Page 59 of The Way We Score

“Oh, shit, of course.” He hustles down the hall, and I follow him into an expansive, stainless-steel kitchen. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” I take the glass and look down, away from his curious gaze.

His penthouse in Midtown Manhattan is absolutely gorgeous. It’s completely furnished, and very masculine, all dark wood and leather.

The living room has an overstuffed, brown leather sofa and chairs with a polished coffee table and a massive flatscreen television. A wall of windows provides a breathtaking view of the city lights.

It’s straight out ofArchitectural Digest, and I’m doing my best to breathe, drink the water, get control.

“Your place is really nice,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder.

“Thanks.” He holds up my tiny bag. “Does this mean you’re only staying one night?”

He actually seems disappointed, which I guess is an encouraging sign.

“I’m not sure.” I return slowly to the kitchen. “I’m kind of playing it by ear.”

“Okay…” His tone is justifiably confused, and he places the bag in a room across from the kitchen. “Ready to get some groceries? There’s a Whole Foods on the corner, and I’m pretty sure they have just about everything.”

“Sure.” I place the glass on the bar, following him to the door. “I can help pay for the groceries.”

“We’ll figure it out later, and don’t worry if you need to pick up anything, extra clothes or whatever. I bet we find anything you need.”

He has no idea.

“Thanks, Garrett.”

His large hand gently holds my upper arm, and I have to fight the urge to lean into him, to wrap my arms around his waist and break down and tell him. But I’ll hold it together a little longer.

The Whole Foods market actually is right on the corner, down the block from his building. It’s decorated for Halloween with corn stalks and pumpkins everywhere. He almost takes my hand a few times as we’re walking, but quickly redirects to guiding me by gentle touches to my arm. It’s a little zip of electricity every time.

A nervous laugh bubbles in my throat when he pulls out the small cart. “Let me push it. You look ridiculous with that tiny thing.”

“I beg your pardon.” He pretends to be offended. “I shop here all the time.”

“I’m sure the workers love it.” I give him a wink, and he straightens to his full height, looking around the relatively empty store.

It’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday, and we’re almost the only people here.

“Shit, now I feel like Shrek.”

I exhale a snort through my nose. “You’re way better looking than that guy.”

He smiles down at me, and a silly heat floods my stomach. This is the better approach, starting as friends. We’ll warm up, have a chat, then I’ll tell him what happened, and we can decide what to do.

My stomach clenches at the thought, but he’s out in front of me loading up the cart. He grabs two Italian sandwiches he says are the best he’s ever had—even better than Central Grocery in New Orleans, which I seriously doubt.

He picks out a bottle of wine, and I’ll have to figure out a way not to have any without raising his suspicions.

Not that my whole appearance here and behavior aren’t suspicious enough.

“They have the best gelato.” He guides me to what looks like an ice-cream counter down from the deli section. “Check it out, they’ve got dark chocolate, pistachio, tiramisu, coconut, melon…”

“What’s your favorite?” I blink up at him, and he shrugs.

“They don’t have cherry, but the dark chocolate and hazelnut are really good together.”

“Sounds good to me!” I grin, and we wait as the server scoops it into medium-sized plastic containers for us.

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