“What way?”
Turning back to face me, she lifts her brows and points at me. “All intense and brooding. Like you’re thinking really, really hard. And every so often your stare lingers here,” she points to the hint of cleavage rising from her top, “or here” she drags her fingertips across her lips, “or here.” Aidy traces her bare shoulder, pulling the strap up. “You’re bold, Ace. And you’re lucky I’m slightly flattered, as messed up as that is.”
“I apologize.” Clearing my throat, I straighten my shoulders. “Had no idea I was . . . looking at you like that.”
She sits back, eyes squinting like she’s trying to gauge the authenticity of my apology.
“I didn’t bring you here to hit on you,” I say.
Her arms fold. “I know. You brought me here to accuse me of following you, which is the staunch polar opposite of hitting on me, and I believe we established that about ten minutes ago.”
Aidy’s gaze falls to my jaw, drops to my shoulder, and then traces the outline of my biceps before settling on my folded hands.
“So you’re a pitcher?” she asks.
“Was,” I say. “Was a pitcher.”
“I don’t watch sports.” She swats her hand before reaching for her glass. Lifting it to her full lips, she takes a small sip. Her drink remains mostly full, and I have to give her credit for that. Nothing about Aidy is insecure or nervous, and if the circumstances were different . . .
“You don’t watch any sports?” I ask.
She juts her lips forward and shakes her head. “Went to a Yankees game once. It was okay. The beer and hotdogs were good.”
Chuckling, I take another swig of my beer and find a rare hint of a half-smile fixed to my face as I look at her. Fortunately, the beard hides most of it. I’ve never met a woman as simultaneously endearing and sexy and unapologetically genuine as Aidy. She’s not trying to impress me. She’s not pounding drink after drink. Hell, she’s not even trying to seduce me despite the fact that the blouse she’s wearing doesn’t seem to want to stay put.
I think it’s safe to say Aidy Kincaid is officially not a stalker.
I exhale, nonchalantly watching her from across the table as she gazes at the throng of patrons outside the door. Everything about her is smooth and confident, from the way she moves to the way she breathes.
My blood warms, and a sleepy feeling settles in. It’s going to be an early morning tomorrow with a seven o’clock call time. Something tells me I could sit here all night shooting the shit with this spitfire paradox, but I can’t show up tomorrow morning with beer on my breath and bags under my eyes.
“Anyway.” I slap my hand on the table before pushing to stand up.
“Oh.” Aidy glances up, her blue eyes round and curious. “So we’re done here? I take it you’re confident I’m no longer a threat to your personal safety?”
I lift a brow. “I believe so, yes. How about you? You feeling good about this?”
She slinks a small yellow purse across her body and hoists her makeup case onto the table, exhaling. “Yeah. I think so.”
We move toward the doorway, and for a moment I consider offering to help her carry her makeup case, but the last thing I need is some genius with a smartphone snapping a picture of me carrying makeup through a bar. Knowing my luck, a picture like that would go viral in under twenty-four hours. Besides, I don’t think Aidy would accept my help anyway.
The moment we step outside, we’re wrapped in a blanket of cool evening air. Aidy stands a couple feet away from me, but the first thing I notice is the way the top of her head fits neatly beneath my chin.
“I just want you to know,” she says, pulling in a long breath, “everything this week, it truly was coincidence. Honest to God. At least on my end.”
I shove my hands in my pockets.
We stand, eyes locked, bodies aligned, for what feels like an endless minute.
“Oh, shoot.” She lightly drags her foot across the pavement, making a scuffing noise. “I forgot to pay for my drink.”
I wave her off. “My buddy owns this place. The drinks were free.”
She wears a concerned expression. “Are you sure? I can run back in and pay . . .”
“Yeah, no. You’re good.”
Aidy exhales, her shoulders rising and falling. “And before I go, I want you to know that journal I found? I really did find it on your doorstep. I read most of it, and then I felt guilty because it was so personal and it didn’t belong to me, so that’s why I was trying to return it.”
I shake my head, shrugging. “People leave things on my doorstep all the time.”
She licks her full lips, her head tilting as she stares up at me. The moonlight illuminates her blonde hair and makes her blue eyes shimmer. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see her again after tonight.
“Anyway, it was very interesting meeting you this week, Ace. If I never see you again, I hope . . . everything . . . works out for you.” she says, her hand gripping the strap of her purse as her lips pull into a sleepy smile. As she turns to leave, she winks, as if to say we’re good now, and I stand, hands in my pocket, watching as she disappears past a group of well-dressed Upper East siders.
There’s a damp density in the air tonight, like it’s going to rain soon. The leaves on a nearby maple tree rustle, and I turn to head home. Alone. Wondering what would’ve happened had we stayed a while longer.
Maybe nothing.
Guess I’ll never know.
Eleven
Aidy
* * *
“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?” Wren pours two cups of steaming hot water and unwraps a couple of chamomile tea bags. I’ve just finished filling her in on the Helena situation and wasted no time rambling on about running into Ace at the pharmacy and meeting up with him after.
Plunking myself into a kitchen chair, I slump over, resting my chin in my hands.
“Considering the week I’m having, I’m willing to bet anything could happen,” I say.
“You’ve had quite the night.” My sister takes the seat across from me and slides a teacup my way.
I nod, blowing cool air across the top of my steeping tea. It skims the hot liquid, leaving a pattern of ripples, and a puff of steam rises.
Wren rests her chin in her hand. “Still think the writings are his?”
I nod. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”
“Theory. If the notebook was his, and it was filled with all those personal writings, wouldn’t he really, really, really want it back? What would make him deny, deny, deny?”
Shrugging, I suggest, “Pride? Maybe he was too embarrassed to claim it? There’s some very explicit entries in there. Like graphic, detailed rendezvous. I wouldn’t claim something like that in front of a complete stranger who’s read it all.”
“So he’s this public figure, but he’s perfectly okay with this secret journal of his being in the hands of some random woman?”
I smirk. “Hey, if he wants it back, he has my number. I’m not going to do anything with this book. He’s got nothing to worry about.”