Chapter 20: Arianna
Well, that got him.
I hold the tiny shorts and shirt in my hand. I totally noticed his reaction when I unpacked.
Expectations.
Men are a mess. He begs me to help him. Asks me to do this impossible thing. Then he somehow feels it is a good idea for us to sleep together. I’ve known him all of what — fifteen hours?
But it was an action-packed day, that’s for sure. I’m pretty sure I haven’t spent that much time alone with a man, well, ever.
I shove the outfit back in the bag and take out the baggy cotton pants and T-shirt. The safe choice. I kick off my shoes to change.
But then I think of the time with Dell another way. If you divided those fifteen hours into five three-hour dates over two or three weeks, maybe in some warped relationship time, it would make sense that we’d be sleeping together.
But nope. Being stuck all night in Mr. Hottie Cock’s penthouse isn’t going to change what I want in a sex partner. Besides, Grace is fussy. She has tummy issues, and we have no gas drops. She’s also bound to be feeling unease that she’s someplace new and unfamiliar.
Surely she misses her mother.
There’s a popular theory that even a newborn has a memory. The watery sounds of her mother’s voice from inside the womb, the cadence of her speech, the pattern of her heart. The way her footfalls pace themselves. The creak of the door, then three steps down, and a certain space of time before she sits in her car or at a bus stop.
These are all the memories a fetus might have, and when every familiar sound and movement is wiped out, they know it.
Grace has even more memory than that. The smell of a house. The things they cooked. Real voices. Real sights. Real sounds.
All obliterated when she was left at Dell’s door.
Thinking of this makes me want to rock her again. To never let her go. But instead I head into the bathroom, careful to leave the light out since the door to the nursery is open, and quietly take off my makeup and brush my teeth.
The penthouse is quiet. It’s amazing how silent even a New York apartment can be when you’re at the tippy top of the building. No one’s heavy footsteps above. No barking dog or loud video games on the other side of the wall.
Too high even for the sounds of the city. Traffic. People. Sirens.
So quiet.
I tiptoe into Grace’s room, careful to avoid bumping Dell’s space pod swing. I admit to being wrong about it. It is definitely useful.
I peer into the carriage bed. It takes a moment before my eyes focus in on her in the low light.
She’s asleep on her back, arms thrown wide. She looks absolutely peaceful. Like she belongs here. I don’t know if I even hope for that. Seeing the blocky image of the woman who left her fills me with rage. Who could do that?
I have no doubt Dell’s voracious appetite for women means he has no idea what any of them are capable of. He probably barely remembers their names.
But the baby is fine. I should sleep. My footsteps are silent as I head back through the bathroom. This is a terrific setup for a baby and nanny.
My room is lovely in turquoise and gold. It’s full of handsome details, including an oak inset in the wall with rounded shelves, currently filled with pretty jade statuettes.
The large window has a seat with gold cushions and a set of shelves built in either side, all stocked with books.
I sit there, perusing the reading options, hoping to get a glimpse of Dell’s taste.
They are complete sets of famous series. Lord of the Rings. Hardy Boys. All the Stephanie Plum mysteries. Everything by J. K. Rowling. Even Twilight.
I pick up one of the vampire books to see if Dell has some unexpected reading habits, but the spine is unbroken. In fact, none of the books have ever been opened.
Bought by a decorator to fill space.
I stick the book back on the shelf and look out onto Central Park at night. The street lamps make the trees and paths look eerie. I pull my feet up and hug my knees. What am I doing here?
I glance at my bag and spot the pink tank and shorts. Maybe all my sex-for-love nonsense is just that — nonsense. I’m going to be thirty in a few short years. I can’t wait forever.
I think back on that bulge. He wants me. That’s for sure. He claims he doesn’t have a type. So I guess I fit the bill.
I lean my head against the cool glass. There’s a whole big world out there. I should figure out who I’m supposed to share mine with. I’m settled. My career is set.
My clock is ticking.
Actually, a clock is ticking.
I look around and spot the sound. It’s an old-fashioned tabletop grandfather clock. Its pendulum swings back and forth and back and forth. For a moment, I’m mesmerized.
It’s out of place here, light wood when the rest is dark. The decorator didn’t choose it.
It must actually be Dell’s.
He probably picked it up on one of his travels.
I shift it around so I can see the back. I open a little door and can see all the gears moving. There’s a little gold plate engraved with a name, address, and phone number.
Barclay McDonald’s Clockmaking
5B Adelaide Rd.
Birmingham, Alabama
Wait. Birmingham? Isn’t that where that sports team was, the one on the hat that Dell had stashed?
And isn’t that where Maximillion raced?
That’s too many things to be a coincidence. Dell must be from there. Interesting. He’s a southern boy after all.
I turn the clock back around.
Time for bed. I turn out the light and lie on the bed.
A southern boy without a drawl who has a penthouse in Manhattan.
And imagining him curled over me is the last thing on my mind when I fall asleep.