“How’s that working?” I note his hands are curled around the arms of the leather club chair.

“I’m here, aren’t I? Instead of down there, pissing a circle around her,” he responds drolly.

I could needle him more by talking about how hot she looks in her sparkly dress, which is so short I swear I can see her underwear, but she works for me and that feels vaguely wrong.

“I’m surprised you even let Victoria out of the house after dark.”

“It was either ease up on the chain or face divorce. We compromised with the guard after she was kidnapped off the street.” He nods toward the solidly built man keeping the crowd away from the dancing pair.

“Good call.”

“Thanks. Tiny doesn’t seem to appreciate how much of a sacrifice I made for her.”

I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“If we’re mentioning surprises,” he continues, “I’m surprised there’s nothing here that interests you. You weren’t interested at the game, and you aren’t tonight. I think your reporter girlfriend is down there.” He gestures toward the main bar. I don’t even bother to look.

“We parted ways a few weeks ago.”

“Too clingy?”

“Too nosey.”

“She is a journalist.”

“So I noticed.”

“Tiny’s got a friend,” Ian starts.

“No.” I raise my left hand. “I get that enough from my mother. I don’t need it from my friends.”

“Okay, but don’t say I never warned you. Tiny’s worried about your long hours and thinks that her friend Sarah would be perfect for you.”

Great. I could see I was going to have to avoid Victoria for the next few weeks.

Our conversation changes to the Mets and Yankees and which team is going to disappoint the city the most this year. I stay for one more drink and then use my aching left leg as an excuse to leave.

But I don’t go home. When I get in the car, I head south instead of north, and I find myself in Tribeca, sitting outside a seven-story apartment building watching the third floor for signs of life. I thump myself a few times with my prosthetic because it’s heavier than the skin and bones on my right hand, but it doesn’t have the right effect. No sense is knocked into me. I’m not suddenly free of my growing Natalie obsession. In fact, I don’t leave for a long time, not until after the cop car circles the block a second time.

The lights in Natalie’s apartment never turn on—at least not from my vantage point.

Tomorrow.

She has until tomorrow to call me, because I’m not going to sleep well until I know she’s all right.

CHAPTER TWELVE

NATALIE

I read the note for the umpteenth time. Call me.

Is he even serious? I feel like there’s some hidden message in the seven words on the page. Maybe it’s an anagram for “You’re the craziest loon I’ve ever met. Stay away.”

My mind is sluggish today. Oliver called Dr. Terrance, who ordered me a whole new cocktail of drugs and put off any attempts of mine to go outside for another couple of weeks. After Dr. Terrance chewed me out for opening the door to a stranger, someone he hadn’t met and approved of, Oliver showed up with the new prescriptions and wouldn’t leave until I’d taken my recommended dosage. Poor Oliver. He tries his best to cope with me, not calling Dr. Terrance until the last minute. Even Oliver grapples with Dr. Terrance’s need to vet everyone in my life and every action I take, as evidenced by Oliver hiring Jake without preapproval.

I’m not even sure what my biggest fear is anymore. Is it really breaking down in the middle of the subway or is it never being able to leave my apartment again?

I haven’t written in two days, just sat on the couch or laid on the floor near the French doors, looking outside without the lights on. Last night a dark car slid into a parking space and sat there for a long time. I stared at it, wondering who was inside, wishing it was Jake. But eventually it drove away. Probably a tourist—few people in the city own cars.

I probably should have been freaked out by it, but I was mostly sad it left. I’d felt like there was at least one person in the city still awake other than me.

Daphne has sent me a dozen unhappy emails about my lack of progress on the manuscript. I don’t need her to remind me of my looming, already-missed-once deadline, but my creativity is stifled when I take the drugs.

I can’t write emotion if I don’t feel it.

Call me.

The note is the only thing that interests me and really, what do I have to lose by calling him? He’s already seen me at my dismal worst. If he acts embarrassed and unhappy, I’ll hang up and that will be one more thing I’ve sacrificed at the altar of my anxiety. It’s eaten everything else that is decent and good. Why not Jake?

The phone rings so many times I nearly hang up.

“Tanner here.”

The sharp bite of his tone throws me, but I’ve called and he answered so I might as well plunge ahead.

“Beck here,” I mimic.

“Natalie.” His voice drops into a low, rumbly tenor. Comforting and sexy. I want to wrap myself up in that voice. “How are you doing?”

“Hungry,” I joke. Although it’s not entirely a joke. Now that I think about it, I haven’t eaten anything in a while. I lower the phone from my ear to check the time. Holy crap. I haven’t eaten anything in seven hours. I’ve just sat on my ass staring at the blank wall across from my sofa. “I’m sorry I missed our dinner date. I could be eating Chinese leftovers right now.”

“Maybe I would’ve taken the rest home with me,” he laughingly suggests. “I like leftovers too.”

“I don’t believe you would have. If you bring it to my house, you have to leave it here.”

“Is that a Natalie Beck rule?”

“I think Emily Post says it. If you are visiting, bring lots of food and leave it.”

“I’m taking notes.”

I love talking to him. Love it so much. I could talk to him forever. I stretch out on the sofa and pull a throw over myself. Snuggling down, I pretend he’s in the room and we’re having that date—just two normal people hanging out after dinner. Would he allow me to put my feet in his lap? Some guys are adamantly against feet. My last boyfriend, if I could really call him that, had an anti-foot fetish. He didn’t even like to see toes and was freaked out whenever I’d run my feet along his calf. Suffice it to say, we never played footsie. Not that that was what turned me on, but his aversion to my bare piggies kind of hurt my feelings.

And like I’d turn Jake down if he was anti-foot. I’ve already concluded that he must have some terrible personality trait that has not yet revealed itself to me. Like maybe he has bad personal hygiene and he smells terrible. Maybe he clips his toenails in bed.

Whatever it is, I am down with it. Because he wanted me to call him even after I freaked out about the clown. And it wasn’t just a courtesy gesture, because he could have made an excuse to hang up by now, but instead he’s talking to me, joking about our missed date.

He can have bad breath, leave the toilet seat up, and I’ll buy lots of paper towels to place under his feet. Hell, I’ll give him pedicures.

“I was worried when I didn’t hear from you,” he says softly.

“I’m drugged up,” I admit. “Oliver called Dr. Terrance. He was cursing because he told you to do it and you refused.”