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In the intervening years, he’d dated casually here and there, but either he didn’t fit her ideal or she didn’t fit his. Until he saw Chris and felt so strongly that she had it all. Yes, she’d been reluctant, but he’d dealt with reluctance before and had overcome it with patience and low-key persistence.
This time...not so much.
Her crazy sister, though—man, that woman was...something else. Eva had looked at Ames as if he was her next meal. No, not quite that. More as if he was her favorite dessert. She’d made him uncomfortable, uneasy and also weirdly curious. Underneath all the look-at-me trappings she was attractive, and seemed spirited and funny. But definitely not his type the way her sister was. Beautiful, elegant, sophisticated, Chris was the kind of woman a guy could take anywhere and she’d fit right in, from a baseball game to one of the high-end restaurants and wine bars he frequented for business and pleasure. At the end of the month he’d hoped to take her to Boyce’s annual dinner at La Grenouille Laide, one of New York’s finest restaurants, and the company’s most formal and important event, to which all their best clients and top sales people were invited. Delores, Mike Boyce’s battle-ax secretary, had been on him to RSVP.
A reminder popped up on his laptop to call the Restless Armadillo restaurant, which hadn’t placed an order in a while. He picked up his phone.
“I hope you’re not staying home working again tonight.” Jean, tiny and tough, about as New York as a person could get, never missed an opportunity to criticize everything possible about him. He adored her.
“How do you know I was home working last night?”
She tapped her temple. “I know.”
“I have to work, Jean.” He shook his head mournfully. “I have this really expensive assistant who all but drains my bank account every month.”
“I’m playing the violin, boohoo. You’re still young—what are you, thirty?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Single and home at night. Sheesh.” She threw up her hands. “I’m telling you, you’re a catch. Even Manny says he’d date you. You should be out there finding someone to make you happy.”
“Uh.” He pretended distaste. “Your husband isn’t really my type...”
“He’s kidding, he’s kidding. But I’m not.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him, dark eyes enormous through her thick glasses. “Go out tonight. This stuff you’re doing will keep. Your youth won’t. You need to live.”
“It’s four o’clock. I need to get my work done so I can—”
The apartment phone rang, interrupting their latest standoff.
“I’ll get it.” She sent Ames a by now familiar look of disgust and stomped into the living room. “Hello?...Oh, hey, Frank....Uh-huh....Really?”
Ames stretched at his desk. Frank was the doorman. Probably letting them know about another change in the garbage pickup schedule.
“Sure, I’ll hold.” Jean appeared in the doorway of his office, phone held to her ear. “You expecting someone?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe God answered my prayer and FedEx sent a nice single woman whose shift is just ending.”
“Not expecting a package, either.”
“You— Yes, Frank....Who?...Oh, I see....Is she pretty?...Young?...Uh-huh....Oh, she does?...Okay, sure, send her up.”
“What was that?”
Jean ended the call triumphantly. “I got you a date.”
“You what?”
“You heard me.” Jean disappeared from sight into the living room.
“Who is it?” he called after her.
“Someone you know, don’t worry. She’s on her way up.” Jean reappeared wearing her coat and a Yankees ball cap. “Anything you want me to do before I leave you to your wild night?”
“Yes.” He stood behind his desk, hands on his hips, exasperated and a little curious. He couldn’t think of any female friend who’d drop by during business hours without calling first. They all knew better. “Intercept whoever it is and tell her sorry, I’m busy, and to call first next time.”
“Look at you all grumpy over a woman.” Jean scowled at him. “You’re a big boy, you tell her. I’m gone.”
Ames rolled his eyes, more amused than annoyed. The visitor could be his college friend Kathy, back from a European tour. He’d lost track of her return date. Still, it would be strange of her not to call first.
The apartment doorbell rang. Jean’s footsteps thudded over to get it.
“She’s here already. The girl moves fast. I like her already.” The front door opened. “Hello. I’m Jean Kajowski, Ames’s hot live-in girlfriend. Just kidding. I keep house for him a couple days a week, though he doesn’t like me calling it that. Don’t worry, I was just leaving.”
“Hi, Jean, nice to meet you.” The voice was musical, sweet and vaguely familiar. “I’m Eva Meyer.”
