Chapter Eighteen

October 14

New York City

D ate number ten was a bust. Fidel was an architect recently fired after an altercation with his boss. Clara guessed from the way Fidel treated the waiter and the Uber driver that the termination was justified. Regardless, the perceived injustice was still raw, and Fidel had spent the entire meal ranting about his former colleagues. After the main course, Clara had asked for the bill—her offer to pay was met with an unappreciative nod.

Clara had the driver drop Fidel first—she declined his offer to come in for a drink. She was alone when the car pulled up to her apartment. After thanking the driver, she got out and blew a frustrated sigh. With her luck, Fidel would be the guy who called for a second date.

A breeze rustled the small trees at even intervals along the sidewalk. With the wind came the familiar prickle. Clara glanced across the street. Music drifted from the bar. A group of college guys were huddled in a circle, laughing. Frustrated with her recurring paranoia, she climbed the steps and fished her keys from her tote. As she felt around the bottom of the cavernous bag, Clara looked over her shoulder and reexamined the dark street.

That’s when she saw him. A broad-shouldered man slipped from the shadows of a darkened entry next to the bar and proceeded down the block at a leisurely pace. He wore a tight gray T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. With a flick of his fingers, he shot a cigarette into the street.

She didn’t recognize him, but she knew him. It was the walk. It was the aura of confidence.

Clara scrambled down the steps and ran to the opposite sidewalk. “Hey!”

He was at the corner, and Clara sensed his hesitation. It would be easy for the guy to bolt. But he didn’t. With a resigned drop of his shoulder, Miles Buchanan turned to face her.

The lid on her temper was being pelted by the boiling water beneath. She opened her mouth to release a torrent of French curses when Miles held up both hands. “I can explain.”

Her closed-mouth scream had the college guys and the bouncer looking over. Before a confrontation could arise, Miles ushered Clara across the street with a hand at the small of her back.

As they climbed the steps to her building, Miles spoke into her ear. “You were about to yell at me in French, weren’t you?”

“The words coming out of my mouth shouldn’t concern you nearly as much as the knife coming out of my purse.”

“Before you start filling me with holes, let me just say it’s not what it looks like.”

“Really? Because it looks like you’re lurking outside my apartment whenever I’m out on a date.” Clara’s gaze bounced from one chocolate-brown iris to the other. “Oh, my God! You’re scaring them off.”

Miles quirked a lopsided grin that, in any other situation, would have been devastatingly charming. “Okay, then it’s exactly what it looks like.”

The string of French curses finally made an appearance.

Miles leaned close and growled in her ear, “Swear at me inside, Bluebird. People are staring.”

When she finally pushed him away, it was with the point of the switchblade in her hand. “Interfere again, and I will change the octave of your voice.”

He lifted both hands in a surrender gesture. “It was only to protect you.”

Clara poked him with the tip of the knife. “Bullshit.”

“Put that away, and let me explain.”

She folded the blade into the handle. “Start talking.”

S hit.

Miles looked beyond her, and Clara turned and followed his gaze. A mother and daughter were approaching, arguing about something, but stopped when they noticed them.

“Clara?”

She poked her head around Miles’s back, gripping his T-shirt at the sides. “Hi, Tasha.”

The woman scanned Miles from head to toe as he shifted Clara to his side. “Hey, honey. Everything okay?”

The girl, who looked to be about thirteen, stepped forward and said, “Clara, can you please tell my mom that four-inch heels are normal?”

The mother was shaking her head from behind.

Clara smiled. “Totally normal height. But they’re so uncomfortable you end up taking them off at a dance or a party, and the whole look fails. If I’m going to be on my feet all night, I go with a super chic kitten heel.”

“What’s a kitten heel?” she asked with interest.

Miles nearly laughed. Clara had steered the girl so cleverly.

“What size are you?”

“Seven,” the girl replied.

“Oh, my God, Layla, come over after school tomorrow. You can shoe-shop in my closet. I have a silver pair that would look so cute on you.”

“Yes?” The girl, Layla, gave her mother a pleading look.

“I think that’s a great idea.” The mother mouthed thank you , and Clara winked.

“Well, we are off to bed. Layla has to be at school early tomorrow. Are you coming up?”

The woman may as well have asked Clara to solve a complex equation. They needed to talk, but inviting him up in front of her neighbors and friends had her hesitating.

Miles offered a solution. “I’d be happy to fix that leaky faucet you mentioned.”

Clara played along. “Right. Yes, that would be great.”

“Well, come on then.” The mother ushered them through the door and into the elevator, then pushed the button for their floor.

Miles was a big guy but knew how to appear disarming and unintimidating. He stood in the back of the car with his hands in his pockets. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clara’s neighbor mouth date number two and give a thumbs up. Miles pulled his lips inward and stared at the lit numbers above the door.

On their floor, the woman waved goodbye and steered Layla to the right. Clara pulled Miles to the left.

It appeared the other apartment took up the back two-thirds of the floor while Clara’s ran along the front. Miles had never been inside her place. Clara, on the other hand, not only knew where he really lived but had broken in several times to play some childish prank.

She shoved her key in the lock. “Leaky faucet, huh?”

Miles said, “Your neighbor showed amazing restraint, not making a joke about your pipes.”

“I’m sure she’s saving it for later.”

Clara opened the door and walked in, but Miles paused on the threshold, momentarily surprised.

Clara Gautreau was chic and sophisticated—an art lover raised by a man who spared no expense for her happiness. Miles hated to admit how often he had imagined Clara’s home as he lay awake at night tormented. He pictured a stylish, decorated flat with obscure but valuable art and elegant furnishings.

This was not that.

