by Ruthie Knox
“I can leave a message at the general store tomorrow. They’ve got a bulletin board for that. But I told them I was coming up, so I doubt they’ll be looking for messages before the afternoon, because—”
She glanced at his face and faltered.
What was it now?
Ben did a mental check and realized he’d probably been glaring at her. Not on purpose—it was just that he didn’t like the idea of her family leaving her behind with no way of contacting them. Even if that wasn’t quite what had happened.
Get a grip, Hausman.
He rearranged his face along more neutral lines, and May gave him a faint smile.
“There’s probably some way for me to get in touch with them,” she said. “I guess I could send somebody from the store to drive up there. But I’d feel funny doing that. It would put them to an awful lot of trouble.”
“You’ve got to have a friend you can call.” Hell, he was a jerk, and Sandy had taken most of their friends in the divorce—with good reason—but even he had people he could call in a pinch.
“Yeah, only their numbers are all in my phone. I could get them online.”
“My phone doesn’t have Internet, but I can find you a computer.”
“That would be great. If I borrow a credit card number, I can reserve a hotel room online, and I still have some money on my MetroCard to get to the hotel and check in.”
“You’ve got a MetroCard?”
“I had the card and five bucks for train fare on the PATH to New Jersey in my back pocket when the guy took my purse.”
“Well, that’s something.”
She smiled. “It bought me a beer.”
He thought about her afternoon. Walking out on her boyfriend, getting robbed, heading to a bar and spending her last five bucks, then firing up a conversation with him.
Looked like she really didn’t want to go back to Thor’s place.
“You know, hotels aren’t going to let you check in without ID or the actual credit card.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Yeah, I guess not.”
“But they’ll let somebody else pay the bill for you, usually, if you get the person to call them and deal with whatever paperwork is involved.”
“I guess that could work, too. As long as I can get one of my friends on the phone.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, so that’s a start. What about tomorrow, though? You going to be able to get to Wisconsin?”
Her head dipped again, and she took a delicate bite from the bottom of the Popsicle.
“I’m not sure. I have to sort out the whole ID situation. I’m sure there’s an airline website that will tell me what I have to do. Some government office that can issue a temporary ID, or something?”
Ben thought it unlikely over Labor Day weekend, but he didn’t burst her bubble. She could figure it out on the computer.
Would she come back to his place to use his laptop if he asked, or would that suggestion just scare the crap out of her?
One way to find out.
“I’ve got two ideas.”
She licked the Popsicle stick clean. Heat rushed to his groin, and he shifted in his seat. For fuck’s sake. She had to lick the stick?
He piled all the taco plates onto the tray and carried it to the counter, needing a few seconds to gather his wits. It figured that his libido would crash the party right when he was starting to think he might have some skill at this white-knight business.
When he returned, he must have still looked pissed, because she’d gone round-eyed and silent again. He reclaimed his seat and took a deep, calming breath. “Okay, so two ideas.”
She nodded.
“One, you can come back to my place. I have a computer and a wifi connection. You can hang out and use them until you get yourself sorted for the night.”
Her shoulders tensed, and she folded her hands in her lap. Jumpy as a new cook on the line, and about three times as likely to break something or burn herself.
“Breathe, woman,” he said. “I told you I had two ideas. The second one is I can take you to this restaurant I know in the Village, and we can use the computer in the office.”
She released a breath.
Good.
Definitely good. So why was he methodically breaking his Popsicle stick into fragments so small, he could use them as toothpicks?
He dropped the shards on the table.
“That would be … I think I’d feel more comfortable that way.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Not because I don’t trust you. Just because I’d hate to impose. You’ve already done so much for me, and I’m sure you have …”
… a slave woman tied to your bed.
… a broadax by the door that you use to slaughter visitors.
Out of nowhere, Ben chuckled, struck by how strange the situation was. Why should he care that she was so afraid of him when she knew nothing—literally nothing—about him?
“I’m thirty-two,” he blurted out.
When a line appeared between her eyebrows, he clarified, “Not forty-five.”
I used to co-own a successful restaurant. I wrote a cookbook that someone in your family probably bought, with my ex-wife’s name on it in great big letters and mine buried somewhere on an inside page.
I have plenty of money, and I’ve never taken advantage of a woman in my life. I’d keep you safe as houses, May-Belle, and I’d cook you a breakfast that made those big brown eyes roll right back into your head.
But he didn’t say any of that. He hadn’t completely lost his mind.
“I’m twenty-six,” she said, with one of those polite smiles that made him itchy. The smile didn’t match her laugh. It made him want to see what she looked like when she really smiled. Made him want to pin her to a bed and tickle her mercilessly until she was breathless and laughing, completely out of control.
Strange thought. The woman did something to him. He needed to keep a lid on it, or she’d get even more jumpy than she already was.
“What do you do anyway?” he asked. “You have a job?”
“Not right now. I haven’t found anything in New Jersey yet.”
“You said you used to work for the Packers.”
