“It’s a nice place,” I say begrudgingly.
“I can’t believe he’s having trouble moving this place. I wonder if there’s been a crime in the building.” Mom speculates on all the ways that the apartment building may have lost value. “It’s also very cold except for my room, and the bed in your room is far too big. It makes the room look crowded. He should have a stager in.”
“I’ll mention it to him the next time I see him.” When she hangs up, I stare at the phone for a moment. There’s no way I can move out now. Part of me feels elated but that’s the dumb, foolish part of me. The part of me that’s going to not understand when he loses interest. The part of me that will be crying into the pillow for weeks after he’s moved on.
Chapter 17
I’M IN THE MIDST OF patching a tire when “Room at the Top” by Tom Petty starts to play.
“Hello?” I answer tentatively, wiping the residual tar off my fingers. Thank god for Bluetooth headphones.
“Bunny.” Ian’s low baritone slides down my ear and right into my belly.
“Is this call for work or pleasure?”
“Do you spend the entire time brooding on that bike? You should quit and do something else that occupies your quick mind.”
“I don’t have time to brood. I’m too busy trying to avoid the taxicabs who treat bikes as the enemy.” In truth, I daydream. I dream about my mother being cancer free. About having a family. About reading to my own kids. They would be whip-smart and go to Harvard or Princeton, and I’d beam proudly in the crowd when they graduated. They’d be scientists or lawyers or writers. They wouldn’t be me. They wouldn’t be locked into a job that doesn’t require reading or writing skills. I say none of this to Ian.
“Thanks for reassuring me,” he says dryly. “Unfortunately, I can’t be there to watch over you this week. I have to go to Seattle and look over a possible venture. Wearable military tech. What do you think?”
“Would Tony Stark buy it?”
He chuckles. “Should that be my investment measuring stick from now on?”
“I think so. You aren’t as successful as he is. I haven’t seen you in anything but those old cloth suits. So twenty-first century.”
“I’ve already admitted that my sense of fashion is pretty poor and I pay someone to shop for me.”
“Like the lingerie?”
“That is some of the best money I’ve spent.” His voice is husky and the weak and vulnerable part of me responds with a swifter heartbeat and a throb between my legs.
In the background I hear rustling and a pleasant voice indicating that a flight is about to take off. “I need to go, Tiny. I should be back on Friday. I trust you’ll still be at Central Towers when I return?”
“Probably. I can’t move my mom right now.”
“Don’t sound so glum. I have a task for you. Friday night you’ll need to get yourself to the Red Door Spa on Fifth Avenue at seven p.m. Can you make it?"
“Sure, but why?”
“I’ll need you to get properly armored at the Red Door at seven, and I’ll pick you up there at ten to go to your assignment. The Aquarium is,” he pauses, searching for a word, “a shark tank. I want you to be properly armored.”
“Okay. Is this for the project?”
“Yes. I was going to explain it to you this evening, but obviously that’s not possible, and it’s not something I want to do over the phone.” He says something indistinguishable to another person and then returns. “Where are you going next?”
“I have deliveries in midtown and then on the east side. I’m at Tenth and Fifty-Second Street. I’ll be going crosstown because I have a delivery over on Designers’ Way. Probably dropping off fabric samples.”
"Have you considered not doing your messengering job?”
“No,” I say shortly. “Does it embarrass you?”
“It worries me.”
That shuts me up. Only my mother worries about me, and the idea that this bothers Ian touches me in a deep way. I blink rapidly to stave off any physical reaction to his concern. Why am I so hormonal lately? “I’m safe.”
“You told me earlier you spend each moment thinking about how to best avoid an accident. That doesn’t sound like a safe job to me. Do you know that there is an actual New York City government study on bicycle fatalities? Between 1996 and 2005, 225 bicyclists died in crashes."
I don’t have anything to say because my thoughts are caught on the idea that he’s concerned enough to look up statistics about bicycle safety. In fact, I’m certain that if I spoke, I’d start crying—so I remain silent. I don’t even point out that those numbers are from ten years ago.
Ian sighs then and says, "I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“Goodbye,” I manage to croak out, but he’s already gone.
The week crawls by without Ian here to hassle me. He does call, though, more than I expected, and the pleasure I feel just listening to him tell me about his day is worrisome. Each day I wait for the call as if I’m a drug addict and he’s my heroin.
When I arrive at the Red Door on Friday, I’m flushed and sweaty from the day of work and I’m wearing at least an inch of city grime all over my body. Steve is leaning against the Bentley, his arms folded and aviators covering his eyes. He looks like a bodyguard rather than a chauffeur.
“Hey Steve,” I say, wondering if Ian is in the car.
“Hello, sheila,” he says in return. “Can you pop off your wheel?” he nods his head toward my bike. “We need to stick it in the trunk.”
“Right.” I bend over to disengage the quick-release mechanism and hold up the front tire. Steve takes it from my hand and then picks up the frame and easily carries both to the now open trunk.
He closes it with a thud and then, with a little wave goodbye, climbs into the driver’s seat and jets off.
Inside, soft music plays and a woman so slender she makes reeds look fat totters over to me on six-inch heels. “Ms. Corielli?” she inquires. For a moment I don’t know who she’s addressing, and I look over my shoulder to see if there is another lady who walked in behind me. But no, she’s addressing me. I nod and try shaking her hand, but she backs away a little unnerved. Who shakes hands with the receptionist? No one, but I’ve never been in one of these swank spas before. The closest I’ve ever been to a spa is one of the nail salons that populate every city block.