Emmy answers right away like she was holding the phone. "He-hello?"

"Emmy, it's Trystan." I wince at the obviousness of my greeting and clear my throat. "Did you find the place you're staying?"

"Oh, yes. I did. Thank you," she adds after a pause as if it pained her to thank me.

"That's why I called." I clear my throat again. "Well, a few reasons actually."

"Oh?" she replies then stays silent. It's a technique I know well. I've perfected it in boardrooms—staying quiet while others fill the silence and hang themselves with their ill-timed words.

Maybe it's the picture on her dating profile, or maybe I'm emotionally drained from the day, but I'm suddenly nervous.

I take a breath. "Yeah. I wanted to apologize for how I was on the phone earlier. It was, uh, a bad time, not that it's any excuse. Clearly it was a bad time for you too."

"It was."

"Well, like I said. No excuse."

"And second? You said two reasons." I thought of her profile. Be real, I hate bullshit.

"Oh, right. Well firstly, do you accept my apology?"

"Did you apologize?"

"Didn't I?"

"You said you wanted to apologize."

I grin then purse my lips. "Precision of language. Okay, I apologize about the way I snapped at you on the phone when you called to ask for help."

"I accept your apology," she says. I don't know her, but I think I detect a smile in her tone.

"Great. Thank you, so what's the place like? You didn't sound too sure about it when you called."

"I wasn't. It looks like a derelict housing project from the outside, but surprisingly, though small, it's clean and modern inside. Cozy, almost. It's only for two nights."

"Right. So we need to figure out how to switch our phones back. I was supposed to fly back tonight or tomorrow at the latest. Now, I'm not so sure. I might still be here when you get back."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Planter's Inn? Do you know it?"

She whistles. "Nice."

"I need a recommendation for dinner. Just me," I tack on for no reason. "Close. I'm starving."

"The hotel has a restaurant, The Peninsula Grill, which is one of the top-rated restaurants in the city. I'd kill for their duck right now. You probably won't get a table, and the bar is small, but maybe they'll do room service."

"Awesome." I stand and head to my laptop so I can pull up their menu. "When will you be back?"

"I wish I could come back early, but I don't think I can change my flight."

"Why early?" I ask absently as I scan the menu

"Oh, uh, there's some things I need to take care of, and I can't do them without my phone and a computer, you know?"

"Yeah. I have my laptop, but I must say this whole phone swap thing has thrown me for a loop. Crazy how much we depend on them. Or how much I do. I'm in one of the biggest business deals of my life, and people can't get hold of me except by email."

"Is that why you get so many phone calls and texts?" she asks with a laugh in her tone. "From women?"

"You noticed that," I say sheepishly.

"Kind of hard not to. I'll be setting the Do Not Disturb later so I can get some sleep."

The duck on the menu does look amazing.

"Hey, can you hold on?" I ask. "Or," I scratch my chin, working my fingers over the end of a day’s beard growth, "can I call you back in a few minutes."

"Uh, sure."

"Be right back," I say and hang up. I dial the hotel restaurant and order the duck and a bottle of red wine.

Then I lean back in the desk chair, prop my feet on the work surface, and call Emmy back.

"Hey," she says breathlessly.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I just went to see if it was still raining. Spoiler, it is."

"I just ordered the duck on your recommendation, it better be good."

"Oh, it is. You lucky beast. But best enjoyed with a glass of red wine."

"Ordered that too. What are you having?" I may not be able to distract myself with a date, so Emmy was going to have to play stand-in.

"Oh. Well, there's nothing nearby, and it's pouring rain. I went across the street earlier and got a banana and some nuts."

"Oh God. Now I feel bad." I laugh. "At least buy yourself a sandwich or pastry, surely they had something more substantial?"

"I can't eat gluten, so sandwiches are out I'm afraid."

I make a dramatic shocked sound. "No sandwiches? Bloody hell. What about a hamburger? You can't eat a hamburger? Stop. What is this horror?"

She laughs, a trickle of honey over the phone. "Well, some places do very good gluten-free buns, so I still get to enjoy them. And I eat my weight in fries." She groans. "Oh man. Now I'm starving. I'd kill for a burger."

"I'm guessing that's your favorite meal?"

"Hmm," she hums. "I don't have a favorite. That just happens to be what I'm craving."

"Everyone has a favorite."

"Not me. So tell me how a Suit Monkey living in New York with family slash not-friends in Charleston has some vague British accent going on?"

Her question stops me mid type in my search for burger places with gluten-free options that deliver in Far Rockaway, New York. "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

She snorts. "I told you about my gluten-free buns, that's pretty personal."

I laugh, and I hear her inhale lightly.

Pursing my lips, I continue my search, zeroing in on a place that looks perfect.

