong.

  Be good, I thought to myself with every crunch of my feet on the gravel. You can be good.

  Lies, lies, lies.

  If the truth costs your soul, but the lie ruins it anyway, which is the greater price?

  I didn’t have an answer. But I knew which hurt more.

  Women like Annie wanted a certain kind of man. Maybe it was time to make him real.

  Well, at least I could try.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I did try. I tried Tuesday night, over dinner at Tino’s restaurant while half the neighborhood watched. I ordered a primo and a single glass of wine and was on my way back to Brooklyn by nine. Lea called me about an hour later wondering why the hell I was so rude.

  So, I called Annie again, who asked to see more of the “sights” in New York. On Thursday, after work, we at the Empire State Building to watch the sunset. But instead of kissing her like every other decent man was doing with his date, I said it was too windy and stayed in the shelter until she tired of wandering the deck alone.

  She was nice. Too nice. And definitely too patient as she told me bits and pieces about herself that, six months ago, I might have found interesting. She grew up in a house outside of Naples, the only daughter of a mid-level banker and a church-going housewife. She had the idea of being a chef, but her family felt there were more opportunities here if she worked with Tino and went to culinary school. She liked reading Nicholas Sparks (translated into Italian), doing macramé projects, and watching reality talent shows in her spare time.

  In other words, Annie was the definition of a good girl. And considering how relaxed she seemed by the fact that I had barely given her a closed-mouth peck over four dates, I was pretty sure she was a virgin too.

  And I didn’t care. Not one fucking bit.

  “How about Chinese?” she suggested.

  This time I was holding her hand. My palm was sweaty, but she hadn’t wanted to let go since getting into the elevator for the long ride down from the roof. And I felt so bad about my neglect, I let her.

  The
back of my neck prickled as we walked out to Fifth Avenue. It had been happening all day—while I ran out for a falafel for lunch, and then later when I met up with Annie in this very spot.

  “What’s that, honey?” I asked as I looked around.

  Nothing. Just the normal assortment of tourists and New Yorkers milling in front of one of the city’s most famous buildings. A smattering of food and coffee carts packing up for the night, plus the standard hubbub of traffic racing down Fifth Avenue and across Thirty-Fourth Street.

  “I said, would you like to eat Chinese food for dinner?”

  I raised a brow. This girl loved her Asian foods, according to my sisters. Apparently you couldn’t get good dumplings in Naples.

  “You know, I’m kind of Chinese’d out, honey,” I lied for no good fucking reason. “I had it last night.” I didn’t. I just didn’t want to eat dinner. “Once a week is sort of my limit for that much MSG.”

  “What is MSG?” Annie wondered.

  I shook my head. It was like this a lot with her—constantly explaining what this word and that meant. Her English was generally pretty good—better than my Italian, for sure—but her vocabulary was limited.

  “Too much salt,” I clarified.

  Annie wilted. I smacked myself mentally.

  “How about French? There’s a decent spot in Park Slope, but it’s in Brooklyn. You game?”

  “I like French,” she agreed. “And I like you. Brooklyn, I will see.”

  See? Sweet. And pure. And maybe a little bit nauseating.

  Asshole. I was such a fuckin’ asshole.

  I forced a smile. “Thanks, honey. Let’s, uh, eat.”

  Forty minutes later, we were seated near the back of Bistro Le Park, a new French-American joint in Park Slope that my boss raved about. It was just past five o’clock, and I didn’t think I’d eaten dinner this early since I was maybe…okay, since ever. Annie probably hadn’t either. The one time I visited Naples, I didn’t see a single restaurant that opened before eight for dinner.

  Each of us took our sweet time looking at the menu, possibly to avoid talking to each other. I was running out of things to say. I think she was too.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. That prickly feeling again. Maybe it was just the universe telling me this was the wrong thing to be doing. Whatever it was, I was getting sick of it.

  “Who is that?”

  I looked up from my menu. “Huh?”

  Annie pointed over my shoulder toward the entrance. “A woman, on the street. She passed maybe five times. To look at the menu. But the last time, I think she is looking at me. There she is again!”

  I turned, and that’s when I saw a pair of familiar gray eyes peering through the gap between the menus taped to the window, the top of a head of sleek gold hair peeking over the top. It was twilight, and I could barely make out the rest of her through the reflection on the window. It didn’t matter, though. I would have known that shape anywhere.

  “What the…”

  The eyes widened when they found me looking, and immediately disappeared.

  “You know her?”

  “Unfortunately, I do,” I said as I pushed back my chair. “She’s—she’s involved with a case I’m working on. Excuse me, honey. Order the coq au vin for me, will you?”

  I tossed my napkin on the table and made my way out to the street. It wasn’t until the oak door swung shut behind me that I located a familiar leggy figure skittering down the sidewalk as quickly as her three-inch heels would carry her.

  “Nina!” I called.

  She stopped, then started walking again. This time faster.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Nina!” I began jogging. “Wait up!”

  She did actually stop at the curb, though I had a feeling it was more to protect her shoes than because I asked her. Or maybe she just realized there was no point. When she turned, her face looked broken. Beaten. Totally defeated. And as beautiful as ever.