“Yeah, in merchandising. My background is graphic design. The woman who does the ordering shows me what they have that’s new, and I come up with a theme and the copy, pick the colors, fonts, graphics, layout, and all that.”
“Marketing, huh?”
“What’s wrong with marketing?”
“Nothing. I just think the world would be better off without it.”
Wrong thing to say, if the return of her sour mouth was any indication.
Though Ben had to admit, he liked the sour mouth. He’d like it even better if she said what she thought when she made it instead of clamming up on him.
He stood. “Let’s get out of here. The tacos are great, but the ambience could use some help. I think this other place I’m taking you to is more your speed.”
CHAPTER SIX
The restaurant occupied a low, unassuming brick building on a corner in the Village. It was called “Figs,” and it was packed, with a crowd at the door that suggested it would stay that way.
“Keep close,” Ben told her. He sliced neatly through the assembly toward the empty hostess stand. By the time they stepped in front of the couple who obviously had first position to speak to the hostess when she got back, May was mortified.
“Ben,” she said in a low voice. “We can’t cut in front of all these people.”
He turned, his face suddenly much closer than she’d been ready for. “Why not?”
“They were here first.”
“Yeah, and if they could do what we’re doing, they would in a heartbeat.” He greeted the hostess with a casual “How’s it going, Sadie?” and then spotted a short, harried-looking Asian woman over her shoulder and hailed her. The woman, who had just burst through the kitchen door at the back of the restaurant,
came straight to the front, beaming.
“Ben!”
“Hey, Cecily. You got a minute?”
“For you? Always. You need a table?”
“Nah, we just ate.”
“How insulting. Where did you go?”
“That place with the steak tacos.”
“Lucky duck. What do you need?”
“Can we borrow the office? I need the computer.”
“Absolutely. Come on back.”
The restaurant was airy, with country-farm tables and a scarred wood floor that looked like Old Europe and must have cost a zillion dollars. May felt the eyes of everyone in the entryway boring into her back as they moved past table after table of elegant New York. She wished she were wearing something halfway decent.
They hung a left at the kitchen door and arrived at a tiny closet of an office, where Cecily sat down at the computer and typed in a password while Ben leaned over her shoulder and May remained in the doorway, afraid to go in because she wasn’t sure how they’d ever all maneuver in there, much less get back out.
Ben and Cecily continued a conversation they’d been conducting as they walked—something about someone named Sam, who’d apparently been in the hospital, and also bags of manure were involved. May wasn’t entirely following.
“I’ll sort it out. Thanks for covering this week, by the way,” Cecily said. “I don’t think I ever got a chance to say so, in all the craziness, but I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.”
“No problem,” Ben replied. “You need me to help out over the weekend?”
“Nah, it’s fine now that Perry’s back. I think I’ll probably have Sam in my hair again by Monday. She’s going stir-crazy, and between you and me, her badgering is wearing me down.”
“All right. Well, just let me know.”
“Oh, come to think of it, can you take a look at the dishwasher? Ricky’s having to send the dishes through twice to get them clean, and nobody seems to know how to fix it but you.”
Ben’s mouth quirked. His amused expression. “You’ll have to pay me more if you want me fixing the dishwasher. It’s harder than washing them.”
So he was a dishwasher? Huh. May would have thought he did something more … well, something more. Could you even make a living in New York as a dishwasher?
“Minimum wage for you, buddy,” Cecily said.
Ben flipped her off.
At least he seemed secure in his employment.
“You going to introduce your date?”
“This is May,” he said. “I picked her up at Pulvermacher’s.”
Oh lovely.
Cecily stood and extended her hand with a friendly smile. “Good to meet you, May.”
May smiled back and tried not to shake Cecily’s hand too vigorously. May’s handshake had the ability to frighten the unsuspecting; she had to keep it on a leash. “You, too.”
Ben slid into the seat Cecily had vacated and fired up a web browser. “Here you go.” He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket and set it on the desk on top of a pile of papers, then rose. “I’ll be in the kitchen a few minutes if you need me.”
“Sounds good.”
“And I need to get back to the salt mines,” Cecily said. “Holler if I can do anything else, okay?”
“Sure,” Ben said.
May turned sideways to let Cecily leave the office. Then she scooted a few steps into the room and found herself in an awkward dance with Ben as they tried to figure out how to pass each other. Finally, he grabbed her by the hips and held her still as he moved by.
“Back in a bit.”
And then he was gone, and she had to stand there and breathe for a while, because his grip had triggered a land mine of heat between her legs, and being so close to his mouth, to his breath …
Holy, holy, holy cow.
She unlocked her knees, and her wobbly legs dropped her into the chair like a zapped bovine in the kill chute.
Could she chalk this up to stress? She felt as though she were fourteen again, riding home from school packed into the back of a too small car, perched on Ryan Van Den Haven’s lap when she first felt that quick, slippery pulse of heat and thought, What is going on here, exactly?
May wasn’t fourteen anymore. She knew what was going on. She was lusting after a dishwasher. She shook her head and turned her attention to more pressing problems.
