Some Like It Hotter

“By that I mean...” Her eyebrows lifted; the sparkle hadn’t left her eyes. “That I’m fine going out with men who aren’t interested.”

This time he laughed. She might be a crazed stalker, but she was appealing in her own eccentric way, and obviously intelligent. “You’re very determined.”

“Hmm, how funny, Chris says the same about you.”

He barely avoided blushing. “I guess she would.”

“If you want my advice...”

“Not really.”

Eva waggled her finger. “You need to give up on that. She’s not going to change her mind.”

Ames’s jaw tightened. Disappointment and embarrassment that Eva and Chris had obviously been talking about what an annoyance he was.

He’d been so sure about Chris, had pictured her in his future, and it had felt natural and right.

Yeah, well, to hell with that.

“I’m sorry, Ames. I know you...cared for her in some way.”

Her sympathy triggered an outraged testosterone rush. He did not need pity. He was not a pathetic, lovelorn geek who failed in pursuit of women, nor was he a dork who stayed home every night working.

He threw his pen down. “I guess if we’re going, we better get started.”

“Oh, good!” Eva’s face lit up. “I am in a totally adventurous mood. Where shall we go?”

“Greenwich Village,” He answered immediately, hoping he hadn’t just doomed himself to an exhausting and unbearable evening. But Greenwich Village was one of his favorite parts of New York, full of charm and the unexpected. Like Eva. She’d fit in fine there in her wild colors and crazy hair, because nobody didn’t fit in there. And he was unlikely to bump into any important clients—or potential ones—who’d wonder why he was strolling around with a circus clown.

“I’m ready.” She hoisted her pink bag, making her dozen or so bracelets slide and clatter.

He nodded and walked out from behind his desk, stopping to let her precede him to the door.

“Hey. Ames.” She suddenly looked shy, tentative, very different from her usual brassy persona. Almost sweet. Her eyes were very blue, with dark lashes enhanced by mascara but not turned gunky, which seemed to be the style for too many women. Her eyebrows were natural, nicely arched. He could see the resemblance to Chris in the fine shape of her nose and the height of her cheekbones.

“Hey, what?”

“Thanks for doing this.”

Something weird happened in his chest, a buzz of warmth that made him forgive her for interrupting his evening and making him feel like a loser—several times over. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

“Well, but...” She flung her arms out, let them drop in frustration. “That’s half the fun!”

He couldn’t help a grin. “I can still change my mind about going out.”

“You won’t.” She preceded him out of his office. “You’re not the type of man who ever goes back on a promise.”

“Where do you get all these ideas about me?”

“I’m brilliant. By the way, this condo is huge. I swear your balcony is the size of Chris’s entire apartment. You must sell a ton of wine.”

“I do okay.” Trust her to come right out and say it. Kind of refreshing, actually. “My parents bought the condo as an investment. When they retire, they’ll want to move in.”

“I’m not big on luxury. That’s Chris’s thing.” She left his office, walking with surprising grace for someone wearing clump-around boots. “I’m an own-what-you-need kind of girl.”

“Yeah?” He kept his voice neutral. He wasn’t going to defend his choices to someone who wouldn’t understand.

“But it’s easy to be that way in the Central Coast.” She turned to look at him, walking backward for a few steps. “I have mountains and ocean all around. In this city you’d need to create space wherever and however you can.”

“True.” He opened his front door to let her pass through, taken aback. She totally understood. As much as he loved New York, claustrophobia could be a problem. Unoccupied quiet space inspired an immediate ahh of relaxation, no matter where you found it. “After you.”

“Thanks.” She moved past him into the hallway, leaving a fresh, vaguely floral scent in her wake, not sweet, not overpowering.

A great smell, actually.

He locked the door and followed her to the elevator. He could have sped to catch up with her, but there was something mesmerizing about the nicely shaped sway of her pink skirt, the energetic strides of her slender legs in dark gray tights.

What was he thinking? This was crazy stalker Eva, sister of the lost woman of his dreams.

At ground level, Eva greeted Frank as if they were long-lost friends. Ames was astonished to see the generally somber doorman beam and blush, then nod at Ames, as if he approved of his taste in women.

No, no, no. Not this woman. Not ever this woman. Boyce Wines prided itself on its high-class, conservative image. He had clients to entertain; he wanted to be promoted to vice president of sales someday, maybe get into politics. He needed a woman who was— Who looked like— Who came across—

Ugh. Was he really that shallow?

No, not shallow, practical. He had to be honest about his goals and what he was looking for. Nothing wrong with that.

They walked along Forty-Third Street to Eighth Avenue and the Port Authority subway stop. The air was crisp and energizing—fall was Ames’s favorite season. Maybe it was all those years of school, but to him September still felt like a fresh beginning.

The subway took them south to Fourteenth Street. They emerged back onto Eighth Avenue and walked farther south to Bleecker Street, where they turned to start their stroll through the Village.

The longer they walked, the more Ames had to admit he was enjoying himself. The weather was perfect, typical for October—cool but comfortable. Along the streets trees were turning colors and the buildings glowed with dark brick warmth in the fading light.

And Eva’s eagerness was catching. Ames was something of a New York history geek, and this part of town had great stories to tell. He took her down Bedford Street to see a building Walt Disney had lived in, a detour to see the unexpected and peaceful private courtyard between two houses on Grove Street, then back on Bedford for a peek at number 86, a former Prohibition-era speakeasy and favorite hangout for writers that closed in 2007 when the facade crumbled into the street. Farther on, 75½, the narrowest house in New York, a mere nine feet wide.

By the time they strolled over to Washington Square Park, the sun was down, and Ames was getting hungry. Nothing surprising about that—he’d eaten a small lunch on the go several hours earlier. What was surprising was that he didn’t want to ditch Eva and go home to eat. He wanted to keep their evening going.

“Feel like some dinner?”

“Love some.” She put a hand to her flat stomach, causing an avalanche of bracelets to crash at her wrist. “I’m ravenous.”

“You like Middle Eastern food?”

“Passionately!”

“Okay then.” He liked that she answered with such...passion. He liked her enthusiasm for everything. It was easy in this town to become cynical, always in a hurry, to stop looking around and appreciating the small things. If nothing else came out of this bizarre forced date tonight, Eva had reminded him of that, and he was grateful.

He let the way to Mamoun’s Falafel on MacDougal Street, a staggeringly popular place with minimal seating where he’d regularly stopped for late-night eats when he was a student at NYU. They bought falafel sandwiches with hummus and took them to eat on a bench in the park facing the small replica of Paris’s Arc de Triomphe.