“You’re right.” I shake my head in rueful acknowledgement. “I don’t know why I even thought he was being sincere. We’re at war over our future, and this is just him trying to tunnel through my defenses.”
The guests in the garden are starting to file inside. Dinner will be starting soon.
I grimace apologetically. “How are you holding up on the world’s worst date?”
“I’ve been smiling so long I can’t feel my face.” She puts her hands on her cheeks and does a smile-grimace. “No, seriously, I can’t stop smiling. I think I’m having some kind of seizure.”
She’s so close to me that I can smell her perfume. I slide a finger under her chin and nibble on her lower lip. “Can you feel this?” I murmur.
She lets out a low, throaty moan of pleasure and stands on her tiptoes. I kiss her hungrily, my tongue sliding inside the warm, silken cave of her mouth, leading her tongue in an intimate duet.
She tastes of champagne and feels like velvet. Heat rushes through my veins, and I slide one arm around her waist and pull her up against me. I’m greedy for the feel of her after too long apart. Time slows, and I hear people walking past us, the buzz of conversation, a trill of laughter, and I don’t care.
Finally I pull away and look down into her eyes.
“Oh,” she says in a tone of wonder, her eyes shining. She puts her hand on her cheek. “My face is unfrozen now, and so is the rest of me.”
“Duly noted.” I clear my throat and shake my head, trying to clear it. “All better, then? You’re made of sterner stuff than I thought.”
“Me? Oh, no. I’m actually a wilting flower. I’ll prove it.” She winks at me, then grabs me by the hand and pulls me along as she trots back inside. We spot Earl, who’s heading towards the banquet room. “Mr. Dempsey! I wanted to say our goodbyes. I am so sorry. I have a migraine and it’s absolutely killing me.” She drops my hand and grimaces, rubbing at her temples. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to head home.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, dear. You go home and rest up.” He pats me on the arm. “Thanks for coming tonight, Blake. It’s always good to see you.”
“You too. I’ll call you next week. I have some things I want to run by you.”
Stricken, I hurry her through the club, out the front door, and down the front steps. She’s grimacing in pain the whole way, rubbing at her temples. I spot my driver and wave him over.
“You should have said something,” I tell her as we climb into the back seat. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a migraine?” I pull the door shut. “Head home, Joseph!”
Her pained look vanishes, replaced by a mischievous grin. “Because I don’t. What I do have is the ability to get us out of an excruciatingly dull evening.”
I bark out a pleased, surprised laugh. “Ha! Well done, you. Hmm. Now I have four unscheduled hours before I make a call to Jakarta, then go to bed.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
She opens her eyes wide. “Like what?”
“Okay, Whimsical Winona, what would you do with a suddenly freed-up Saturday night?” And how pathetic is it that I have no ideas of my own?
“I tell you what. We’re both going to come up with some ideas, then we’ll chose at random. You could use a little chaos in your life.” The way I clench up at the sound of the word ‘chaos’ probably proves she’s right.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small memo pad. She tears off three sheets of paper and hands them to me, then she tears off three more sheets for herself.
“We’re each going to write out three things we’d do with some unexpected downtime on a Saturday night. Then we’ll toss them in my purse, mix them up, and you’ll pick one.”
I’m embarrassed at how hard it is for me to come up with something that isn’t related to work or the gym. New York is a city of wonders, with so many amazing things to do, and I can’t think of a thing to do on a Saturday night. I feel like a stranger in my own city. I can hear Alice’s voice gently chiding me. You never let yourself have fun.
I mean, I could put down Norfolk’s, but I go there all the time. Nico’s restaurant isn’t open yet. Sooo….hell. How can it be this hard? Frowning, I write down “trivia game at my house” and “make pizza at my house” and “watch a movie at my house”. Lame, lamer, lamest.
Please let me pick one of her suggestions, I pray silently.
We drop our sheets of paper into her purse, then I stick my hand in, fish around, and pull one out. I laugh when I read it.
“Seriously? At this time of night?” The scrap of paper says “ice cream sundaes at I Scream on Sullivan Street”.
“Won’t they be closed? We’ve still got at least ninety minutes until we get there. Maybe more if we run into traffic.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s open twenty-four hours. I’ve had a hot fudge sundae at four in the morning before.”
“Well, I’m a man who keeps my promises. So I’m in.”
Traffic into the city is hell on a Saturday night. It takes us two hours and fifteen minutes to get there. She rests her head on my shoulder, dozing for most of it, and I’m not bored for a minute. I’m enjoying a kind of quiet contentment that I haven’t felt since…possibly ever.
Joseph drops us off in front of the shop. The night is warm and the street is still crowded. Soho, shortened from “South of Houston street”, is one of the older and more picturesque parts of the city, with blocks and blocks of nineteenth-century buildings in the Italianate and Renaissance revival style.
I Scream is on one of the very oldest streets. Our limo bumps over old, rounded cobblestones known as Belgian blocks, and comes to rest in front of a three-story red brick building with ornate iron scrollwork on the tiny balconies. I Scream is located on the first floor. Winona and I scramble out, and I follow her into the shop, getting in line behind a cluster of blond twenty-something tourists who are chattering happily to each other in Dutch.
“This is what I love about New York. There’s always something new, and crazy, and frequently wonderful, around every corner.” Winona glows with enthusiasm, and it’s contagious. “I mean, sometimes you turn the corner and it’s a lunatic talking to his invisible llama while peeing on a streetlamp, but most of the time it’s a Jamaican restaurant next to a palm reader next to a vintage record shop underneath a henna salon, with a guy selling hand-made necklaces from a folding table out front. Or this place. See! They have a build-your-own sundae bar!” Winona gestures happily. “Or we can just have them made for us.”