Chapter 5

FIVE

W e walked in silence together for several blocks, the odd couple in our finery, Xavier standing more than a foot over me, blocking out the streetlamps as I gradually recalled where I was. I should have, considering I had planned to attend graduate school not twenty blocks from here. I had been obsessed with Columbia, even while finishing my degree about twenty blocks north at CUNY. Nearly every day, I took the B train down to 116th Street to study around the neighborhood.

There was the deli that made my favorite pastrami sandwich. And that was the brownstone where I dreamed of having my very own studio apartment. One of my classmates shared an apartment with two others in a building just four blocks west. We even passed Jewel, the bar where Xavier and I had met. Two blocks from the park, three south of the Columbia campus. The intersection of Kismet Street and Ruin My Life Avenue.

On and on I strode, like Ebenezer Scrooge, followed by my shadow and guided by my own personal Ghost of Christmas Past until I stopped at the base of a tall brownstone that at one point during the last century had been converted to an enormous bookstore and café that rivaled The Strand.

“What are you doing?” Xavier asked.

I turned. “You wanted dinner. It’s my favorite place around here.”

He looked through the windows with disdain. “It’s a bookshop.”

“Correct. It’s called NovelTea. And they do, in fact, have novels. And excellent tea.”

He looked horrified. “You want tea for dinner?”

“They have food too. I can order a salad, maybe. Or a sandwich. I like the avocado toast.” I was definitely still feeling the effects of all that champagne. Avocado toast would probably be the perfect antidote.

“You want a piece of the overprocessed cardboard that passes as bread in this country smeared with overripe tropical fat for dinner?”

“That’s right. Delicious.”

Xavier rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something that sounded an awful lot like “Good fucking God” before looking back at me. “I don’t think so.”

I huffed. “Where were you thinking?”

He shrugged, then pulled out his phone and scanned it for a moment. “There’s a kaiseki restaurant near Lincoln Center I planned to try during my visit. Doro.” He wrinkled his long nose like he had just smelled something bad.

“What now?” I asked.

“I was just thinking I wouldn’t name my restaurant after the Japanese word for dirt.” He smirked, but in a blink, his steely expression was back in place. “Just one more competitor to put out of business and poach their staff. Anyway, they’re known for their Miyazaki beef-wrapped oysters. The chef has a Michelin star.”

I blinked. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Xavier blinked right back like I had just morphed into a cockroach. “You don’t know what a Michelin star is?”

I glared. “I’m not a complete moron. I live in New York. Of course, I am aware of the world’s preeminent restaurant rating system. My point is rather, why should I care?”

“Because—because—” he stumbled, almost as though the words were caught in his mouth. “Because it’s the best!”

I tipped my head. “There’s a lot of the best here in New York, you know. Some of it only costs two dollars a slice. Or, you know, per pot of tea.”

His neck muscles bulged, but the only other sign of his annoyance was the ticking at the corner of his jaw. It would have been funny if I hadn’t found his stern glare attractive. Too attractive, really.

I rolled my eyes. Apparently, champagne made me particularly flippant. “Anyway, some of us don’t care about fancy schmancy oysters. Some of us just want something familiar to put a horrible night to rest.”

Irritatingly, he rolled his eyes right back. “Obviously, I would pay. I am a gentleman. Some of the time, anyway.”

“Are you saying I can’t afford to buy my own dinner?” I demanded.

Xavier coughed. “What? No, of course not. Only that Doro is fairly expensive, and?—”

“And I couldn’t possibly afford it on a teacher’s salary, right?”

“Well, er?—”

I couldn’t help arguing. I was enjoying being the one with the upper hand now. He’d had me so flustered I’d literally run out of a party, and now just a slight overreaction had this ice sculpture of a man stumbling himself.

Petty?

Maybe.

Satisfying?

Absolutely.

“You can just say it,” I continued. “My tastes are plebeian, and you’d literally rather eat dirt than subject yourself to something as basic as avocados on sourdough. I’m too poor for good food.”

He straightened, and the change was immediate. “Actually, yes. Probably.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

That careless shrug made another appearance. “I need to go, though. Scope out the competition, if you will. I’m inviting you along because I want to catch up. Mix a bit of business and pleasure. If there is any pleasure to be had in this conversation. Honestly, I’m not convinced.”

Upper hand traded back. In the form of a slap across the face. Xavier Sato: Two. Frankie Zola: One. Or maybe just one-half.

Dammit.

I crossed my arms tightly. “I don’t think I’m interested. For one, I don’t like fish.”

He stared at me like I had just grown three heads. “You don’t like fish? Who doesn’t like fish?”

I waved my hand. “Plenty of people. I had some bad clams when I was a kid. Put me off them for life.”

He shook his head, muttering something like “bloody woman” under his breath. “Fine. You can have chicken teriyaki on a skewer. Maybe they’ll have some day-old rice you’d prefer.”