Ames sat back down abruptly. Eva was here? At his condo? How had she found his address?
“Hi, Eva. Oh, my God, your boots are adorable!” Jean was clearly smitten. “Come in, come in. He’s in the office, probably shy. But he’s not busy tonight, so don’t let him tell you that he is. I’m off—bye you two.”
Ames turned his eyes to the ceiling. Give him strength. “Bye, Jean, see you Thursday.”
“Only if I live that long.” The door closed behind her standard response.
Ames blinked at his office door. He could get up. But she’d stalked him here—she could come in on her own.
“Hi, Ames.” Eva appeared at his doorway, smiling pleasantly, as if there was nothing strange about barging into his home when she’d met him for all of five minutes the day before. She wore a violently pink skirt under a bright green shirt and crazy floral sweater. Her chunky boots laced up to midcalf and were shiny fluorescent-green. She had about five earrings in each ear and an armful of jangling colored bracelets.
His eyes hurt just looking at her.
He stood. Picked up a pen. Put it down. She made him very uneasy. Staring at him with those bright blue eyes. He felt...he felt...
He didn’t know what he felt. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you might want to take me out tonight, since I’m new in the city.” She lifted her eyebrows as if she had every right to expect an enthusiastic response.
“You—” Ames could barely take that in. “What made you think that? Don’t you have to work?”
“My shift ended at two.” She seemed totally comfortable in herself, not broadcasting any sense that her behavior was at all unusual. “I already stayed late for a couple of hours, catching up on things and getting to know more staff. Then I’d had enough. You can only take in so much new information, you know? So I came here.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know anyone else, really.”
“Eva.” Something was painfully misfiring under that bizarre hairstyle—randomly hiked up all over her head with multicolored combs that looked as if they were taking bites out of her scalp. “You don’t know me, either.”
“What better way to get started?” She smiled, looking around his office. Her mouth was generous, like her sister’s, lips full, teeth slightly crooked. “Nice place. Totally fancy.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He should tell her to get lost now, before she got any more weird ideas.
“Here.” She laid a NYEspresso bag on the table. “I brought you a cookie and a bag of espresso beans.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How do you know I have an espresso machine?”
“Well...” She tilted her head to one side. A tattoo he hadn’t noticed before rested at the base of her neck. She stood too far off for him to tell what it was. “Don’t you?”
Ames cleared his throat. He had a reputation among his friends for being able to read women and communicate with them exceptionally well, both as friends and lovers. But with this woman he felt like a junior-high dork. “Yes. I do.”
“Then you’ll enjoy it. Very fresh, delivered this morning. Chris’s special blend—Brazil with Ethiopia for some bite.” She hoisted her hot-pink bag farther onto her shoulder and went to examine the books in his bookcase. “So where should we go? Chris and I have done the big tourist things, Empire State, Statue of Liberty, Times Square, Rockefeller Center, etc., but I would love to get to know some neighborhoods. Any favorites?”
He was out of his element here. Somehow she’d maneuvered him into feeling he’d be rude to ask her to leave. Yet he had every right to.
“You know, Eva, tonight might not be the best—”
“Jean said you weren’t busy.” She turned around holding Jamie Goode’s The Science of Wine.
“Uh...”
“Oh, I see. You just don’t want to go.” She put the book back and approached his desk, mouth bunched slightly. “That’s fine. I just thought it would be fun for both of us. Especially if you don’t get out much.”
“What makes you think I don’t get out much?”
Again that head tilt. She was close enough now he could see the tattoo was a tiny hummingbird. “Did you go out last night?”
“Not last night, but—”
“Night before?”
“No, not then, but—”
“Night before that?” She was enjoying this—her face was solemn, but her eyes were sparkling with fun.
He put his fists on his hips and glared at her.
Eva burst into laughter and shielded her face with her hands. “No, no, not the death-ray eyes. I was teasing you. Listen, I get that you’re not interested. That’s fine.”
“Okay.” He felt profound relief. And also...not. He dealt with it by picking up his pen again.
“By that I mean...” Her eyebrows lifted; the sparkle hadn’t left her eyes. “That I’m fine going out with men who aren’t interested.”
