Until I'm Yours (10 page)

He turns around and starts to walk away again.

“What did you see?”

I don’t even care anymore that people still mill around us, that they know who I am. I have to know what he saw to make him chase me all over this city when even I know I’m probably not worth his time. He stops walking, standing still facing away from me for a few moments. I wait, wondering if he’ll just keep walking, but finally he turns back around and stalks toward me until he’s standing close enough for me to see the anger has drained away, but I can’t tell what’s left.

“Hunger.” His eyes never leave my face, like he’s searching for glimpses of it again. “An appetite for significance. To feel like you’re contributing something, adding something. I thought I recognized it in you because I remember it in myself. Remember wondering where I fit in all the needs around me.”

I’m not sure how to respond. He’s articulated something that’s been skulking about inside me for months, maybe longer. I’d never put a word to it. Never really given it much thought, but as I look back at the things that mean something to me—the Walsh Foundation, Haven’s charitable partnerships—maybe he’s right, but I’m still not sure. Not of me. Not of him.

I drop my eyes to study the cracks in the sidewalk instead of looking at him, wondering how to crack the wall he’s raised against me.

“But you were wrong?”

He’s so quiet the moments stretch out and open, gaping enough for the sounds of the city to intrude. Everything around me is frenetic, but I’m still while I wait for him to let me know if he was wrong about me. He reaches out to cup my face, lifting my chin, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, his eyes searching mine.

“Was I, Sof?” He steps closer until the width, the height, the breadth of him, blocks out the scene around us. And it’s just us. “Was I wrong?”

I’m not sure how to respond without risking more of myself than I can afford to lose.

“One dinner.” I hold his eyes with mine as long as I can, dropping them before his eyes show triumph or satisfaction.

“When?” His question doesn’t break stride, as if he hasn’t gone through a gamut of emotions to end up right back at the request that started it all.

“Um…I don’t know.” I shrug, catching the eye of a woman staring at me. I smile politely like I don’t realize she recognizes me. “When do you want?”

“How about tonight?” His eyes are still serious, the smile I’ve gotten used to still nowhere in sight. I didn’t realize how much I’d grown to like that smile until it’s nowhere to be found. I want it back, so I say the thing I hope will restore it.

“Sure. Tonight works.”

He doesn’t smile, but leans in and down to kiss my forehead and then to lightly brush his lips over mine. The heat that’s been set to simmer between us flares up in me again, responding to his faintest touch like a nerve sliced open. I’ve had sex in public bathrooms and once, in Milan, almost fell from a balcony screwing, but I’ve rarely felt this exposed. Like I’m standing naked on Fifth Avenue, giving everyone a show. Or worse, showing him more than he should see.

“Seven o’clock then.” He turns around and walks away.

There was no smile. No dimples, no laughter, but I could have sworn in those dark eyes, there was pleasure. It’s a little scary how much pleasing him, knowing he’s not angry with me anymore, pleases me.

I
spent my morning at the UN negotiating diamond mine rights with leaders from the Democratic Republic of Congo, and tonight I’m trying my damnedest to dechoke artichoke hearts. Give me the UN any day. I’m good at that. This? This tiny paring knife and my big ol’ fingers? Give me delicate negotiations over delicate fruit any day.

Are artichokes fruits or vegetables?

I’m still pondering this and life’s other mysteries when Harold and Henri come down the staircase, both dressed for their first date. Henri’s wearing her contacts. Harold’s ditched his glasses, too, but he’s squinting and bumping into the couch. And he’s wearing aftershave. Nerd mating rituals.

“You ready?” Harold squints in Henri’s general direction but is actually talking to a large plant in my sister’s foyer.

He looks calm to the naked eye, but I’ve known him for almost fifteen years. I know a river’s probably running under his armpits. Hope he wore a T-shirt.

“Sure.” Henri frowns. “Actually, let me go grab a wrap.”

She turns and dashes back up the stairs. When Harold comes into the kitchen and nearly breaks his neck stumbling over the trash can, I have to intervene.