  And I, like a complete fuckin’ asshole, felt alive again.

  “I—hello, Matthew.”

  I came to a stop and caught my breath. “Hello? That’s all I get? What are you doing here?”

  We were about as far from the Upper East Side as you could get. And that had been by design. I was pretty sure that prickly feeling would only get worse knowing I was potentially only a few blocks away from the woman I couldn’t get out of my head. I needed my territory. My borough.

  Another thought occurred to me. “Were you at the Cloister on Sunday?”

  Nina’s extremely guilty expression told me I was right. So, that prickle I felt had come from her, not Nico. My sixth sense about that shit was spot-on—maybe even more accurate because it was her.

  “Jesus. I knew I wasn’t crazy. I kept thinking someone was watching us…”

  Again, no argument from her. But I didn’t have time to be smug. I was too fuckin’ angry.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “Stalking me, now?”

  “What? No! Excuse me, I had plans to visit the Cloisters last weekend,” Nina retorted. “In case you’ve forgotten, I happen to serve on the board of directors for several organizations.”

  That tone of voice, the snippy, holier-than-thou dialect that only people of her station ever seemed to know how to use, suddenly got under my skin like never before.

  “And does this board meet on a Sunday after Mass?” I asked.

  “They could. Not everyone is Catholic, Matthew.”

  “How about Park Slope, huh?” I pressed. “Are you on the board of some secret museum here too? Is the Met planning to break ground at Prospect Park? Or maybe the top of the Empire State Building?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop cross-examining me, Matthew,” she snapped. “I had a meeting in Midtown earlier today. And I heard this restaurant was supposed to be good, that’s all.”

  Christ. She wasn’t even denying it. “Where did you hear that?” I asked through my teeth.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you hear it from me?”

  “When would I have—”

  “How about last Monday?”

  “Matthew, be serious, do you really think that—”

  “Stop fucking around with me, Nina!” I exploded. “I don’t know what this idiotic game is you’re playing, but you and I both know you didn’t just happen to be in Brooklyn today. So what the hell are you doing? Why do you keep showing up everywhere I go? Why the fuck are you here?”

  “I don’t know!” she burst out. “I—I honestly don’t! I came home, and there was no one there, per usual, not that I found that particularly saddening, if you want to know the truth, and I just—well, I didn’t mean to see you today, but you were just there. And you did practically shout your intended plans at Jane and Eric’s. Was I supposed to think that wasn’t for my benefit, or are you just that thoughtless?”

  I scowled. Irritatingly, I had actually been thinking of Nina when I mentioned this restaurant to Jane and Eric. “You can’t be serious. That was over a week ago. You told me to take her there.”

  “Well, I didn’t actually think you would do it!”

  I rubbed my hands vigorously over my face. “Nina, Jesus Christ. And so you decided you had to stalk me for the rest of the week?”

  “As if you aren’t?” she shot back. “Please. I’ve seen you across the street from my building. Do you think I don’t know it’s you in those cabs? You’re the only car not moving on all of Lexington Avenue, and sometimes you sit there for nearly an hour!”

  I opened and closed my mouth several times. Fuck. She knew?

  Her eyes narrowed to silver slits. “Yes, darling, that’s right. I know you’re there, just like you know I’m here. Anonymity and distance would mean everything, but we just can’t seem to manage it. It’s our sad little curse, isn’t it?”

  “Right along with everything else.” I groaned into my hands. “Where’s your car? We’ll have them pick you up so I can get back to the woman who actually wants to be seen
with me.”

  Nina’s eyes flared before she looked away. “Don’t bother. It’s in Manhattan, where I left it. I’ll send for an Uber.”

  “What do you mean, where you left it?”

  She looked up from her phone. “I—well, I walked here.”

  “You walked? From where, Manhattan?” The idea was unfathomable.

  “No, just from—from another neighborhood in Brooklyn. A taxi dropped me.” She looked down, almost ashamed. “I didn’t want anyone to know I’d come.”

  I followed her gaze, all the way to her pair of thousand-dollar shoes (I’d wager), completely ruined. Stained and spotted, with chinks in the leather heels and toes scuffed beyond repair. And those were just the shoes.

  “Jesus,” I breathed. “Your feet. Look at that.”

  Her feet were puffy, swollen from the walk, and I could see the angry red marks around the edges where blisters had formed beneath the leather.

  “Stop.” The word carried all measure of shame. Embarrassment. Desperation, even.

  “Which one?” I asked.

  Nina looked up. “What?”

  “Which one? Which neighborhood were you in?”

  She sighed. “Are you aware that you wield questions like weapons, Matthew?”

  I nodded. “Damn well, too. Now answer that one, doll. Which neighborhood?”

  She looked back down at the ground and mumbled something.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t fucking hear that. Which neighborhood, Nina?”

  “Red Hook!” The words exploded like firecrackers. “I went to Red Hook, all right?”

  Well, that explained the feet. The two and a half miles or so from my house to Park Slope would have been fine in running shoes. But not stilettos.

  “You were in Red Hook.”

  Her silver eyes narrowed testily. “Yes, that’s what I just said.”

  “For what, the view? The fine company? The bustling social life?”

  Nina sighed. “Matthew…you know why I was there.”