This time he laughed. She might be a crazed stalker, but she was appealing in her own eccentric way, and obviously intelligent. “You’re very determined.”
“Hmm, how funny, Chris says the same about you.”
He barely avoided blushing. “I guess she would.”
“If you want my advice...”
“Not really.”
Eva waggled her finger. “You need to give up on that. She’s not going to change her mind.”
Ames’s jaw tightened. Disappointment and embarrassment that Eva and Chris had obviously been talking about what an annoyance he was.
He’d been so sure about Chris, had pictured her in his future, and it had felt natural and right.
Yeah, well, to hell with that.
“I’m sorry, Ames. I know you...cared for her in some way.”
Her sympathy triggered an outraged testosterone rush. He did not need pity. He was not a pathetic, lovelorn geek who failed in pursuit of women, nor was he a dork who stayed home every night working.
He threw his pen down. “I guess if we’re going, we better get started.”
“Oh, good!” Eva’s face lit up. “I am in a totally adventurous mood. Where shall we go?”
“Greenwich Village,” He answered immediately, hoping he hadn’t just doomed himself to an exhausting and unbearable evening. But Greenwich Village was one of his favorite parts of New York, full of charm and the unexpected. Like Eva. She’d fit in fine there in her wild colors and crazy hair, because nobody didn’t fit in there. And he was unlikely to bump into any important clients—or potential ones—who’d wonder why he was strolling around with a circus clown.
“I’m ready.” She hoisted her pink bag, making her dozen or so bracelets slide and clatter.
He nodded and walked out from behind his desk, stopping to let her precede him to the door.
“Hey. Ames.” She suddenly looked shy, tentative, very different from her usual brassy persona. Almost sweet. Her eyes were very blue, with dark lashes enhanced by mascara but not turned gunky, which seemed to be the style for too many women. Her eyebrows were natural, nicely arched. He could see the resemblance to Chris in the fine shape of her nose and the height of her cheekbones.
“Hey, what?”
“Thanks for doing this.”
Something weird happened in his chest, a buzz of warmth that made him forgive her for interrupting his evening and making him feel like a loser—several times over. “Just don’t make me regret it.”
“Well, but...” She flung her arms out, let them drop in frustration. “That’s half the fun!”
He couldn’t help a grin. “I can still change my mind about going out.”
“You won’t.” She preceded him out of his office. “You’re not the type of man who ever goes back on a promise.”
“Where do you get all these ideas about me?”
“I’m brilliant. By the way, this condo is huge. I swear your balcony is the size of Chris’s entire apartment. You must sell a ton of wine.”
“I do okay.” Trust her to come right out and say it. Kind of refreshing, actually. “My parents bought the condo as an investment. When they retire, they’ll want to move in.”
“I’m not big on luxury. That’s Chris’s thing.” She left his office, walking with surprising grace for someone wearing clump-around boots. “I’m an own-what-you-need kind of girl.”
“Yeah?” He kept his voice neutral. He wasn’t going to defend his choices to someone who wouldn’t understand.
“But it’s easy to be that way in the Central Coast.” She turned to look at him, walking backward for a few steps. “I have mountains and ocean all around. In this city you’d need to create space wherever and however you can.”
“True.” He opened his front door to let her pass through, taken aback. She totally understood. As much as he loved New York, claustrophobia could be a problem. Unoccupied quiet space inspired an immediate ahh of relaxation, no matter where you found it. “After you.”
“Thanks.” She moved past him into the hallway, leaving a fresh, vaguely floral scent in her wake, not sweet, not overpowering.
A great smell, actually.
He locked the door and followed her to the elevator. He could have sped to catch up with her, but there was something mesmerizing about the nicely shaped sway of her pink skirt, the energetic strides of her slender legs in dark gray tights.
What was he thinking? This was crazy stalker Eva, sister of the lost woman of his dreams.
At ground level, Eva greeted Frank as if they were long-lost friends. Ames was astonished to see the generally somber doorman beam and blush, then nod at Ames, as if he approved of his taste in women.