“No, I’m good with some tea and a book. Enjoy, though.”

We stood there for a moment, bristling at each other outside of the bookshop without even moving out of the way of three separate people that left the place, forcing them to walk through our matched scowls.

At last, Xavier exhaled visibly through his long nose as he peered into the shop. “Fine. We’ll go where you like.”

“Even if it’s a bookstore?”

“I love bookshops,” he pronounced with the same enthusiasm people talk about the dentist. “Books are…excellent. Great…stories. Lots of…words.”

“Oh, really? What’s your favorite?”

“ Pride and Prejudice ,” Xavier replied automatically.

No. There was no way.

“Your favorite book is a domestic romance about a bookish second daughter and a grumpy gentleman who reluctantly falls in love with her?” I snorted, pulling my coat closer. “Please. What’s your favorite part?”

He gave me a look that said he wasn’t playing this game anymore. “Right, then. Harry Potter. The Bible. Pick whatever you think is most believable.”

“How about Machiavelli’s The Prince ?” I suggested coyly.

His eyes glimmered with something that approximated humor.

But before he could reply, his stomach emitted a loud growl that could be heard even over the passing traffic. I stifled a grin. The twitch in his mouth was more pronounced.

“Let’s hurry,” he said. “I’ve got to eat something, or else it’s you for dinner, babe. And I don’t think you’d like to know what I’d make of that.”

Ten minutes later, I was seated in the back of NovelTea at a tiny table for two while Xavier waited near the bar for our respective orders. Tea and toast for me, beer and salad for him. After learning that the majority of the food served here was delivered premade, the salad was the only thing he was willing to eat.

I inhaled, enjoying the distinct smell of books that surrounded us on built-in shelves that reached all the way to the twelve-foot ceilings. Even at nearly eleven o’clock at night, the shop was full of students and faculty from the university who loved spending their Friday nights literally with their noses buried in books.

Envy snaked through my bliss. I tried not to think this way most of the time, but a part of me still wished I could be one of them. I’d written more than one paper in this exact cafe, had wracked my brains over countless pots of tea, trying to figure out new and exciting ways to argue against Ian Watt’s novel theory. I had only just started learning all the ways that academic writing was actually like going on a treasure hunt using the very best questions and creative blends of philosophy and interpretation. I missed that challenge. I missed it a lot.

Well, even if I couldn’t be a scholar, I could still read, I thought as I pulled a copy of one of my favorites off the shelf behind me. After all, that’s what Elizabeth Bennett would do.

“So, who are you now?”

I looked up to find him carrying a tray bearing food. Just a hint of a humor flitted over his stern face.

“What?” I asked.

Xavier set down the tray, then proceeded to fold his long legs under the little table. It was funny, really. Like watching an extremely serious grizzly bear smash himself into a thimble.

“Before, anytime I saw that look on your face, it was because you were imagining yourself into one of your stories. So, who was it this time?”

I frowned at the book I was holding. How in God’s name did he remember something like that? Then I looked up from my book and offered the sweetest smile I could muster. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.’”

Xavier nearly spat out his drink. “Excuse me?”

“I was answering your question. I was thinking of one of the many Miss Bennetts. I usually am about half the time.” I flipped my book so he could read the title. Pride and Prejudice. “You mean you don’t recognize the famous opening line of your very favorite book?”

Xavier looked like he wanted to pound his chest. “Ah. No, of course I did. Great stuff. Really wonderful.”

There was something about the way his voice wobbled slightly that made me peer at him for a moment. Xavier just picked at his own food, looking distinctly irritated with the state of the cucumber. Well, it was his fault for choosing something that couldn’t possibly be enough for a man his size, the big silly snob.

“It was my mum’s favorite, actually,” he muttered just when I thought to give up the conversation.

I perked up. I could only recall bits and pieces about Xavier’s mother. She was originally from Japan and fairly young when he was born. She had died when he was just a teenager after being hit by a car. They were close, but that was about all I knew.

He had never been particularly forthcoming about his family life. Or anything, really. Not when we were too busy tearing each other’s clothes off.

Not for the first time, I wondered just what I had been doing all those years ago thinking I was in love with a man that really, I had barely known.

“What was her name?” I wondered.

He looked at me for a long time. “Masumi,” he said quietly.

“Masumi,” I repeated. “What does it mean?”

Xavier pulled at his tie again. “It, ah, can mean a few things. But the characters she used meant ‘true purity.’”

“Lovely,” I said honestly. “Was she a big reader?”

“Sometimes. She learned a lot of her English that way. Reading at the restaurant during the slow hours. Stealing some time at night when she should have been sleeping.”

I chuckled to myself. I understood that better than he could know. How many nights had I chosen books over bed over the last four years just to have one solitary moment of pleasure for just myself? Sometimes as a mother, sleep was just overrated.

