Heartless (7 page)

“Jesus,” I mutter, checking my phone again.

“Got somewhere to be?” A man’s voice buzzes into my ear from behind.

Whipping around, my heart drops to my stomach when I see the Lexington Avenue Asshole.

“You’ve got to me kidding me.”

“I need to know if you’re stalking me.” He slips one hand into the pocket of his dark wash jeans, and the intensity of his stare burns straight through me.

My jaw hangs. “Seriously?”

“I know it was you,” he says, “with the journal on Monday.”

I shrug, frowning. “Yeah? So? Doesn’t mean I’m stalking you.”

“It doesn’t?”

The line finally moves up again.

“You’re everywhere I go,” he says. “It’s a little disconcerting.”

I shove my magazine back into the rack, crossing my arms across my chest. “Who’s to say the feeling isn’t mutual? I had no idea you were going to be at my future brother-in-law’s pizza place Monday night. I had no idea when I agreed to fill in for my friend that you were going to be co-hosting Smack Talk. And how was I to know that you were going to be standing behind me in line at CVS when I just so happened to need a bottle of makeup remover for the client I’m currently working on?”

He glances around. “What client?”

My face pinches. “She’s up the street. Anyway,
almost
feels like you’re the one doing the following.”

“Yeah. I followed you to Smack Talk,” his words are coated in sarcasm.

“Pure coincidence,” I shoot back.

“And the rest isn’t?”

I shrug, taking a step away. “This city’s awfully big for us to be running into each other every five minutes, just saying.”

He drags a hand through his beard, which does a shitty job hiding that smug smirk he’s wearing.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asks, head cocked. “Really quick. Won’t take much time. I just think we need to straighten this out.”

“There’s nothing to straighten out,” I say. “Just stop following me.”

His chin dips to his chest, and he drags his hand through his dark hair before locking eyes with me. His are a vibrant shade of aquamarine, and they briefly distract and disarm me.

“Five minutes,” he says. “I just need to know you’re not a crazy stalker.”

Sighing, I look him up and down. “Fine. Because I need to know the same thing.”

The line moves ahead again, and suddenly I’m next. The group of people a couple spots in front of me must have all been together, thank God.

“Good. Meet me at Gilberto’s. It’s on the corner, two blocks north,” he says.

“I have to finish up a job,” I say. “Give me half an hour.”

“Next,” the checker calls.

I turn away from Ace, though I still feel his eyes on me, his stare weighted and unapologetic. Placing my bottle of makeup remover on the counter, I pull out my wallet and complete the transaction, forgoing a bag and receipt.

Dashing up the street, I return to Helena’s and fix her up. By the time I’m back, her hair is already swept up into a modern French twist, and she’s wearing that sexy little black number she so desperately plied herself out of not long ago.

When we’re done, she glances out the window where a Yellow Cab waits below.

“There’s my ride.” She sucks in a long breath, smoothing her hand down her sides. Her mouth pulls into a wide smile. “Too fake?”

I laugh, nodding. “Just a little.”

She takes it down a notch.

“Just right,” I say, packing up my things. Checking the time on my phone, I see I’ve got ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet Ace. “Good luck with Brad tonight. Remember what we talked about. If you get too nervous, just fake it ‘til you make it.”

Helena strides my way, stepping into sexy stilettos that lengthen her legs even more. Moving toward me, she wraps her arms around me, and I breathe in her sultry sandalwood perfume.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Gathering my things, I head toward some place called Gilberto’s, and as my heart beats wildly in my chest for some reason unknown, I realize I might have to take my own advice tonight.

A
ce

M
y knuckles rap
against a chipped wooden table in the back room of my buddy’s bar. Clear glass rests atop a myriad of beer bottle caps in every color and brand imaginable. Aidy should be here any minute, but I went straight here from the pharmacy, wanting to grab a drink before she made her appearance.

“Need anything?” Gilberto pops his head into the private back room.

I glance down at my beer, my second for the night, and look back at him. “I’m good.”

“All right. I’ll send her back when I see her.” Gil disappears, and I check my phone. She should be here any minute, and I’m torn between feeling her out to see if she’s truly an obsessed fan or coming right out and accusing her of stalking me.

I’ve had stalkers in the past.

