Page 8 of Unbossly Manners

I blinked, unprepared for this spitfire of a woman challenging me.

“This is my wife, Katrina—”

“Ex,” the woman interrupted Jackson.

“Right. Ex-wife.” His jaw tensed.

My eyes widened, intrigued. Jackson wore his wedding ring, and his ex-wife’s hands were bare, suggesting it was not a mutual decision.

“I literally ran into Peyton when I got off the elevator,” Jackson continued.

Katrina crossed the room and kissed Jackson on the lips. A quick peck, but Jackson’s eyes lingered on her mouth.

“An amicable divorce. Shocking in this city, right?” Katrina smiled disarmingly. “Call me Kat. I’m a psychologist if you want to unload on me about this bad date. I can send Jackson out of the room.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I was just leaving.”

“Where will you go?” Jackson stepped forward.

An idea struck me.

“There’s a church down the road. They have a shelter I volunteered at once—beds for women in bad situations. I can sleep—”

“Oh, hell no,” Kat piped up. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re not staying at some shelter. Stay at my place. I’m leaving for a month soon anyway. I came by to give Jackson the spare keys.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can.” Kat put her palms out in front of her, stopping any further disagreements.

All the fight left me—exhaustion winning—and when she cradled my elbow and led me out, I let her.

It was already a weird night, why not make it weirder.

“I promise I don’t bite.” Kat jammed her finger into the elevator button. “Except for that phase I went through—”

“Kat,” Jackson cut her off, but he sounded more amused than angry.

“Come on.” Kat put her arm around me. “You can Google us on the way to my place and see if we’re psychos.”

four

Kat’s apartment was located in Nolita—North of Little Italy. The neighborhood had once been full of Italian and Chinese immigrants but was now packed with boutique shops, gourmet markets, and pre-war buildings and old warehouses converted into apartments with skyrocketing rents.

St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral sat in the middle of the neighborhood taking up several city blocks, a tall red brick wall surrounding the church and its expansive yard and cemetery. It was the oldest cathedral in the city.

Kat’s apartment was located two blocks from the church on Elizabeth Street. It was a red brick pre-war building; the apartment was on the top floor.

Kat and I entered into a wide galley kitchen, the ceiling low. When I stepped out of the kitchen, the apartment opened up into the rest of the long space. The ceilings in the main room were two stories high, with large arched windows that took up almost all of the far wall. An army-green mid-century modern sofa was on the right wall, and the other wall was comprised of elaborate dark-gray built-ins, stuffed to the brim with colorful books and quirky accent pieces throughout. Above the kitchen was a large loft.

A bamboo ladder led up to the second story. It wasn’t a typical Manhattan sleeping loft, which was usually just big enough to fit a mattress, with no room to stand. This was a full second story with a white upholstered bedframe, king mattress, dresser, and a small writing desk.

The square footage was small, but it looked professionally decorated by an interior designer. It was straight out of an Architectural Digest on how to make your small space high-end.

“Sit,” Kat said, blunt but gentle.

She pulled out two low-ball glasses, poured whiskey in both, and handed one to me.

The liquid went down smooth, sliding into my bloodstream, and I sank back into the plush sofa cushions. The apartment was comfortable, but I was still not completely at ease. I didn’t know Kat, but her presence was disarming. I willed my shoulders and stomach to unknot and relax.

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