What Have I Done For Me Lately?. Isabel Sharpe

I don’t mind.”

      “Good. Now tell me.” She lifted her chin in the direction of Now Probably Impatient Blond Woman. “Are you serious about her?”

      “What, Anne didn’t fill you in?”

      She moved her eyes back to his, not that they needed any persuasion to go. “Let’s hear your version.”

      “Okay.” His jaw tightened; she wondered if he was aware of it. “I’m planning on being serious about her, yes.”

      “But you’re not yet?”

      No answer. He just looked at her, and so help her, she felt positively dizzy with excitement. She moved her leg to touch the side of his thigh and this time she was pretty sure neither of them was breathing.

      For a second he didn’t move and she thought he was going to stay and let her be that close to him, and that she’d be hearing from him as soon as he could get away from the blonde. Then he broke eye contact and took an abrupt step back. “I need to get back.”

      “Of course.” Damn.

      “Great to see you, Jenny. Stay well.”

      Well? What was with this “well” stuff? “I never get sick. I told you. And it was great to see you, too, Ryan.”

      She kept the smile on her face while she waved to his date, who had clearly spent the last five minutes imagining Jenny being trampled by elephants.

      George leaned his forearms on the bar. “So what happened? You struck out?”

      “Who, me?” She made a scornful noise and took a big swallow of her drink. “Never.”

      “Then why is he over there and you’re here by yourself?”

      “Maybe because he’s not enough of a pig to ditch her mid-date?”

      George mumbled something, shamefaced. Honestly. Men.

      And yet…

      She frowned and fingered the napkin under her drink. “Something strange about him and her. I’m not sure I know exactly what.”

      “But you’re going to find out?”

      She drained her drink and set down the glass, turned again to look at Ryan, talking politely to his date, looking as detached and calm as he’d looked engaged and intense talking to her.

      “Oh, yes, George. I’m going to find out.”

      HOW SHE WAS CONTINUING to smile and talk normally to Ryan, she had no idea. Christine took another sip of her second Baileys, more than she usually drank but she was gripping herself so tightly emotionally that the alcohol wasn’t affecting her at all.

      Up until an hour ago, her date with Ryan had been perfect. They’d met before the ballet near Lincoln Center for a soup-sandwich-salad kind of meal to tide them over through the performance. They’d chatted easily, and there had been moments when she’d felt their camaraderie was becoming more natural and relaxed. Or at least she hadn’t felt quite so on edge over every word.

      Ryan had talked again of the town he’d grown up in, and mentioned a plan to drive up and look at houses. Then he’d paused, and she’d had an eerie premonition—or maybe just another fantasy—that he was about to ask her to come with him, when the waiter interrupted with food, and the moment was lost in a change of subject. She really, really hoped the topic would come up again, but so far she hadn’t managed to work it back into the conversation.

      The ballet had been wonderful, even if most of its true brilliance was probably lost on her. She still couldn’t get over how the dancers could make every gesture, even a simple wave of a hand, so very beautiful and graceful, how they could jump so high, and land so elegantly.

      Sitting rapt in the audience, she’d managed to touch her shoulder to Ryan’s now and then without making it seem on purpose, and he hadn’t moved away. She had felt so happy, so secure, so sure they were heading forward together on their destined path….