I’ve had women mail me their panties or offer me hundreds of thousands of dollars for my sperm. I’ve had women, whom I’d never slept with, accuse me of fathering their children and attempting to pursue court-ordered paternity tests. The worst was when a deranged fan broke into my apartment during a series of away games. She lived at my place for days at a time, each time I was gone, using my soap and shampoo, wearing my clothes, sleeping in my bed. It wasn’t until I came home earlier than expected that I finally caught her. I’ll never forget the sick knot I had in the pit of my stomach when one of my neighbors told me my girlfriend was upstairs and that he never knew I had a thing for girls like
that
.

“That” meaning completely off-her-rocker insane.

That
one did some time for stalking, and ever since, I’ve been particularly weary of my most loyal female fans.

Minutes pass, and I sense a new energy enter the room. Glancing up, I spot Aidy in the doorway, looking exactly like she did a half hour ago. Her blonde hair is wavy and bushy, parted on the side and tucked behind one ear. A loose tank top strap hangs off her shoulder and she takes the seat across from me.

She’s not sitting next to me.

That’s a good sign.

Resting her makeup case on the seat beside her, she folds her hands on the table and stares straight ahead. It’s like I’m in the principal’s office.

“So?” she asks. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Chuffing, I slip my fingers down the slick exterior of my beer stein and point my gaze in her direction.

“Really?” I ask. “We’re going to start out like that?”

“Why? Did you want to buy me a drink first?” she asks. “No offense, but I’m not exactly in the habit of accepting drinks from crazy strangers.”

My jaw slacks, and I’m more amused than offended. “I’d hardly call us strangers at this point. This is what, five times in three days now?”

“You’re keeping track.” Her blue eyes brighten in the dim space we share, and she fights a smile. “And you’re counting Monday, with the journal.”

“So you admit it was you.”

“I never denied it,” her stare holds mine, refusing to let go, “if you want to get technical.”

“Excuse me.” Gil stands in the doorway, looking at Aidy. “May I get you something to drink?”

Her tongue gently grazes her lower lip, and she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her left ear. “Yes, please. Tito’s and cranberry.”

“You’ve got it.” Gil shuffles away, and Aidy smirks, hiding her smile behind a sheet of golden hair.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just find all of this hard to believe. I chase you away from my apartment two days ago, and now I’m running into you everywhere I go. There are almost two million people in this borough. This just doesn’t happen.”

Her hand splays across her chest, and for some insane reason I steal a glimpse at her ring finger, which is free from any sort of obnoxious metal and diamond bling.

“You don’t think I’m freaking out too?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” I peer down my nose at her. “You seem awfully calm about all of this.”

Her mouth pulls up in one corner. “I’m pretty calm about most things, but you wouldn’t know that because we’re still strangers, you see. If and when I freak out, I don’t do it in front of my stalkers. I feel like they’d enjoy it too much.”

“Jesus. How many stalkers have you had?”

“Just one. Summer after high school graduation.” She shrugs.

Gil swings by, dropping a cardboard coaster in front of her and placing a cocktail glass on top of it.

“Thank you,” she says to him with the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. When her eyes snap back to mine, her smile fades. “What about you? Do you ever get stalkers or do you prefer to do the stalking?”

Smirking, I drag my hand across my mouth. Her cherry lips part just enough to welcome in a small sip of her drink, and she doesn’t so much as flinch when it goes down, which says a lot because Gilberto’s is notorious for strong drinks.

Gripping the glass with the tips of her fingers, she returns it to the coaster and tilts her head.

“I feel like I’ve been here almost ten minutes now and we’ve accomplished absolutely nothing,” she says, checking the dainty gold watch on her left wrist. “We can either sit here and continue to pretend we’re not gawking at each other from across the table, or we can–”

“I am not
gawking
.” My brows furrow and I sit back in my seat. “I don’t gawk.”

“Fine. Ogling.”

“I don’t
ogle
either.”

“Checking out,” she says. “Do you check people out?”

“Who says I’m checking you out? Maybe I’m trying to figure you out,” I say.

“Figure me out?” She releases a belly laugh and covers her mouth with her hand. “That’s cute. Now you’re trying to pick me up.”

“What? No.” I frown. This is not going well. Somewhere along the line this train derailed, and I’m not sure it’ll ever get back on track.

She takes another sip, glancing through the doorway as the bar begins to fill with regulars. “All right. Whatever you say. You must look at everyone that way.”

“What way?”

Turning back to face me, she lifts her brows and points at me. “All intense and brooding. Like you’re thinking really, really hard. And every so often your stare lingers here,” she points to the hint of cleavage rising from her top, “or here” she drags her fingertips across her lips, “or here.” Aidy traces her bare shoulder, pulling the strap up. “You’re bold, Ace. And you’re lucky I’m slightly flattered, as messed up as that is.”

