Chapter 7

SEVEN

I didn’t know what to think about the story he’d just told me. It seemed crazy, fantastical. But every bone in my body knew he wasn’t lying. It was his eyes that did it. They flashed bright blue fury when he talked about his father and their relationship that seemed to be alternately positive and adversarial. They glowed with mirth and warmth when he mentioned his mother. And they welled slightly, pools of sorrow, whenever Lucy came up. She had obviously meant a great deal to him.

I tried to ignore the pangs of jealousy when I thought of that. Not because they were lovers. They clearly weren’t. But even if he wasn’t in love with her, he certainly loved her in his own way. They were friends. And she had known him better than almost anyone.

Which also meant that I hadn’t really known him at all.

I led the way up Amsterdam toward the ramen restaurant where I used to slurp down noodles and broth while I worked out my next paper or tore through a new Victorian novel. Another life, another time. I hoped the noodles were still good.

“Cat got your tongue?” Xavier’s brooding timbre yanked me out of my thoughts.

My gaze jumped and landed on a pair of planters bookending an apartment entrance, both brimming with uncharacteristic winter blooms. “I was…thinking it’s nice to see flowers in December,” I fibbed. “Most of the time, the city is covered with snow and slush. There’s no color.”

“This is a camellia,” Xavier said, bending down to pluck one of the pink blossoms off the tree. “They were my mum’s favorite flower, actually. She used to keep pots of them on the roof of our building.” He twirled the bloom from side to side. “They symbolize types of love. Red for passion. White for waiting. Pink is for…longing.”

It took every ounce of control not to check his face when he said that.

Instead, I accepted the flower and became inordinately interested in its rounded petals. “Are flowers important to your, um, people?”

Xavier snorted. “My people? I grew up in Croydon, Ces, not a hut in the Sahara.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Just that—Xavi, when I met you, you said your name was Sato, not Parker. Clearly, you identify with your mom’s heritage. And isn’t there a whole thing about flowers and symbolism and all that in Japan?”

“ Hanakotoba , yeah. But I don’t know much about it. Just what Mum told me. Like about these.”

He took the camellia out of my hand and tucked it behind my ear, his finger grazing my jaw, trailing to my chin, then dropping reluctantly. I shivered, but not from the cold.

“When did you start using Parker?” I asked. “Why not the Sato Group?”

The pride faded, replaced by annoyance again. “Ah, well. See, to expand the way I wanted, I needed investors. Turns out Parker—my dad’s name—opens a lot more English bankers’ doors than Sato.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing more than that.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him. “So you used your father’s name to get your business started?”

Xavier’s jaw clicked like he was grinding his teeth. “You really didn’t look me up at all after I left, did you?”

My cheeks colored, but I shook my head. “Once or twice. But Sato was a dead end. And after that…I was mad.”

“Mad?”

“Furious, actually.”

“Furious.”

I looked up. He was so tall; I had to crane my neck. “What do you want me to say? I understand what happened now, but at the time, all I knew was that you were engaged. You broke my heart. When someone does something like that, I generally don’t look back, if you know what I mean.”

His suspicion morphed into something approaching respect. “Yes, I do.”

“So what do I call you, then?” I wondered. “Sato or Parker?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Parker’s fine. I’ve made my peace with it.” Then he asked, “What about looking forward?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Looking forward to what? Another week or two of sex? A life’s worth of one-night stands?

And then what?

Tell him.

My subconscious was a professor, tapping her nails on her arm, waiting for me to come up with the correct answer.

He’s her father. He deserves to know. You’ll have to tell him, and then this will all be over. Again.

I swallowed. “The only thing I can look forward to right now is ramen. Come on, the shop is two more blocks that way. And I’m guessing if you don’t eat something other than rabbit food, that big body of yours is going to combust.”

Ten minutes later, Xavier and I sat at a bar looking toward the Natural History Museum across Columbus Avenue, two steaming bowls of noodles and broth in front of us as onlookers passed, looking somewhat envious.