"True." I stall as I pick the toppings I think she'll like but request them on the side just in case. "So my mother fell in love with an Englishman who was in Charleston on business. He was in shipping or something. She got knocked up, and in true uptight Southern tradition was cast out. Followed him home."

"Wait, your family kicked her out?" Her voice lowers. "How old was she?"

I type in Emmy's address and pay for the burger plus gratuity. I tell myself it's simply an act of charity for someone who won't eat otherwise. I have the means, so why not? What's she asking? Oh, my mother. "She was nineteen, I think."

"Wow, I'm so sorry."

"Old enough to know better."

"Young enough to be taken advantage of by some British guy who should have kept his raincoat on, you mean?" She volleys the question back to me, and it occurs to me I might have been harboring some anger at my mother all this time, when it was my father who should have known better.

"I guess." I frown. "Kept his raincoat on?"

"Suited up? Used a pro . . . phyl . . . actic?" she enunciates. "A condom."

My mouth twists in amusement. "Yes, he should have. Must keep the general in combat uniform at all times."

"You call him the general?"

"God, stop it. It's fine for you to joke, but not me?"

"So you don't call him the general? That's a shame."

"What is it about you? We've discussed my mother and my penis, topics I don't believe there is a person alive with whom I would have this discussion."

There's a pause where I imagine her shrugging. "Maybe because we're strangers forced together under strange circumstances which gives us a level of intimacy but who have no judgments or preconceived notions about each other?"

"Ding, ding, ding, I beg to differ on the judgments. I believe you called me a . . . wait, let me find the exact wording, you put it in writing, ahh, here it is: a spoiled, suit-wearing monkey."

"Ah yes, I guess that's true. Well, you called me a mess. And a hippie chick. Why was that by the way?"

"The hot mess part?”

“You didn’t say hot mess, you just said mess. Totally different connotation.”

“I meant to say hot mess,” I admit. Why not? “Case in point, thousands of unread emails, picking up the wrong phone etc. etc."

"You—"

"I know, I know. Apparently that was my fault. The hippie part? The long hair and long flowy skirt, I guess. I don't really know."

"I always like to be comfortable when I travel."

"So you don't normally wear long flowy clothes?" I ask and then think of the fitted black top that could have been the top of a cocktail dress in her dating profile.

"Depends on my mood. I have to wear skirt suits at work, so I like to be in anything but when I get off."

My mind immediately goes where it shouldn't, and I press my lips tight to keep from reacting.

"Work, I mean," she adds, only confirming she went there too. "When I get off work. God."

"Of course," I deadpan, though it almost kills me. "I normally like to get out of my suit when I get off too."

"Stop it," she growls, and my smile spreads wider.

I cough. "So, what do you do that puts you in suits every day?"

"I work for an agency that does restaurant marketing. I could probably work from home, and work in jeans, but my boss is a sexist pig who likes the women at the office to show their legs and thinks sending us out to restaurants with our legs and figures on display will win us all the business."

She sounds sincere, and resigned. "Does it?" I ask because I'm curious, and she makes a sound of disgust like I should have sympathized with her and called her boss an asshole. He is, but I'm curious about her tone.

"Honestly, while there are some real assholes, most of my clients are female, gay, happily married, or all three. I could walk into a pitch in a bustier and high heels and we wouldn't win more work. I win because I'm really good at what I do."

The visual hits me in the gut, and blood rushes south. I'm not sure if I effectively cover up the breath I take, but there's a knock at the door right at the moment. "Room service," a voice calls.

"My duck is here, be right back." I don't wait for her to answer.

The waiter wheels a cart, dressed in a white linen tablecloth past me, across the wide plank walnut floors to the other side of the room by the windows.

"Thank you," I tell him, expecting him to leave so I can get back on the phone, but he reaches under the tablecloth and flips up a side, turning the cart into a table, then he rights a silver candle stick and lights the candle from a lighter he slips out of a pocket. Then he picks up the wine bottle and holds it out for me to inspect.

"Fine," I mutter with a nod. "Thank you. I can do it."

He continues on and cuts the foil, winds the corkscrew in, and pulls it with a flourish. He turns an upside-down wine glass onto its base, pours a small serving and looks at me expectantly. Ugh. I start forward impatiently. Swirling it once or twice I do the requisite sniff and sip. "Fine. Thank you."

He nods, then pours a glass, and finally whips off the cover of the plate. The aroma of roast meat, herbs, spices, and caramelized fruit wafts up, and my mouth waters. The waiter hands me a check, which I sign and add in a tip. Then he bows and takes his leave.

Finally.

I grab the phone, only to see it's off. Battery must have died. Emmy probably thinks I hung up on her. Damn. I plug it in. Her battery is for shit, I just charged it when I checked in a few hours ago.