“She came to London before you were born, right?” Vaguely, I remembered some story about how his mother originally went to England as a student but had left school to have Xavier.

Now her story sounded familiar in more ways than one.

He nodded. “Yeah. She opened the restaurant in Croydon after I was born.”

“Sushi?” I joked, thinking of his love of fish.

“ Izakaya .”

He tipped his head when I just blinked at the word.

“Think Japanese comfort food. Tempura, karaage , yakisoba . That sort of thing.”

“Yum.” I wasn’t that familiar with Japanese cuisine, but I had tried a few of those. “So she must be who taught you to cook.”

He gave me a queer look, something that was both terribly dangerous and terribly vulnerable. Then he stabbed a piece of lettuce, took a large bite, and nodded shortly.

We sat in awkward silence for a minute, and I pretended to read while an avalanche of questions crashed through my brain. I was tempted to press for more information, if only for Sofia’s sake. It was always a little awkward when pediatricians, for instance, requested a family health history only to find I could give them just one side. But also, I knew one day she’d want to know who her father was, who his family was, and so forth. And while she was willing to be put off now, that wouldn’t always be the case.

Which probably meant that I needed to tell her father that she existed too.

Shit.

“So, I’ve got to know.”

I looked up, startled. “I’m reading.” And lying, apparently.

He raised a brow. Pride and Prejudice was open, yes, but we both knew the pages hadn’t turned once in ten minutes.

“And being quite rude to your date,” he replied. “You think I’d have this rabbit food without repayment? You owe me some answers, Ces.”

I swallowed. He didn’t know, did he? No, he couldn’t. Right?

“All right,” I said. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, what’ve you been doing the last five years? Where do you live? Why did you leave school and become a primary teacher? Back then, all you talked about was becoming a professor.” He took a sip of his beer and didn’t even bother to hide his grimace.

I sighed and set down my book. “I…life got in the way. Grad school just didn’t work out.”

“Didn’t work out how?”

Tell him. This is where you tell him.

In my lap, my palms started to sweat. Suddenly, the avocado toast looked about as appetizing as marsh goo.

But before I could answer, one of the bar girls approached the table. I frowned. This wasn’t the sort of place that offered table service.

“Hi.” She elongated the word in that flirty way that gave a single-syllable greeting six extra beats. “I just wanted to check in and see how everything’s going. Can I get you anything else?”

Her words were pointedly not for me. Normally, I would have found it kind of funny. After all, I did have a stupidly good-looking brother who fended off his fair share of come-ons in front of me. It had become a game my sisters and I all played over who could make Matthew the most uncomfortable by pretending to be his jealous girlfriend.

But right now, I was actually annoyed. Though I couldn’t have quite said why.

Xavier turned stiffly as if the girl were an irritating fly he wanted to swat, then offered that same broad, rapacious smile I’d seen at the party. “Not unless you’ve anything off-menu I must try.”

The girl trembled and flushed bright red. I might have felt sorry for her if I didn’t want to dump my tea all over her cleavage. Just how many buttons had she undone before prancing over here?

“Um, no, I’m sorry,” she said. “I can ask the kitchen, though. Sometimes they experiment. Maybe they would for you…”

But Xavier’s smile disappeared once he realized he couldn’t get what he wanted.

“No, thank you,” he said stiffly and turned away.

“Sorry. Sorry ,” the girl babbled before giving Xavier an awkward half-curtsy and stumbled away. I had to give her some credit. Hard to do in combat boots.

“Bit jealous, are we?”

I turned back to Xavier. “What?”

“Your eyes are especially green. You look like you want to murder the poor girl.”

Caught out, I just snorted and snapped my book open again. “More like dumbfounded. I don’t know how anyone could listen to you and not collapse under the weight of your bullshit. Unless they’re young and stupid, I suppose.”

“You liked my bullshit all right, once upon a time.”

I swallowed, focusing a bit too hard on my book, despite the fact that Austen’s words had completely blurred together. “Young,” I repeated through my teeth. “And very stupid.”

Xavier sighed and stabbed again at his salad. “So, you were telling me about your postgrad…”

I dropped my book and eyed him. Suddenly, the willingness to make small talk had left me. I wasn’t the only one who had explaining to do. “No, I don’t think so.”

His black brow rose. “Don’t think what?”

“I don’t think we’re going to talk about that. You owe me some answers, Xavi.”

The familiar name fell out before I could help it. He’d been alternating between Francesca and Ces all evening, each of them stopping my heart a little in their own small ways. But I’d carefully maintained his given name, unwilling to use the endearment that he had asked me for once, long ago, when we were locked in post-coital bliss.

Call me Xavi , he had whispered between warm, deep kisses. My mother called me Xavi.

At the sound of it now, he froze, then carefully placed his fork on his plate. When he looked up, his blue eyes had deepened, slightly warmed, yet mirrors of the same longing I knew had to be in my own.

“So I do,” he admitted.

My heart thrilled.