No, no, no. Not this woman. Not ever this woman. Boyce Wines prided itself on its high-class, conservative image. He had clients to entertain; he wanted to be promoted to vice president of sales someday, maybe get into politics. He needed a woman who was— Who looked like— Who came across—
Ugh. Was he really that shallow?
No, not shallow, practical. He had to be honest about his goals and what he was looking for. Nothing wrong with that.
They walked along Forty-Third Street to Eighth Avenue and the Port Authority subway stop. The air was crisp and energizing—fall was Ames’s favorite season. Maybe it was all those years of school, but to him September still felt like a fresh beginning.
The subway took them south to Fourteenth Street. They emerged back onto Eighth Avenue and walked farther south to Bleecker Street, where they turned to start their stroll through the Village.
The longer they walked, the more Ames had to admit he was enjoying himself. The weather was perfect, typical for October—cool but comfortable. Along the streets trees were turning colors and the buildings glowed with dark brick warmth in the fading light.
And Eva’s eagerness was catching. Ames was something of a New York history geek, and this part of town had great stories to tell. He took her down Bedford Street to see a building Walt Disney had lived in, a detour to see the unexpected and peaceful private courtyard between two houses on Grove Street, then back on Bedford for a peek at number 86, a former Prohibition-era speakeasy and favorite hangout for writers that closed in 2007 when the facade crumbled into the street. Farther on, 75½, the narrowest house in New York, a mere nine feet wide.
By the time they strolled over to Washington Square Park, the sun was down, and Ames was getting hungry. Nothing surprising about that—he’d eaten a small lunch on the go several hours earlier. What was surprising was that he didn’t want to ditch Eva and go home to eat. He wanted to keep their evening going.
“Feel like some dinner?”
“Love some.” She put a hand to her flat stomach, causing an avalanche of bracelets to crash at her wrist. “I’m ravenous.”
“You like Middle Eastern food?”
“Passionately!”
“Okay then.” He liked that she answered with such...passion. He liked her enthusiasm for everything. It was easy in this town to become cynical, always in a hurry, to stop looking around and appreciating the small things. If nothing else came out of this bizarre forced date tonight, Eva had reminded him of that, and he was grateful.
He let the way to Mamoun’s Falafel on MacDougal Street, a staggeringly popular place with minimal seating where he’d regularly stopped for late-night eats when he was a student at NYU. They bought falafel sandwiches with hummus and took them to eat on a bench in the park facing the small replica of Paris’s Arc de Triomphe.
“Oh, m’gah.” Eva spoke through a bite of falafel. “These are ’mazing!”
“Uh-huh.” He couldn’t think of another woman he knew who could talk with her mouth full and be somehow adorable.
“This whole walk has been so much fun.”
“For me, too.”
“Oh, good!” She turned and grinned at him. “So you’ll ask me out again.”
“What do you mean again?” He pretended to be mystified. “I didn’t ask you out this time. You asked me.”
“Hmm, yeah, good point.” She looked perplexed for a second, then her expressive face cleared. “You can easily fix that by asking me out the first time and then again after that.”
He snorted, getting used to her sense of humor. Enjoying it, in fact. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
They finished their sandwiches, commenting on the scenery, discussing more of the Village streets she should explore on her next trip. A pair of NYU students passed them, backpacks on their shoulders, in earnest discussion. After them, a gay couple walking a terrier of some kind.
“The energy here is really different from farther uptown.” Eva crumpled her sandwich paper.
“Yeah?” He refrained from rolling his eyes. The energy? This was New York, there was nothing but energy here. Who cared what kind it was?
“Funkier. Younger. More alternative. More like California.”
He bristled, as any good New Yorker would. “Eva?”
“Mmm?” She was watching a black-clad teenage couple making out. He liked the way her hummingbird clung intimately to the smooth skin of her neck.
“Let me tell you something if you want to survive your time here. Other places are like New York. New York is not like other places. Especially California.”
Eva turned to him, both eyebrows raised. He held her gaze, controlling any hint of a smile.
“Well, then. Only one thing to do.” She leaned up and kissed him full on the mouth.
His body froze. Her lips were soft and lingered longer than a brief peck, but not much.
Then she sat back, took the last bite of her sandwich and crumpled the paper while he sat there like a dork loser with a half boner. “So what do you want to do now, Ames?”
