“What’s going on?” Jay murmured when Thomas drew Brittany away to introduce her to a colleague.
“Nothing.” Jealousy wasn’t an emotion she’d ever had before when it came to boyfriends. She’d never allowed anyone to get that close.
He put an arm around her shoulders. “Are you sure? You’re scowling, and you’ve got that tiny crinkle in your forehead that you only get when something is really bothering you.”
“She’s after you,” Zara blurted out, putting to one side for later consideration the fact he knew her so well. “You probably don’t even realize it because you don’t speak bitch.”
Jay’s voice took on a deep, steady warmth that made Zara’s knees weak. “There’s only one woman I want.”
“I hope it’s me or someone’s getting a four-inch stiletto through the throat,” she muttered under her breath.
Jay responded by leaning down to nuzzle her neck. “Your jealousy is turning me on. If you keep that up I might think you actually like me.”
Why did he say things like that? Why did he have to call her beautiful when she felt like she was about to explode out of her suit like the Pillsbury Doughboy? Why did he tell her he would always be there for her? That his help came with no strings? That he wanted her any way that he could have her?
He wants me.
She’d tried to pretend she hadn’t heard it but she had. Just like she’d tried to pretend she hadn’t seen the hurt on his face the night she told Rick they weren’t together. It was so frustrating. Why couldn’t they have just enjoyed the pause in their deal, have a little fun sex, and move on? Neither of them wanted a relationship. So why was it beginning to feel like they had one?
The situation deteriorated over the course of the evening. Jay filled her glass and brought her snacks. When she shivered, he offered her his jacket. He boasted about her ingenuity in court and encouraged people to buy a ticket to her show. She most certainly did not sing like a nightingale and brighten up the stage. His disturbing pride in her accomplishments put a downer on what should have been a delightful evening. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that she was a magnet for disaster and that he was supposed to be an arrogant officious jerk.
She was contemplating an early escape when a disturbance at the door caught her attention. News reporters and photographers backed into the room, shouting and waving. A murmur rippled through the crowd, a buzz of anticipation. Zara stood on tiptoe to see what was going on. And then Lin-Manuel Miranda walked through the door.
Acutely aware of Thomas and Brittany standing beside her, Zara slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. Where should she get her autograph? She’d been so busy being annoyed by Jay’s goodness that she hadn’t even made a plan.
She needed to calm down. No. First she needed to ditch the jacket so Lin-Manuel could sign her arm. Her Wandsworth autograph had already faded despite the fact she hadn’t washed that arm in weeks. He could choose left or right. Maybe she could get him to autograph both.
“I’ll take it.” Jay held out his hand even though she hadn’t said a word. She shrugged off his jacket, wondering if this was what it was like for normal couples. Anticipating each other’s needs. Understanding the compulsion to gush all over your favorite Broadway star. She supposed it was handy when said Broadway star was fifty yards away, and you had a limited window of time to get the autograph you’d been dreaming about for the last five years.
She had taken only a few shuffling steps forward when Lin-Manuel moved back toward the door. Her heart leaped into her throat. No. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t get this close to her celebrity dream only to be held back by firmly stitched pink Chanel and four-inch heels.
Strong hands gripped her hips, holding her in place. She looked over her shoulder and saw Jay kneeling down behind her.
“Shoes,” he said.
“What?” Her voice wavered, the disappointment of missing her chance almost too much to bear.
“Your shoes. Quickly. Take them off. You’ll be able to catch him in bare feet.”
Hope flared in her chest and then faded. “But . . . my skirt. It’s too tight to run.”
Jay gripped the material on either side of the back slit and pulled it apart, rending the skirt a few extra inches at the seam.
“Jay . . .” Her voice caught when he slipped off her shoes, holding up his hand to help her balance. “I don’t want to embarrass you. I promised myself I’d keep things low-key.”
“You could never embarrass me.” He gestured to the door. “Now run, sweetheart. Lin-Manuel Miranda is in the house.”
It was stupidly romantic.
It was everything.
She had never been so irritated in her life.
• 22 •
The knock, when it came, startled her. Curled up on the couch watching Annie, with a carton of ice cream, a glass of red wine, and Marmalade purring on her lap, Zara was busy wallowing in self-pity and not inclined to answer the door.
How badly had she messed things up for Jay when she’d run barefoot across the City Club? Had it been enough to dissuade him from being so damn . . . nice? Where was the arrogant, officious, bossy Jay from the paintball field? She wanted him back.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Who is it?” The building had a buzzer downstairs and the other tenants on the floor kept to themselves. Parvati was out on a date for the evening and had her own key.
“Security.” She didn’t recognize the muffled voice, so she checked through the peephole and saw Jay’s stern face partially covered in dark glasses.
“Jay?”
“J-Tech Security, ma’am. There was a theft at the City Club last night. Apparently, the thief fled in bare feet. We followed the trail to this address.”
Zara swallowed hard. Time for the reckoning. She’d been too embarrassed to return to the table after her celebrity encounter so she’d called an Uber to take her home. She hadn’t even said good-bye.
She opened the door a few inches. Jay was in full uniform: dark glasses, black hat, blue shirt, safety vest, black pants, heavy boots, and a utility belt that held a flashlight, baton, handcuffs, and a walkie-talkie. He was her fantasy come to life, but opening that door would mean dealing with the desperate, aching feelings she’d been trying so hard to ignore.
“There are no thieves here. You must have the wrong address.”
“You have bare feet.” He pointed to the floor, where her freshly polished nails gleamed in the light. Self-loathing didn’t include missing her Saturday morning pedicure.
“So do a lot of people.”