“Smith, where are your glasses? You know you can’t see three seconds ahead of you without them.”

“I just thought I’d—”

“Go get them.” I set the artichokes aside, afraid I’ll pare my index finger if I have to focus on the food and Harold at the same time. “Henri’s seen your glasses before, and she still said yes.”

“But I think that—”

“Do you want to face Zimbabwe’s minister of finance with a sprained ankle or worse tomorrow?”

“Of course not. My vision—”

“Is nonexistent. Get your glasses, man.”

Harold squints at me for a few more seconds before slumping his shoulders and turning back to march up the staircase.

“Tell Henri I’ll be right back.”

I’ve never seen Harold this way over anything. Not even his spreadsheets and algorithms. I’m trying again with the artichokes when Henri comes back down, peering through the living room and into the kitchen, brows knit again.

“Where’d Harold go?”

“He forgot his glasses.”

“You convinced him to wear them, huh?” She grins and props a hip against the counter. “Thanks. We probably would have ended up in the ER if he tried to leave this house without those glasses.”

“You just better hope he doesn’t put on more aftershave while he’s up there.”

“You’re evil.” Henri tosses a blueberry from the bowl on the counter at me. I block it so it plops uselessly to the floor.

You could easily be fooled into thinking Henri unremarkable. Button nose, sprinkled with freckles. Narrow chin widening into a heart-shaped face. Shoulder-length hair, not quite dark enough to be brunette, but nowhere near blond. That’s Henri in repose. Henri on a mission, solving a problem, figuring out how to get fresh water into a droughty region or food to a starving village—that’s Henri on fire. The challenge and reward illuminate her face. She all but glows, and that’s what Harold fell hard for.

I have five sisters, so it’s not like I need another one, but Henri feels like number six. She studies me performing open-heart surgery on the artichoke hearts with my tiny knife.

“Gimme that.” She takes the knife and deftly peels away the delicate leaves, tossing them into the bowl of olive oil. “You roasting these?”

“Yeah.” I grind salt and pepper into the mixture. “Oven’s already preheated.”

Henri finishes the task, mixing it all together and tossing it onto the pan. I place the pan in the oven, turning to find Henri studying me a little too closely.

“Special occasion?” Henri grabs another blueberry and pops it into her mouth. “You haven’t cooked once since we’ve been in New York.”

“My mother started a catering business when she retired.” I shrug, hoping she’ll drop it.

“What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China, Bishop?” Henri hops onto one of the leather bar stools at the counter, sharp eyes darting from my dark green shawl collar sweater to the black pants and boots I just shined. “Is someone coming over? Do you have a date?”

I knew I should have ordered in. That wouldn’t have raised Henri’s antennae. She’s a mini pit bull.

“A friend’s coming over for dinner.” I season the steaks I bought from the butcher up the street, not looking up under Henri’s scrutiny.

“This friend wouldn’t happen to be Sofie Baston, would it?”

My hand stops mid-shake, poised over the raw meat, and I finally look back at Henri.

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, Harold said—”

“We should really get going, Henri, don’t you think?” Harold cuts in from the kitchen archway.

“Oh, no. Don’t rush off.” I fold my arms over my chest and cock my head, enjoying Harold’s discomfort. “Hen was just telling me that you said, what exactly, Henrietta?”

Henri’s wide eyes flick between her two bosses.

“Well, just that…” Henri bites her bottom lip. “Just that you…”

“That I…” I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to finish the sentence. “What?”

“That you kind of have a thing for Sofie Baston,” Henrietta says defiantly. “That you like her.”

“Is that a fact, Harold?” I glance at my friend, enjoying seeing him squirm even as I’m irritated by his flapping gums.

“I just said that you, well, that I had never seen you like this about a girl before.”

“This?” I ask. “Like what?”

“Chasing her all over the city and—”

“I did not chase.”

Harold tilts his head, giving me a knowing look.

“Okay, maybe there was a little chasing.” I chuckle just as much at myself as at the face Harold makes.