He stared at her. Who kissed someone for the first time then acted as if it hadn’t happened? How the heck did she keep catching him off balance like this? Just when he thought he’d reclaimed his terrain as Mr. Smooth?
What was he supposed to do now? Mention the kiss? Try to explain that he wasn’t looking for any kind of relationship or romance right now (the phrase with someone like you didn’t need to enter into it)? He’d look like a dork—again—making a big I’m-still-a-virgin deal over an innocent peck. Or not innocent. Didn’t matter.
But if he ignored it, he’d lose an opportunity to set her straight. In the meantime she’d asked him a question.
“Uh. We could... There’s...um... I don’t know what...”
Oh, good one, Ames. He wasn’t like this with women. Ever.
Eva sprang to her feet and held out her hand. “Let’s find a place to have dessert. Or a beer. Or in your case, wine. How’s that?”
He was surprised to find the idea appealing. “Okay, but on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“No more kissing.”
She looked astonished. “Why not?”
“Because...we’re not the kissing... We aren’t...” He broke off in utter frustration. “We’re not supposed to be doing that.”
Oh, God.
Dork!
“Ah.” She put her hands to her hips and stared down at him as if he had four heads. “I see. You are morally outraged.”
“No, no, I’m not.
“You didn’t like kissing me?”
“No, that’s not it. I mean...” He wanted to drop his head into his hands.
“Then...?”
Ames stood abruptly. “Let’s get a drink. For God’s sake.”
“What a great idea. Wish I’d thought of it.” She took his hand and swung it as they walked.
He was too grouchy to spar with her further. Her hand felt soft and warm and good in his. It had been a long time since he’d strolled holding hands with a woman. His last girlfriend, Taylor, had objected to walking that way, said it made her feel as though she was his daughter. That was strange, but whatever. Everyone had something that bugged them. Before Taylor he’d dated Patricia, who wouldn’t go out on days she’d had her nails done. Before Patricia there’d been Ashley, who was so tenderhearted she couldn’t handle movies with any violence. Nice women, all of them. Intelligent, beautiful, cultured, great company, but something had been missing every time. And then he’d seen Chris, and his instinct had kicked in so strongly.
“Are we going to walk to this place?” Eva asked.
Ames ended his reverie. No point thinking about something that was never going to happen. “We can or take a taxi. It’s several blocks.”
“Oh, walk, absolutely walk. I want to see everything.”
“Fine by me.” He had a new attitude about her boots. Too many women he dated wore heels so high they could barely make it to the end of a block without complaining.
“How long have you lived in the city?” She danced away from him, looking up, turned in a circle, then danced back, not taking his hand again.
“Since I was eighteen and came here to college at NYU from Jersey.”
“Joisey, right. I’m from central Wisconsin, a town just north of Madison. Dad’s a coffee scientist. Mom is an accountant. Does your mom work?”
“She helps Dad with the store. Bookkeeping, mostly.” He turned up University Place, heading for Union Square, then Eighteenth Street and one of his brother’s favorite bars, Old Town. There were a couple of fabulous wine bars in the area, customers of his, but he wasn’t sure they could handle shiny lime-green boots.
Actually...this was New York. They could handle anything. The real question was whether Ames could handle them.
No, not really.
“Brothers? Sisters? Occupations?”
He sent her a look. “Are you going to keep this interrogation up all night?”
“Conversation, Ames, remember?”
“One brother. Mike. A schoolteacher.”
“Ah, so you, the favored son, carried on the family tradition.”
“I was always interested in wine. Worked at the store from age sixteen, read everything about it I could get my hands on.”
“Drank everything you could get your hands on, too?”
“Tasted, then spat.” He snorted. “If I drank every kind of wine I learned about, I’d be in serious trouble.”
“How did you get started at Boyce Wines?”
“Dad used them for years at his store, insisted they were the best. He had a lot of respect for them and their business practices. So I applied, got a job, blah, blah, blah.”
“Do you get to travel to vineyards? Hey, you can visit me in California!”
He wasn’t going to touch that. “Boyce doesn’t sell California wine. Just Italy and France.”