Wynn rose to her feet, her eyes like saucers in her bloodless face. Shooting an accusing glance at Evan, who had craned his neck toward the girl and completely missed it, she folded her arms over her sensitive breasts and took in the scene around her. “You have,” she said, her state the least of her worries, “about thirty seconds to explain, Evan.”
“It’s not what it looks like!” he said. “She’s my intern.”
“Since when does “intern” mean “fuck-toy,” Evan?”
“It’s not like that at all!” he repeated. “She needed somewhere to live, Wynn, and I’ve been sleeping on the couch.”
“You hate that couch,” she said, casting a glance toward the narrow white leather object in question.
“I just couldn’t take how empty the house was without you,” he pleaded, reaching toward her. “Wynn, you have to believe me. I needed company. I have to have someone waiting for me when I get home. Sara couldn’t find a place she could afford on her own. That’s all this is. I swear it.”
“You should’ve gotten a dog instead, Evan,” Wynn said, bending down to retrieve the hobo she’d sat down as she seized the handle of her luggage. “At least a dog would let you sleep on half the bed.”
Back erect, she stalked back out of the brownstone. A taxi took her back to the airport, and thanks to American Express, she was back in the air within two hours. There was no time or privacy for tears, nor, she discovered, no desire to shed them. Men. She didn’t need one. She had everything she wanted.
She’d make her own osso bucco for Thanksgiving, she decided, watching New York’s famous skyline disappear as the plane took off. She’d make her own life. She’d make that call to that lawyer and keep the appointment – right after Thanksgiving. And that other appointment, she thought, guiltily: she still hadn’t made time for her first prenatal visit.
A new start in a new city. That was what she had, and what she needed. Fishing in her bag, she stroked the multicolored wool gently, then began winding it into a ball within her lap. She could recreate herself in this new role, couldn’t she?
Bedraggled, dripping, and beyond exhausted, Wynn dragged her luggage off the elevator and toward her apartment, only to be brought up short by an unexpected sight. Curled on the fake coconut mat, beside the pair of tall green gum-rubber boots she wore to keep the hems of her pantsuits from getting muddied, was a small cream-colored cat. As she approached, it woke, piercing her with a blue eye, then stretched, arching its back. As it turned to her door, planting its paws upon it and scrabbling, it glanced toward her again, and let out an imperious demand. She pushed her key into the lock and twisted the knob, permitting the cat to precede her, but as it took in her demesnes, it turned itself about again and emitted another querulous cry. She arched an eyebrow at it, half amused, and it stalked regally off, its tail held high and quivering in righteous indignation as it patrolled her furniture, pausing to make friends with her (amazingly still alive) lucky bamboo.
From inside her opened door, Wynn watched this procession. That was the only reason the man was able to startle her so badly.
"Beg your pardon," came the deep voice from behind her. "I'm Ryan. I moved to the second floor a few weeks ago. Sultan's mine," he said, as she whirled around to confront a man with sunny blond hair, Nordic features, and eyes as blue as his cat's. "You know, Sultan Pepper," he said, wryly, nodding toward the curious feline, who had leapt to the bar separating kitchen and living area. "Don't blame him for coming back up here, blame me, I guess: he got out when my service came around to tidy and then, you know, he had his fun and um,"went home." Except we moved, eh Sultan?" He brushed past her, swinging her luggage into her apartment with indolent ease.
"Didn't you just leave?" he asked.
"Yeah, I um, surprised my husband. I guess you could say," she said, faking a disconnection she didn't quite feel,"he had a larger surprise. About five four," she said, dryly. "With a better rack."
Ryan winced as she said that, then glanced down, as if she'd given him permission to ogle her chest and compare it to anyone else's. She covered it with one arm, flushing a little. "Forgive me," she said. "Long night. Double red eyes, actually, and all that."
He gathered his squawking pal from her kitchen, and she blushed harder at the mess she'd likely left behind.
Then, she went completely insane.
"Are you all alone this Thanksgiving?" she blurted. "Because I was going to make osso bucco."
"Uhm," he said, looking surprised, as she supposed he well ought. "Yeah. I am. But I can get called in any time. Job stuff, you know," he said, touching the dark rectangle of a smartphone. "But you know what, if there's nothing pressing at Swedish, I'd love to spend the meal with someone. You make osso bucco, and I'll be nice and call out for a salad and pick up some bread?"
"It's criminal negligence if I cook," he said, humor sparkling in his limpid eyes.
"It's a deal," she told him, wondering how she'd managed to lose her mind so quickly and so well. "I'll see you Thursday."
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