I pull the desk chair to the temporary table and put the napkin on my lap. I stare at the delicious looking meal. In all the dinners I've had alone in my life, though I try to avoid them, I don't remember feeling this alone. Weird. I take a sip of the red wine. I chalk it up to the day I had where I had to face a family I'd rather forget I had. And not having my normal distractions around me. And then talking with Emmy. I enjoyed it, sure. But part of me feels stripped down. Like I lost something. I don't like it. It makes me nervous. The phone makes a sound that tells me it has turned back on. But I make no move to get it.

I think of her getting her burger, and I feel ill. Like I've done something I shouldn't. Laid expectations. I just bought her dinner. If we'd stayed on the phone, it would have felt like a date. As it is, the sheer fact that she'll be eating a meal I bought her while knowing I'm eating mine at the same time makes me feel like a line of intimacy has been irrevocably crossed. And if there's one rule I've had that has kept me in good stead, it's to avoid intimacy at all costs.

The duck is amazing. She was right about that. Her phone buzzes with a text, and another and another. I don't touch it or look at it. It never rings. And then it's quiet for the rest of the night. I pull my laptop back out and work till I can't keep my eyes open, then sleep solidly for six hours.

When I wake up, habit makes me pick up the phone.

Emmy: Are you alive? Did the room service waiter kill you?

Emmy: Did the duck kill you?

Emmy: Oh my God, you ordered me a burger! Thank you. Although I almost didn't answer the door.

Emmy: Thank you. Truly. I can't think of anything more I needed right at this moment. Here's a pic. You may have noticed if you've been nosy in my photos that I like to take pictures of food.

*PICTURE OF A BURGER*

Emmy: I'm guessing my phone died. But that's not why you didn't call back, is it? I have something to say. I'll email it.

I immediately open my laptop and go to my email.

To: Tmontgomery

From: Tmontgomery

Subject: Phone

I'm guessing you feel a bit like me right now; awkward about how weird it is that we were talking on the phone like that. I understand why you didn't call back. So just know, I consider the burger payment for the outstanding dinner recommendation I gave you. Nothing more. Now we're even. But it was a spectacular burger so here's a link to a breakfast place you'll love, and they make the best coffee and squeeze their own orange juice. Just turn left out of the hotel, walk three blocks, then left down the cobblestone alley. You'll see it on the right with the blue awning. Tell Armand I sent you, if you like. That earns me a free cappuccino every now and again. When you get a chance let me know the address of a place I can drop off your phone before I leave New York. Otherwise I'll drop it off at the front desk of the Planter's Inn when I get home to Charleston tomorrow evening. I hope you enjoy your stay in my spectacular city. It's a very special place. Maybe it's time to get to know your family. Thank you for agreeing to this phone swap rather than cancelling your phone. I apologize that it was so inconvenient, but know that the alternative would have been even more painful for me. So thank you. Again. It was nice to almost get to know a handsome stranger.

Regards,

Emmaline Angelique Dubois

I close the email without responding. I feel slightly ill.

Then I find myself staring blankly at the screen for a few moments. There's too much to process in the email. The biggest point I get is that I'm being politely brushed off. "You're hot, but not for me, before it gets weirder let's just . . . not."

Knowing I'm usually the one doing the brushing off, being on the receiving end pisses me off. I saw an Apple Store on my way to the hotel yesterday. I could easily walk in, and this could be over. But that would be callous to leave her without a phone. And I may not get close to people, but I'm never callous. Fuck, why am I still thinking about this? Shaking myself from her email, I scan through my inbox.

An email from Mr. Ravenel says the meeting at the law offices is confirmed for ten a.m. I don't like this pulling of the strings my grandfather is doing. It's dramatic and ridiculous. An email from Dorothy has an attachment. Here's all the public information I could find about Montgomery Homes & Facilities and an estimated valuation. I open the document and scan through until I reach the bottom line of the net profits and do a double take. Holy shit, the old man had been busy. I'm surprised Isabel hasn't tried to see me already. Then I see an email from her.

To: Tmontgomery

From: [email protected]monthomesandfacdotcom

Subject: Your grandfather

Trystan

I apologize for my less than warm reception yesterday. It was an emotional day and a shock to see you. You have your mother's eyes, you know. I was wondering if there'd be a chance to pop by and see you, say for breakfast? Beau told me you are staying at the Planter's. I'll meet you in the salon at eight am.

Until then,

Isabel Montgomery

I check my watch. It's seven. No way in hell I'm seeing her. This isn't running away, I'm simply not ready. I take a shower, throw on my jeans, a button-down, and my brown boots, grab my phone and laptop, and I'm out the door in fifteen minutes and out the hotel a minute after that.