Page 19 of The Virgin's Dance
“Again?”
Grace smiled softly at her. “The throwing up, the extra-strength iron tablets on your nightstand? We live together, Boh.” She gently pulled the skin under Boh’s eye down. “Anemia?”
Boh nodded. She should have guessed Grace would find out—she missed nothing.
Grace frowned at her. “How long?”
“A few months. It’s mild, but sometimes …”
“Yeah. Come on. I’ll feed you raw steak and spinach, Popeye.”
She helped Boh to her feet, but Boh hesitated and Grace suddenly smiled. “Unless you have a better offer?”
“Not abetteroffer,” Boh protested, not wanting to hurt her friend’s feelings, but Grace laughed.
“He’s a sweetheart, that’s what I hear,” she said, lowering her voice. “Nelly was singing his praises when I was in her office the other day. Bitch of an ex-wife.”
Boh chuckled. “Yes, I met her last night. She deserves that title.”
“You stayed at his place?”
“His studio, on the couch.” Boh could feel her face flame red, but she also couldn’t hide her smile and Grace chuckled.
“You ready?”
Boh blinked. “For what?”
Grace’s smile was wide. “For the first—and hopefullylast—love of your life?”
Even the sight of her, hair mussed up, no makeup, was like a shot of pure heroin in Pilot’s veins—not that he would know what that felt like—but he couldn’t imagine it would be any better than Boh smiling at him. “Hey, beautiful girl.”
“Hey, handsome.”
He pushed himself away from his car where he’d been leaning and took her in his arms. Boh kissed him, but when she drew away, she swayed a little and he caught her. “You okay?”
“I’m a little dizzy, is all.”
He tucked her into the passenger seat of the car. “Do you need a doctor?”
She smiled at him. “No, I’m fine. Just exhausted.”
Pilot reached out and stroked her face tenderly. “Wanna come home with me? I can cook.”
“You can?”
“Half-Italian, remember?” He grinned as she chuckled, hearing her sigh of happiness. He brushed his lips against hers, then, out of the corner, he saw Kristof, standing outside the building, watching them. Pilot drew away from Boh and gave Kristof a sarcastic salute.
Boh looked around and groaned. “Quick, drive, before he decides I need to rehearse for another three hours.”
“I’d talk him out of it,” Pilot said, his voice even. He saw Kristof finish his cigarette and step toward the car.Nope, asshole.She’s tired, and she’s coming home with me. Tempted to give Kristof the finger, he held back and instead pulled the car away from the curb.
By the time they got back to his apartment, Boh was asleep. Gently lifting her from the car, he carried her to the elevator and into his apartment.
He hesitated before taking her into his bedroom and laying her on the bed, pulling a blanket over her sleeping form, and easing her sneakers off of her feet.
He left her to sleep and went to the kitchen to prepare something for them to eat. His father had been a gastronome, a fact that probably contributed to his early heart attack at 56, but Pilot and his sister Ramona had both spent hours with him in their huge kitchens in their farmhouse in Italy and their mansion in New York State, learning the craft of cookery.
He made gnocchi now, from scratch, rolling the dough as his father taught him.Pa, you would have been proud—and you would have loved Boh.After he’d formed the tiny dough balls, he covered them with a damp cloth to await cooking when Boh woke up.