“I don’t know if it was the four glasses of champagne or the pint of horrible ale, but I’ll admit—this is damn good,” he said as he used his chopsticks to shove a large bite of noodles into his mouth, then slurped them loudly.

I stifled a laugh. “Has anyone ever said you have terrible table manners?”

He offered me his sharkish grin again, this time with a trail of noodles cascading toward the bowl. He slurped up the rest even more loudly, then smacked his lips. “I’ll have you know that it’s considered rude in Japan not to slurp noodles. If you don’t, your host will think you hate the food.”

“I thought that was just a stereotype. Something they made up for the movies.”

But he shook his head while he slurped even louder, mouth too full to answer.

“Ew,” I said. “That’s revolting.”

Before I knew it, his bowl was half empty. “Maybe. But it’s still good manners.”

We sat companionably. I even slurped audibly, just to try to make him smile again. I got a few twitches, but nothing more. Still, there was a sparkle in those eyes I recognized from years past. I couldn’t help it. I wanted more.

“I used to come to this place after class,” I said when our bowls were nearly empty. Well, his was. I couldn’t eat more than half, myself. “It was the only place within walking distance of Columbia I could afford. A bowl of ramen would keep me for the day, and they were open late. I’d get some tea and study until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

“Why didn’t you just go home?”

I shrugged. “I couldn’t study there. I don’t know if you remember, but I lived at my grandmother’s house when I was in school. It was nice not having to pay rent, but two of my sisters were still there. And they are…well, if you met them, you’d understand why I needed space.”

“How many sisters do you have again?” he wondered, picking up a piece of soft-boiled egg with his chopsticks.

“Four, plus a brother.”

“Six in all, then?”

I nodded.

“Let me guess—you’re the baby.”

I looked up to find Xavier peering at me with knowing eyes. It was infuriating.

“I am not,” I said. “Middle child, actually. Kate and I share that. She’s the youngest of the first bunch. I’m the oldest of the second.” I held out my hands to count us off. “It goes Matthew, Lea, Kate. Then our parents split up for a bit. But when they got back together, it was me, Marie, and Joni. Marie and Joni are less than a year apart, and I’m almost eighteen months older than Marie. Both of them are still living with Nonna, freaking leeches. And they are such pains in the ass.”

Xavier chuckled.

“What?” I asked. “That makes you smile, of all things?”

“It’s funny, is all. The way siblings talk like they love and hate each other at the same time.”

I nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“I always wondered what it was like to have brothers and sisters. It was just me and my mum growing up, you know? Sharing a one-bedroom flat.”

“I doubt our family squabbles were very idyllic,” I replied. “Or any less crowded. There were six of us stuffed into that house with our grandparents. For a while, Marie, Joni, and I were all in the attic.”

“Why were you there?” Xavier asked. “After your dad died, you didn’t live with your mum?”

I shook my head. “No. Mom was…is…a bit of a mess.”

“What do you mean?”

I bit my lip. It was hard talking about Mama. The older three’s bitterness toward her was much more palpable given the fact that they had all been asked, to varying degrees, to step in when she failed. At fourteen, Matthew had essentially raised all of us with our grandparents. I didn’t think he would ever forgive her for that. Lea and Kate were trying more these days to mend things, but it was slow going.

For us youngers, it was the life without a mother, despite knowing she was alive, that tended to hurt more than the loss of my father. I was only five when the accident happened, so I still remembered my dad. I could see him a lot like Matthew—tall and slim, with dark hair and a daring grin when he was sober and a mean frown and a loud shout when he wasn’t. Joni and Marie didn’t remember him at all, though they did recall begging Mama to stay if and when she visited Nonna’s. We all did. But she always left.

It was even harder to understand that now that I had a child of my own. Leaving Sofia…I couldn’t fathom it.