“I just never pegged you as one of those guys, Trevor.” Henri presses her lips together, something dangerously close to disapproval on her face. “I mean, a supermodel?”

It raises my defenses immediately, as much on my behalf as on Sofie’s.

“You don’t even know her, Hen.”

“Neither do you, Trevor,” Henrietta shoots back.

“You’re right.” I turn to open the oven, checking the artichoke hearts. “Thus dinner.”

“I guess she does have a certain appeal.” Henri looks like she can’t for the life of her understand what it might be.

Harold and I exchange a quick look. A “certain appeal” doesn’t begin to describe what Sofie has, and a red-blooded male in a coma would recognize it. Harold wisely just clears his throat and places a hand at Henrietta’s back.

“Ready?” he asks. “Our reservation is for seven thirty, and I think I heard the car outside.”

“We’re not grabbing a cab?” She smiles sweetly.

“No, I ordered a car for us.”

They grin at each other for a few seconds before heading toward the door.

“Don’t wait up,” Harold yells back to me from the stoop of my sister’s brownstone.

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

I can’t help but smile while I continue the preparations once they’re gone. I know it’s only their first date, but I hope it will turn into more. First, things could get really awkward with Henri being our assistant if things don’t go well. Second, Harold deserves some happiness. He’s sacrificed a lot over the years. We both have, and I’d love to see him enjoy himself a little.

Hell, I’m ready to enjoy myself, too.

I pull a basket of blackberries from the fridge, only to realize I’m missing something very important. I retrieve my cell phone from my pocket, pressing the number I was supposed to call two days ago. I brace for an earful.

“Trevor!” my mother says from the other end. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve been worried.”

“I know. Sorry. Things have been hectic here in New York.”

“So you
are
back?” Her tone chides a little. “I thought you’d call when you got back from Cambodia.”

“Mama, don’t start.” I press the phone between my shoulder and my ear, walking the steaks out to the grill on the patio.

“How are things going with Bennett? You think they’re the right fit?”

Mama’s not who you would expect to be on top of foreign policy and business, but she could probably hold her own in half of my meetings. She’s the main reason I’m
in
those meetings at all. She has been tracking with every step Harold and I have taken with this Deutimus transition.

“Walsh Bennett’s all right.” I place the steaks over the flaming grill. “We’re not ready to make a decision either way.”

“What about the indigenous workers clause? Are they fine with that? You can’t compromise on that, son.”

“Mama, I know.” I chuckle, heading back inside to the kitchen. “We won’t. Look, I didn’t call to talk about Deutimus. I need a recipe.”

A brief silence follows my statement.

“A recipe?” A smile creeps into my mother’s voice. “Well, well, well. So you’re finally putting some of my training to good use. I’ve been worried about you and Harold eating out so much with no woman to take care of you.”

“Henri’s here with us, Mama, but she doesn’t cook much either.”

“Girls these days.” She sighs. “So what recipe can I help you with and why?”

I pause in front of the oven, the last part of her question making me cautious. Using the oven mitt, I pull the artichoke hearts out.

“Remember that black and blue cobbler you make sometimes? You made it last Fourth of July down at the beach house?”

“Oh, yes. That’s a hit. Easy, too. Why do you need it?”

“I wanted to bake it, Mama, of course.”

“Don’t ‘of course’ me, Trevor.” She laughs heartily on the other end. “You haven’t cooked anything in ages, and you call me out of the blue asking about cobbler? On a Wednesday night? Fess up. You’re cooking for someone.”

“Is that a crime?” I grin and toss the artichoke hearts with capers, yellow peppers, red onion, and parsley. “I thought you’d be happy about me making a home-cooked meal.”

“But the question is
why
, son?” Curiosity soaks right through the short silence on the other end of the line. “Is it a girl?”

A girl? Sofie? I’m sure she was a girl once, but it’s hard to think of her in those terms.

“Yeah, it’s a girl, Mama, but don’t make it a big deal, okay?”

“Wait till I tell your sisters.”