“I apologize.” Clearing my throat, I straighten my shoulders. “Had no idea I was . . . looking at you like that.”

She sits back, eyes squinting like she’s trying to gauge the authenticity of my apology.

“I didn’t bring you here to hit on you,” I say.

Her arms fold. “I know. You brought me here to accuse me of following you, which is the staunch polar opposite of hitting on me, and I believe we established that about ten minutes ago.”

Aidy’s gaze falls to my jaw, drops to my shoulder, and then traces the outline of my biceps before settling on my folded hands.

“So you’re a pitcher?” she asks.

“Was,” I say. “
Was
a pitcher.”

“I don’t watch sports.” She swats her hand before reaching for her glass. Lifting it to her full lips, she takes a small sip. Her drink remains mostly full, and I have to give her credit for that. Nothing about Aidy is insecure or nervous, and if the circumstances were different . . .

“You don’t watch
any
sports?” I ask.

She juts her lips forward and shakes her head. “Went to a Yankees game once. It was okay. The beer and hotdogs were good.”

Chuckling, I take another swig of my beer and find a rare hint of a half-smile fixed to my face as I look at her. Fortunately, the beard hides most of it. I’ve never met a woman as simultaneously endearing and sexy and unapologetically genuine as Aidy. She’s not trying to impress me. She’s not pounding drink after drink. Hell, she’s not even trying to seduce me despite the fact that the blouse she’s wearing doesn’t seem to want to stay put.

I think it’s safe to say Aidy Kincaid is officially not a stalker.

I exhale, nonchalantly watching her from across the table as she gazes at the throng of patrons outside the door. Everything about her is smooth and confident, from the way she moves to the way she breathes.

My blood warms, and a sleepy feeling settles in. It’s going to be an early morning tomorrow with a seven o’clock call time. Something tells me I could sit here all night shooting the shit with this spitfire paradox, but I can’t show up tomorrow morning with beer on my breath and bags under my eyes.

“Anyway.” I slap my hand on the table before pushing to stand up.

“Oh.” Aidy glances up, her blue eyes round and curious. “So we’re done here? I take it you’re confident I’m no longer a threat to your personal safety?”

I lift a brow. “I believe so, yes. How about you? You feeling good about this?”

She slinks a small yellow purse across her body and hoists her makeup case onto the table, exhaling. “Yeah. I think so.”

We move toward the doorway, and for a moment I consider offering to help her carry her makeup case, but the last thing I need is some genius with a smartphone snapping a picture of me carrying makeup through a bar. Knowing my luck, a picture like that would go viral in under twenty-four hours. Besides, I don’t think Aidy would accept my help anyway.

The moment we step outside, we’re wrapped in a blanket of cool evening air. Aidy stands a couple feet away from me, but the first thing I notice is the way the top of her head fits neatly beneath my chin.

“I just want you to know,” she says, pulling in a long breath, “everything this week, it truly was coincidence. Honest to God. At least on my end.”

I shove my hands in my pockets.

We stand, eyes locked, bodies aligned, for what feels like an endless minute.

“Oh, shoot.” She lightly drags her foot across the pavement, making a scuffing noise. “I forgot to pay for my drink.”

I wave her off. “My buddy owns this place. The drinks were free.”

She wears a concerned expression. “Are you sure? I can run back in and pay . . .”

“Yeah, no. You’re good.”

Aidy exhales, her shoulders rising and falling. “And before I go, I want you to know that journal I found? I really did find it on your doorstep. I read most of it, and then I felt guilty because it was so personal and it didn’t belong to me, so that’s why I was trying to return it.”

I shake my head, shrugging. “People leave things on my doorstep all the time.”

She licks her full lips, her head tilting as she stares up at me. The moonlight illuminates her blonde hair and makes her blue eyes shimmer. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see her again after tonight.

“Anyway, it was very interesting meeting you this week, Ace. If I never see you again, I hope . . . everything . . . works out for you.” she says, her hand gripping the strap of her purse as her lips pull into a sleepy smile. As she turns to leave, she winks, as if to say we’re good now, and I stand, hands in my pocket, watching as she disappears past a group of well-dressed Upper East siders.

There’s a damp density in the air tonight, like it’s going to rain soon. The leaves on a nearby maple tree rustle, and I turn to head home. Alone. Wondering what would’ve happened had we stayed a while longer.

Maybe nothing.

Guess I’ll never know.