me,” he insisted.
“But I do,” she insisted, too.
“No, you don’t. Couldn’t we be…friends, just because we actually get along?”
Get along? Trench coats and tattoos? Ties and toe-socks? It sounded…impossible.
Or not?
“Maybe,” she answered, then shifted uncomfortably in the vinyl booth. “But I still feel responsible.”
“You can buy breakfast. We’ll call it even. Unless you can’t afford it.”
Edie grinned, grateful for her own financially viable position, none of which was her own doing. Dad called her a shameless loafer. Mom called it ADD. Edie merely considered herself smart. “Dad’s a doc. Money is not a problem.”
“What sort of doc?”
“The ‘I’m bigger than God’ sort of doc.”
“That’s no answer. They’re all like that,” he said seriously, and she laughed, because he seemed to understand.
“People don’t understand why I don’t think he’s the best father ever. He’s charming and funny, and his patients adore him. There are four buildings named after him because apparently three wasn’t enough and—”
“Why don’t you like him?”
Even though her mother understood Edie’s jealousy about the time and attention he gave his patients, she never complained about his long absences from their lives. No, Clarice Higgins was a saint. Unlike Edie, who believed that saints got what they deserved. Usually an early death.
She dismissed her jealous feelings, easy squeezy. “Men don’t get it. It shouldn’t be so hard to do the little things. The human things. The fatherly things that fathers are supposed to do.”
“But what about the good that he does? Doesn’t that make up for it?”
Yes, the eternal justification for endless work hours, skipping out on birthdays, anniversaries, spoken like someone who didn’t have a doc in the family. “Very few people are going to understand because they aren’t the ones shut out. I don’t like being shut out.” She balanced her chin on her palm, needing to change the subject. “What do you do?”
“I’m taking a class.”
“Where?”
“At Columbia.”
She nodded. She could definitely see that, the square-jawed face with the scholarly vibe. “I love to learn. What sort of class?”
“Roman artifacts.”
“Oh, that sounds so cool! Who’s teaching it?”
He frowned, as if trying to pull the name out of his head. Eventually he blurted out, “Dr. Lowenbrow,” looking proud of himself for remembering.
Lowenbrow? Edie checked her encyclopedic memory banks. “I don’t think I know him.”
“It’s a big school.”
“But I’ve taken a lot of classes,” she told him, not wanting to say exactly how many.
“Haven’t found one subject that sticks with you?” he asked, as if she couldn’t be the egghead-student type, which was probably true.
Edie paused, not sure how much she wanted to say. She glanced at his hands, newly washed, almost back to pre-Edie status, and decided that, while she could fool him with her pseudo-intelligentsia facade, it was too early in the morning, and she’d pushed him enough. The truth seemed more appropriate. “I get bored easily.”
“You just haven’t found your passion yet,” he said, nicely defending her as if his current opinion of her wasn’t so awful. She frowned, bothered by the idea that his opinion of her might be awful, and then bothered because she was bothered.
“Life is my passion. If more people cared about people, the world wouldn’t suck quite so much.”
“It takes more than passion to fix things.”
“It helps.”
They talked over breakfast and then she ordered him a strawberry smoothie because Ira, the diner’s cook, made the best smoothies in the world. And no, strawberries wouldn’t make up for what she’d put him through tonight, but he did seem to like the drink.
She noticed as they talked that he was cagey, not prone to personal disclosures unless she specifically asked—which, of course, she did. Tyler Hart was a museum curator, specializing in antiquities. He had one younger brother, Austen, who he wasn’t sure he knew as well as he should. Their mother was technically “missing,” but Tyler assumed that she was dead, but he didn’t know for sure, and he pretended he didn’t care. In her absence, the two boys had been raised in West Texas by their father, who was a mean son of a bitch, and Tyler had been on only two continents, North America and Europe, although he wanted to go to Africa someday.
Edie explained the ins and outs of African safaris, making him chuckle. She watched his eyes crinkle at the corners, noticing the hypnotic swirls of brown and gold, and was that a hint of green? Yes, she thought so. A less self-focused individual would feel guilty about the shadows under said sepia eyes. Or beaten themselves up because there was a slight bloodshot tinge to them. After all, Edie was responsible for the lot, but then he smiled at her, a quick twitch of his mouth, and the last qualms disappeared. Tyler Hart was different from the norm. He was too honorable. He didn’t want to talk about me, me, me. And best of all, he made her feel…well, not quite so much alone. As it was four in the morning that was something of a miracle for Edie.
After Olga had cleared the plates and Edie had signed for the tab, she knew she had to drive him to the Belvedere, and that was when the doldrums descended.
Edie navigated the streets carefully, since he’d already had the full New York Cab Ride From Hell. After she double-parked the cab in front of the hotel, she popped the trunk. At first Edie tried to yank out his suitcase, but the rat wouldn’t let her, and Edie, being somewhat of a closet diva, stood back and allowed him to assert his manliness.
Without thinking, she followed him a couple of steps, watching the easy confidence of his walk. Not tired, she noted, still cruising on cylinders that Edie had long burned out. Yes, he’d had eggs and she’d had pancakes, which only partially explained why a museum curator should be fully functioning after thirty-six hours of no sleep. Frankly it boggled her already-boggled mind, but then he stopped in his tracks. He wanted to pay for the cab ride from hell, which Edie politely declined. Even for Edie, taking a fare for that ride would have been way out of line.
The front of the hotel featured ornately carved gothic wood doors. If you looked closely, you would notice the various mythological creatures in Kama Sutra positions. Tyler seemed to be looking closely, but he didn’t look quite as afraid as she would have expected. Although his museum probably had tons of porn. Those Renaissance types liked their women running naked and free—much like modern man.
She struggled to align museum curator, who saw nudity on a daily professional basis, with the buttoned-up stripper-rejecter that she had dragged around all night. Not that she needed to worry about it much. She wouldn’t see him again because…
Because, she told herself firmly, and then left it at that.
His Windsor knot was now completely loose and he didn’t look nearly so arrogant, nor so lonely, either, she thought, mentally patting herself on the back. Yes, there were grease stains on his shirt, but shirts could be replaced. In fact she’d buy him a new shirt and have it delivered. Something in white. “You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be okay,” he assured her, pulling his gaze from the door, his trench coat hanging competently over his arm.
Dawn was close, but not close enough. The night was still clinging, and Edie was hesitant to leave. “If you need anything, you can call. If you want to know the best place to get a slice, or which