Page 48 of The One Who Won’t Get Away
“The next direct train isn’t until five,” he said.
“Gives me time to get my painting, I guess.”It hadn’t been dry enough to move last night, so I had left it in the studio.
He tapped at the screen, then stopped, fingers hovering.“You sure you’re okay after yesterday?You want to talk, or just...?”
“Just coffee,” I said, a little too fast.“Lots of it.”
He finished booking, then set his phone aside.“Then let’s get moving.”
We packed fast: Nick folded his few clothes with military efficiency, and I jammed my jeans and sweater into my backpack without even pretending to be neat.
Nick offered to carry my bag, but I said no.Then he did it anyway, slinging both duffels over his shoulder as if they were weightless.
At the front desk, the woman behind the counter gave us the kind of smirk that said she knew exactly how we’d spent the night, even though we hadn’t.I flushed, hoping Nick wouldn’t notice.
Outside, the air was colder than I remembered.The sun was up, but the wind bit through my sweater.I hunched my shoulders, and Nick handed me his jacket without a word.
“You’ll freeze,” I protested.
“Trust me, a little cold won’t kill me, but you do need the extra insulation,” he insisted.
I took the jacket, pulled it on, and let the collar cover the red on my face.God, it smelled so good.Why did he have to smell so good?Not fair.
We headed to the same diner we had gone to every morning.I loved having breakfast with Nick.It was such a normal thing to do.
Inside, the place was packed.Locals in ball caps, a pair of old women with identical perms, even the same hungover grad students from yesterday.It was loud, warm, and smelled like the inside of a toaster oven.
Nick led the way to an empty booth, and I slid in and tried to soak up the atmosphere.Something about diners just did it for me.It wasn’t pompous like expensive restaurants, there were signs of thousands of people coming and going, scuffing up tables and floors, but the food was usually good.It was real, with history and all.
A waitress with a nametag reading “FRAN” poured water and coffee before we’d even ordered.
“Two eggs sunny side up, hash, whole wheat toast,” Nick ordered.
I scanned the menu, pretending I needed to.“Pancakes, bacon and orange juice.”I glanced up at the waitress, daring her to judge.
She didn’t.“Good choice, sweetheart.You want butter and syrup?”
“Both,” I said, and she scribbled it down before shuffling off to the kitchen.
When she was gone, Nick turned to me, arms folded on the table.“You really okay?”he asked again, lower this time.
I wanted to lie.I wanted to say, “Never better,” but his eyes were too kind and understanding.“I just feel...full.Like I can’t cram another thing into my head without exploding.”
He nodded.“That’s fair.The last couple of days were a lot.”
When the food came, I went at the pancakes like a wolf, slathering on butter until it melted into yellow puddles.Nick dug into his eggs with the calm of a man who ate the same breakfast every day of his life.
After a while, he said, “You want to do anything before we catch the train?”
I considered.“There’s an art museum a few blocks from here.I saw the sign on the way in.”
His eyebrows arched in surprise.“You want to go?”
“Why not?We still have that studio for today, so we can leave our bags there and grab them and my painting before the train.”I took another bite of pancake.“Besides, I bet you’ve never been to an art museum.”
He grinned.“I actually have.Part of FBI training.Something about cultural literacy and blending in.”
I snorted.“You’re shitting me.”