“She left,” I said shortly. “Right after the accident.”

“Car wreck, right?”

I nodded. “Good memory. Yeah, um. They were both drunk. But Mama was the one driving.”

“And so, what? Your mum just up and leaves her babies after they lose their dad?”

I shrugged. “That’s about the gist of it. Kind of harsh, though.”

A low, long mumble slipped out of Xavier’s throat.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I said not as harsh as abandoning your kids.” He shook his head. “You were better off without her.”

I didn’t know why, but his quick judgment bothered me more than the story itself.

“You don’t know her,” I said. “You have no idea.”

“I know if you’re not prepared to do the hard work of parenting, you shouldn’t become one in the first place,” he said flatly. “Nothing fucks a kid up more than an absent parent. Tell me that’s not true.”

I thought about it and found I couldn’t. I still remembered the confusion. Wondering why she left us with our grandparents. Why she hardly ever visited.

Why we weren’t enough for her to try. To stay. To be better.

Xavier and I stared at each other for a long time, his blue eyes glimmering at my green.

“And you,” he said in a way that made my heart thump above the traffic rushing by the window. “How could anyone in her right mind leave someone like you?”

I swallowed, tears pricking my eyes.

“You did,” I said, though I knew it was unfair. “Maybe you should ask yourself.”

“I was a fucking idiot,” he said solemnly, no sign of jest in his voice or expression.

His lashes dropped, gaze pinned to my mouth. I knew what he wanted. And I couldn’t lie. I wanted it too. I remembered all too well what magic that mouth could create.

But before he could make a move, we were interrupted by the distinct clip-clop of horse hooves coming down the side of the road. A white horse-drawn carriage with red velvet bench seating, the kind that looked like it had rolled right out of a fairy tale.

Xavier examined it with curiosity. “Ahh. I wondered if one of those might show up. You want to go?”

I snorted. “Only tourists use those.”

“I am a tourist. For now, anyway.”

Before I could ask exactly what he meant by that, he slapped a few bills onto the bar, jumped up, and pulled me along with him out of the restaurant. He whistled toward the carriage driver while I pulled my coat back on.

“Oi! Mate! Can we get a lift?”

The carriage stopped, and the driver turned around, wearing a dour expression. “I have to stay in the park limits, south only. I’m on my way home.”

“Perfect. I’m at The Plaza. Hundred do it to take us there?”

The driver looked considerably cheerier. “Hop in.”

“I cannot believe I am doing this,” I said as I followed Xavier to the curb. “I feel like I have to turn in my New Yorker card by default.”

“Then you might as well shut up and enjoy it,” Xavier said.

Before I could offer a retort, he slipped his hands around my waist and lifted me into the carriage like I weighed nothing, then hopped in and settled his big body onto the plush red seat next to me.

“All right?” he asked.

Breathless, I nodded, allowing him to tuck the thick blanket provided in the back around my legs and waist. It felt good, maybe too good, to have someone take care of me like this. Lord, when even was the last time anyone had tucked me into anything?

“All right?” he murmured again once I was settled, though his hands lingered at either side of my waist. Once again, his gaze dropped to my mouth.

My lip caught between my teeth. He had such a nice mouth. Full, but not too full. Wide, but sensitive. Curved to one side with the promise of perfect mischief.

Suddenly I was twenty-three again, begging for a taste. Lord, and it was easy to remember just how delicious he was.

If he kissed me now, I would let him, five years gone or not. Broken heart or not. It had been long, so, so long since I’d last felt anything close to what I’d had with this man. My body ached for it.

Still, a tiny voice inside held me back. The same voice that had appeared the moment I was responsible for the love and care of another human being in the world.

Careful, she said. Don’t move too fast.

As if sensing my reticence, Xavier sat back, sending a waft of his fresh, sharp scent through the air.

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a crook that my body seemed to fit perfectly, then called to the driver.

“All set, mate. Help me take my girl for a ride.”