So much for it not being a big deal. I’ll have a six-way Skype session with them all before the week is over to discuss this.

“Could you just not?” I check the refrigerator for the vinaigrette I picked up this afternoon.

“Trevor, you haven’t really dated anyone since Fleur, so I—”

“We’re not dating, Mama. It’s dinner. Our first, by the way.”

“But you like her.”

The statement stops me in my tracks. I’ve been in constant motion since I argued with Sofie this morning in the middle of a busy city block. Meetings all day, and then zipping into nearby shops to get things for tonight’s dinner. I haven’t stopped, but that question from my mother stops me. She really wants to know, and I’ve never been less than honest with her.

“Yes, ma’am, I like her a lot.”

Maybe my response is too quiet. Too serious. Something steals Mama’s words for a few seconds at least.

“Well, tell me about her, Trev.”

I get going again, heading out to the patio to check the steaks.

“Nothing to tell, Mama.”

“Is she pretty?”

God, is she.

“Yeah, she’s attractive.”

Understatement.

“And what else? I know you want more than a pretty face, Trevor.”

“She’s smart.” I pull the steaks off, plating them and heading back inside. “She was accepted to Princeton, Sarah Lawrence,
and
UCLA.”

Mama’s all about education. Broke her heart when I dropped out of Princeton.

“Impressive. Pretty and smart. Those are a dime a dozen, though. There must be something that sets her apart considering you haven’t shown much interest in anyone since Fleur.”

Mama loved Fleur, and I broke her heart
again
when I called off our engagement last year.

“She’s…I don’t know. Confident. Honest. Ambitious. Funny.”

Rude. Sarcastic. Vain.

“She sounds sweet.”

I don’t correct my mother, but I’m not sure “sweet” is accurate.

“What’s her name?”

I don’t know what my mother’s heard about Sofie Baston, the supermodel, and I don’t want it to taint what she still has to learn about Sofie, the woman I’m still getting to know myself.

“Uh…Sofie.” I heft generous portions of the grilled artichoke salad onto the plates beside the steaks.

“Sofie. That’s lovely. Maybe you could bring her to Thanksgiving at the beach this year.”

Oh, that’ll happen. Sofie down on Tybee Island with all my sisters, not sure if they should waterboard her or ask for fashion tips. My brother begging her to sign his copy of
Playboy
. Mama asking where she stands on global warming, or some shit. And my father? If he isn’t making sure we remember the actual meaning of the holiday instead of the commemoration of a Pilgrim fantasy, he’d probably be the only normal one of the bunch.

“We’ll see.” I set the plates on the dining room table. “It’s our first date.”

It feels odd to say I’m having a date with Sofie after fighting so hard to make it happen.

“What’s her last name?” Mama is just getting started. “What does she do for a living? I want to know all about her, Trev.”

The doorbell ringing comes just in time.

“She’s here, Mama.” I give the table one quick glance. I’ll light the candles later. “I gotta go.”

“I’ll email the recipe. Check your phone in a li’l bit and call me tomorrow.”

“Busy tomorrow. Call in a few days. Tell Pop I said hi. Gotta go. Love you.”

I disconnect before she finds another way to hold me longer. I open the door to find Sofie on the stoop, looking up at the house number, a small frown etched between her dark blond brows. She looks back to me, confusion evident on her face.

“This is Brooklyn.”

“You know, I’m from out of town,” I say, allowing myself a grin, “but I believe you’re right.”

She holds my stare, making no move to come inside. It gives me a chance to study her right back. She’s scooped her hair into an artfully messy knot behind one ear. Her face is lightly made up, not too heavy, which I like. The flawless texture of her skin isn’t suffocated by a bunch of stuff. The purity of her features is truly remarkable, but I know Henri is wrong to think I’m one of those guys who’s most interested in Sofie’s beautiful casing. This outward shrouding, as beautiful as it is, is easy for her to share. She shares it for a living. It’s all the stuff she wants to hide, wants to keep to herself, that intrigues me.