If he had been abducted and his kidnapper had pulled the hood from his head, Miles would have thought he was in a country cottage. Even at night, the space seemed sunny. The inviting couch was a yellow floral pattern and sat atop bleached hardwood. The rustic coffee table held school books, a laptop, and—much to his dismay—a cereal bowl with a spoon resting in an inch of old milk.

She had chosen landscapes to decorate the walls, except over the fireplace where an abstract of children’s handprints had pride of place. Curious, Miles stepped closer.

“Layla—the girl in the elevator—her class made it in second grade. I saw it in a box of stuff her mom was moving down to their storage unit and asked if I could have it.”

Miles huffed at his lack of expertise. She could have told him it was a priceless work by some trending artist, and he would have believed it. He stared at the mish-mash of tiny, brightly colored hands and swallowed the inexplicable lump in his throat. When he turned, Clara was standing at the kitchen island holding two glasses of wine.

She held out one. “Sacrament before confession.”

He crossed the room and accepted the offering. Miles wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but he was sure he needed a drink.

Clara led him to the living room and indicated he take the sage green easy chair, also known as the hot seat. Before he complied, he set his glass down and picked up the dirty dish she had left on the table.

“You’ll get mice,” he said as he took the bowl to the kitchen and rinsed it.

“I have a mouse. His name is Oscar.” She tilted her head to the corner where a saucer held a cube of cheese and cracker bits.

Miles dropped the dish into the sink with a clank. “That’s disgusting.”

“No, it’s not. He’s adorable.”

“It’s unsanitary.”

“Psh. He pops by from time to time for a snack. It’s not like he’s colonizing the place.”

“Yet.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m being ridiculous?”

“And you’re stalling.”

C lara couldn’t help but admire Miles’s big hands as they washed out her cereal bowl. The entire dish fit in his palm. He was a rare combination of graceful and masculine. His biceps bulged beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. His forearms were tan with just a dusting of hair. How could arms be so sexy?

She forced her attention to her chardonnay and took a healthy swig. When she looked up from her place on the couch, Miles was in the armchair. He slotted the stem of the glass between his third and fourth fingers and cupped the bowl.

“Have I mentioned that Reynard asked me to look out for you?” he asked.

“It must have slipped your mind.”

“When I relocated to New York, your father was happy someone he trusted would be near you. He worries.”

“I know.” Clara’s chest tightened. She didn’t want Reynard to lose sleep over her safety, but at the same time, she had to live her life.

“Reynard knew you wouldn’t accept a bodyguard, but he couldn’t live without protecting you. He thought my presence was a good compromise.”

“And how did that work? I can’t imagine Papa ordering you to accompany me on dates.”

“That wasn’t what I was doing. Exactly.”

“Oh? And what were you doing? Exactly?”

Miles took a drink, then replied unapologetically, “Scaring them off.”

Clara shot to her feet. “Oh, my God. Miles! I’ve had nine, no, ten first dates and zero second dates. Are you telling me that’s because of you?” She ran a hand up and down, gesturing to his body. “You pulled some macho biker bullshit and threatened them.”

Something about her outburst seemed to please him, and he sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Not always a biker. Sometimes I’m a wise guy. With that hipster musician, I was your drug dealer ex.”

“Miles!”

“Oh,” He chuckled. “With the first guy, I was your stalker.”

“Method acting, I see.”

He set his wine glass on the table and rose to his full height. Even with the coffee table between them, he still dominated her.

“They weren’t worthy of you, Clara. That guy tonight? Did you know he trashed his office when they fired him? And the poet two weeks ago? He has a fucking record! Assault, drunk and disorderly; the guy’s a criminal.”

Clara watched Miles as he spoke. He didn’t shout, but this was without question the most animated she had ever seen him. The guy had the emotional range of a tree trunk. Clara was French. She was passionate. Just yesterday, she yelled at a man who refused to give up his subway seat to a pregnant woman. Things affected her. Miles, on the other hand, had a distance to his interactions that bordered on callous.

“Not one of them deserved a second date with you.”

For so long, she had imagined Miles as this robot—ever since the one word that burned her heart to a cinder when she was a starry-eyed teen.

“I could fall in love with you.”

“Don’t.”

Clara had comforted her tattered heart by picturing gears and wires beneath his skin. But this, this hint of lava beneath the glacier, birthed a dreaded hope. His vehemence was blowing on an ember she thought she had doused.

As if sensing her reaction, Miles stopped speaking, retook his seat, and finished the wine in one gulp.

His cool demeanor restored, he said, “I was simply doing what Reynard asked. If I overstepped, I apologize.”

Clara mirrored his movements, sitting and finishing her drink. “Well, you certainly committed to the assignment. How did you ever find the time to stalk me in your busy life of covering up scandals and fucking prostitutes.”

Her remark got no reaction. Miles replied, “I managed.”

“And will you stop?”

“No.”

She didn’t bother to analyze why his answer pleased her. Instead, she gathered their empty glasses and took them to the kitchen. “It’s late.”

Miles stood and walked to the door. He tugged on the safety chain and examined the deadbolt. Clara stood behind him, watching as he inspected her locks. He turned to speak, then seemed to rethink and left without a word.

Clara turned back to her empty apartment. She hated admitting she had wanted a moment —some parting words from him to tell her she mattered. She released a frustrated growl. Why, after all this time, was she still clinging to false hope?

Looking up at the handprint painting, Clara realized the hope wasn’t for her; it was for Miles. Because as cold and distant as he appeared, she saw the sadness behind his eyes, and that, more than any rejection or disappointment, broke her heart.

After refilling her wine glass, Clara returned to her cozy couch, her body humming like a plucked guitar string. Why was she so consumed by that frustrating, aggravating man? With chardonnay and lust heating her blood, Clara got an idea, a terrible, sensational idea. If Miles was going to prevent her from finding a man, he left her no alternative.

He did owe her a favor, after all.