Ten minutes later, she’d gotten the numbers she wanted and left phone messages for three friends. No one had answered, which made her wonder if they were together—at a movie or a bar, or kicking off the long weekend grilling in someone’s backyard. She hadn’t thought to ask Ben his phone number, so she said she’d email it to them.
May scanned through her inbox, but just the thought of dealing with any of the worried Are you OK?!?! messages from friends and family members made her feel ill. Retrieving Ben’s phone from the desk, she poked around it until she found his number in the settings, then typed a quick email.
Ben returned as she was searching for hotels. He seemed more intense than he’d been when he left the room—keyed up in a way that made her uncomfortable. Something had happened in the kitchen, maybe. Something that made him angry?
He plunked down a large plate covered in what looked like cold cuts and cheese, plus a bunch of things she didn’t recognize.
“We just ate,” she said.
“I know that.”
His tone of voice made her bite her lip.
He laced his hands behind his head, elbows sticking out to the sides, and released a long exhale. “Sorry. Being in there during the service gets me worked up.” He dropped his hands and rolled his shoulders. “Not your fault,” he said. “I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“Uh, thanks?”
That made him smile. He leaned against the wall and pointed at the plate. “That’s just in case your tongue gets bored.”
“What is it?” She peered at the food.
She opted not to peer too close at the tongue comment.
“Bunch of different kinds of pecorino, chestnuts, a fig jam Sam does that’s insane, bunch of summer sausages.” He pointed to a small white bowl. “Best honey in the world, right there.”
“Maybe in a few minutes. Did you fix the dishwasher?”
“Sure. I’m a wizard with those things.” To her surprise, he gave her a cocky little smile she couldn’t bring herself to interpret.
Surely Ben wasn’t flirting with her.
Right?
“Nice of you to help out. When you’re off the clock, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Cecily’s an old friend. I owe her. Plus, she lets me use the kitchen when it’s quiet.”
“Use the kitchen for what?”
This produced a quizzical look. “To cook.”
“Doesn’t your apartment have a kitchen?”
“Yeah, but I like this one better.”
Was there something between Ben and Cecily? May had thought the mysterious Sam might be Cecily’s boyfriend—and then her girlfriend, when Cecily revealed that Sam was a “she”—but if Ben was over here all the time using the kitchen when he had a perfectly functional one at his apartment …
… it is completely none of your business.
She fired up her default travel site and started looking for last-minute hotel deals while Ben picked at the food on the plate, smearing a tarlike substance on top of a piece of cheese.
After a few minutes’ searching, she clicked back over to her email. Still nothing from her friends, and the rooms were a lot more pricey than she’d counted on. She hated the thought of putting three hundred and fifty bucks on one of her friends’ credit cards—and that was only for starters. She’d need food, and then in Green Bay she had the rental car to get … although with no driver’s license, that was probably out. She’d have to ask someone to pick her up.
It was all so daunting, and she felt guilty for making it this way. She could walk out of the restaurant and take the subway back to Dan’s
apartment. She just didn’t want to.
A sigh escaped her.
Knock it off, May. Ben will think you’re not grateful.
“Bad news?”
“Expensive news. I guess I have to get used to the idea of spending three hundred bucks for clean sheets.”
“Yeah, New York is a bitch that way.” Ben picked a piece of cheese up with his fingers. “Try this.”
“What is it?”
“A soft pecorino, hardly aged at all.” He spread some of the tar-paste-stuff on it with a tiny spoon. “Really mild. Try it with the fig jam.”
May wanted to tell him she couldn’t eat another bite, but then she lifted her eyes to his face and saw that this was his way of helping.
Their fingers brushed when she took the small slab of cheese. She placed it on her tongue.
The bite was sweet and tart, rich and granular. It was fourteen flavors at once, none of them quite distinct. The sound she made was like a moan crossed with a growl.
“What is that?” she said after she swallowed.
“Sam’s rosemary fig jam.”
“It’s obscene.”
His mouth hitched into a smirk. “I talked her into naming the restaurant after it.”
“They should seriously consider naming the State of New York after it.”
That made him grin, which made May feel like she’d managed to accomplish something after all.
He picked out another kind of cheese and a thin slice of sausage. “This one’s smoky. Try it with the honey on top.”
She let him put it directly into her mouth, and then she had to concentrate all her attention on not making any more noises. It was quite a feat, with the taste of smoky meat and rich cheese in her mouth, sharing space with herb-flavored sweetness and Ben’s salty fingertip.
Just the tiniest bit of fingertip, and just the tiniest flick of her tongue over it. Surely an accident on both their parts.
“Hey, May?” His voice was lower than it had been earlier, rumbly and almost as delicious as what he was feeding her.
“Yeah?”
“Come home with me.”
She chewed. Because the food was delicious. Not because Sensible May was rolling around the floor of her brain, tussling with Hedonistic May, who wanted more food and more low-Ben-voice and more fingertips in her mouth.
