I owe it to her to consider this.
And to myself.
A weekend at a friend's beach house. A weekend without the weight of the world on my shoulders.
What does that even feel like?
"I'll see what I can do," I say.
She jumps out of her chair to hug me. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. You're a lifesaver, Eve. I'm so nervous about being alone with her. She doesn't know about last year and I just…"
"She loves you. That's what matters."
She nods I guess so. Launches into a discussion of their last date. Walking around the Natural History Museum (of course) then falafel in the Village. This kiss that screamed of more.
The kind of kiss that only exists in fairy tales.
I don't believe they exist. Not the Disney versions.
Twisted ones? A princess who will do anything to save herself? Prince Charming with illicit intentions?
I pull out my cell and text Ian.
Chapter Ten
Ian
Eve: What are you offering?
Thirteen hours.
Thirteen hours and she's considering it.
Nine a.m. on a Sunday and I'm still in the goddamn building. Sure, I'm halfway through a workout. But this isn't how I'm supposed to spend my weekend.
I don't wait by the phone.
I don't wait. Period.
Or I didn't. Until I started reading her site.
Until I started refreshing four times a day, waiting for another taste of her thoughts.
Nothing today.
She isn't sharing this with her readers. Only with me.
I finish another set. Wipe the sweat from my brow.
It's Sunday. A day of rest. Most Sundays, I take it easy. By my standards. A long workout, a longer shower, a late breakfast, some sort of social engagement.
A woman in my bed.
Who am I kidding? It's been months since I've invited a woman into my bed. The second a woman touches my arm, I think of Eve. Of how much I'd prefer her.
She isn't how I imagined her. Younger. Taller. With the most gorgeous grey-green eyes. And all those tattoos that define her.
I have my own. Plenty. But nothing recent.
It's been a long, long time since I've felt the need to permanently mark my body.
And this… the way I want to trace every line of ink on her skin, commit them to memory—
That's new.
I need to understand her.
Everything about her.
Ian: What do you want?
Eve: Isn't it a disadvantage, being the first to quote a number?
Ian: Depends who you ask.
She's reading up on negotiation. Or smart enough to know it by heart.
That awful club, all those drunk arseholes—
She must negotiate nonstop.
My skin crawls at the thought of her in that place. Wearing nothing. That short skirt and low-cut blouse—
It's not enough.
There are too many pissed arseholes leering at her.
It's not like me to hate it—I'm not usually possessive—but I do. I want her in a parka at that place.
No, I want her away from that place forever.
Eve: Do you really know the doctor?
Not in the way she means. We certainly aren't friends. But I know enough.
A divorced man who lives in New Jersey. He frequents an escort service in the Financial District. He comes into the city on weekends, for a night at a hotel with a call girl.
I don't judge other people's choices. Not usually. I've made plenty of mistakes. But this man—
He's not worthy of her.
He's not touching her.
No one else is touching her.
Ian: I don't like him. I don't want him to do this.
Eve: Why?
Ian: Does that really matter?
Eve: I guess not. I just figure there has to be some kind of catch.
Ian: How is that?
Eve: I looked you up. Maybe Ian Hunt is an alias created by MI6. Maybe this is all an elaborate lie. But I'm not exactly a hacker. And I don't know any hackers.
Ian: I can recommend a few.
Eve: You?
Ian: I prefer operative.
Eve: Spy?
Ian: That's trying too hard.
Eve: International Man of Mystery?
Ian: Only if you're going to ask "do I make you randy, baby?"
Eve: Do people say randy?
Ian: Not anymore.
Eve: We should bring it back. It has a certain ring. Don't you think?
My smile widens. She's adorable. How can a badarse in combat boots—the smartest person I've ever met—be so goddamn adorable?
It's doing things to me. Things inappropriate for this venue.
Ian: I would recommend myself. But it's a conflict of interest.
Eve: How can I trust anyone you recommend? It could be a setup.
Ian: Possible.
Eve: If it is a fake identity, it's elaborate. There are plenty of news articles about you. A few mention your time in the military. You were a pilot.
Ian: Still am.
Eve: Really?
Ian: I can fly you somewhere.
Eve: Where?
Ian: Anywhere you need a good view. I fly helicopters.
Eve: What does a helicopter pilot do in New York City?
Ian: Very little. For its size, the city lacks helipads. But I volunteer with a local hospital once a week.
Eve: What do you do for them?
Ian: Mostly organ transfers. Some med-vac.
Eve: A philanthropist.
Ian: Do I need pure intentions for that?
Eve: What are your intentions?
Ian: I've been called an adrenaline junkie.
By my ex-wife. But no sense in bringing her up. It's not time to kill the mood.
Eve: What are your intentions with me?
Ian: I only send dirty texts if I'm sure a woman wants them.
Eve: You know what I mean.
Ian: I'm not sure I do.
Eve: Why are you offering to buy my virginity? You're a rich man. Clearly handsome. Very successful. And very tall. How tall are you anyway?
Ian: I suppose you want it in feet?
Eve: I can convert centimeters on my phone.
Ian: Other yanks have asked. Six three.
Eve: Yanks? Do you say that to make a point?
Ian: Usually. In other parts of the world, we don't see how you can claim the title America when you're in the middle of the Americas.
Eve: It's a bit myopic.
Ian: It is.
Eve: You like to rile people.
Ian: Maybe.
Eve: Is that it? You're trying to rile someone?
Ian: No. I don't joke about money. I made you an offer. I meant it.
Eve: But why? You don't seem to need help with women. You've been photographed with lots. Women more beautiful than I am. More successful.
Ian: I don't know any women more beautiful than you are.
Eve: That sounds like a line.
Ian: It's the truth.
Eve: It's not. I'm cute, sure. And, yes, I have a look. But I'm not beautiful. I'm not a New York ten.
Ian: That's an awfully conventional lens for you, Eve.
Eve: Because of the hair?
Ian: You have a large tattoo from The Handmaid's Tale on your arm.
Eve: And the hair?
Ian: I like your hair.
Eve: Got a thing for mermaids?
Ian: I can't make a mermaid come.
Eve: Oh.
Ian: That's my intention. To make you come.
Eve: That's it?
Ian: Eve, you're determined to hurt my feelings, aren't you?