I was unfocused all day. There wasn’t much that could distract me from my work, but the anticipation of tonight’s date – and what might come after – had my mind wandering. It also reminded me how long it had been since I’d been on an actual date, one that didn’t feel like I was just going through the motions. The women I usually hooked up with were fairly easy to read – a trait I had purposefully sought out. We both knew what we wanted – a good time, which usually meant an expensive dinner and a couple of orgasms afterwards. It was an arrangement that was simple and effective. And enjoyable.

This felt different. Libby had specifically requested a casual dinner, and I was surprised by how much I appreciated that. It wasn’t that I was self-conscious about my wealth – I had worked damn hard to get to where I was – but it was nice that Libby didn’t seem to care. Just one more thing to like about her.

Now I just had to find a place where we could have that casual dinner.

Apparently my distraction was noticeable because after my third meeting of the day, Mrs. Reynolds came into my office with my coat and briefcase.

“I’m sending you home,” she told me.

I gave her a look – one that would have terrified most of my employees – but Mrs. Reynolds didn’t even flinch.

“It’s one o’clock,” I informed her. “My afternoon is booked.”

“I’ve rescheduled everything,” she said. “You need the afternoon off. To prepare for your, er, meeting.”

That was the trouble with hiring someone as intuitive and observant as Mrs. Reynolds. She saw everything.

I leaned back and crossed my arms.

“Are you going to tell me that it’s a bad idea?” I asked her.

She wasn’t my mother, but as far as parental figures went, she was pretty damn close. I trusted her and her judgement.

“You’re a grown man,” she informed me, as if I didn’t know. “I know you’ll make the right decision.”

“I appreciate the cryptic advice,” I said dryly.

“You know what’s at stake,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

She didn’t have to say it out loud – we both knew she was talking about Ella. There were few people I trusted with knowledge of my daughter, but I had never hesitated to tell Mrs. Reynolds. She understood and was as fiercely protective as I was.

“I know how to keep that part of my life separate,” I reminded her.

She nodded. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I didn’t understand.

She came over and patted my hand. “You can’t keep parts of yourself closed off from people you care about.”

“I don’t,” I objected. Everyone that was important to me – everyone that I trusted – knew about Ella. She was only a secret when she needed to be. For her own good.

“You didn’t,” she countered.

This conversation was getting far more confusing by the minute.

“Go home,” Mrs. Reynolds put my briefcase down next to my desk. “You deserve the afternoon off.”

It was nice to leave the office in the middle of the day, but I didn’t go home. For the most part, I avoided my apartment unless Ella was there. It was too quiet without my daughter, which is why I tended to spend as much time as I could at the office, or the factory, or my third favorite place in New York – Tom’s Bike Shop.

Mac was covered in grease when I arrived, but that was the way it always was. He put down his tools and wiped his hand on a rag before coming over to greet me.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he noted, as I grabbed a pair of coveralls.

“Been busy,” I told him, and then headed into the bathroom to change.

When all else failed, I could always clear my head by working with my hands – especially on some complicated engine, which is what Mac specialized in. There was always something that needed tinkering with, and since Mac was even pickier about his employee than I was, he always seemed to be short staffed.

“What do you have for me?” I asked when I came out of the bathroom, ready to work.

Mac looked around the shop slowly before smiling. “I’ve got a 1959 Bonnie,” he told me, pointing.

I took a look at the nearly pristine vintage Triumph Bonneville and let out a whistle.

“That’s a sweet little bike,” I said, already itching to get my hands on it. “What’s the problem?”

“Weak spark,” Mac threw me a rag. “I’ve got a feeling it’s the pickup coil, but you’re welcome to it if you want.”

I knew that Mrs. Reynolds would never understand why I would leave the office to work on something else – something I wasn’t even going to be paid for – but people who didn’t love bikes, or fixing bikes, or fixing things in general, never really understood how calming that kind of work could be. How relaxing I found it.

Crouching down next to the bike, I peered at the pickup coil.

“How’s the release coming?” Mac was standing behind me. “When does my custom Celero arrive?”

“When you go to the dealership and buy yourself one,” I joked.

As my oldest friend and first investor, Mac got a prototype of everything I made, which meant he had a garage full of fucking nice cars and bikes. He was also probably the one person on the earth that appreciated them in the same way that I did.

“I thought I’d get a test drive first,” he shot back with a smile.

“Name the day,” I told him.

“I’m free tonight,” he said.

“Not tonight,” I fiddled with the bike’s gauge.

“Is Ella staying with you?” he asked.

I should have said yes. It was the one answer that wouldn’t have merited further questioning, but I never lied to Mac. There was too much history between us to keep secrets from each other.

“I’ve got a date,” I confessed.

“A date?” His eyebrows went up. “A real date?”

“Yep.”

I had never called my nights out with other women ‘dates.’ In fact, I was pretty sure the last real date I had been on had been with my ex-wife, Jennifer. I pushed that realization from my mind. The last thing I wanted was to draw a comparison between Libby and Jennifer, even though I could already see Mac doing the same.

“It’s not a big deal,” I told him.

“Sure.” But he didn’t sound convinced at all.

This was different. Libby and Jennifer were different. I was different. I had been in college when Jennifer and I met, and sure, I had been initially draw to Jennifer’s looks, but it had been pretty clear from the beginning that Jennifer and I were not good as a couple.

The problem was that my ex-wife and I were too similar. We were both ambitious and driven, and that didn’t always lend itself to a healthy relationship. We were both stubborn and inflexible. We liked what we liked and we didn’t want to do it any other way. Which was fine when we agreed on things – and worked out great when it came to Ella. Both of us wanted her to have every opportunity in the world, but shielded from the public eye. We wanted her to have the best, but we didn’t want to spoil her. As parents, we were on the same page. As husband and wife, we hadn’t wanted the same thing. At all.

Jennifer had a tendency to act like she knew everything. It was a great trait for business, and served her well in her job, but drove me absolutely up the wall. She never admitted she was wrong, or gave an inch in any argument we had – even if it was about my work, which she knew nothing about. The woman couldn’t tell the difference between a gear shaft and brake pad, yet she acted like she could build a bike from scratch.

Libby was different. She asked questions, and when she didn’t know something, she listened to explanations. She was curious and interested, and I found that surprisingly appealing. She also didn’t seem to take anything too seriously and it was her flexibility and playfulness that I was drawn to.

Mac cleared his throat and I realized that I had been standing with my hand in the toolbox, not moving.

“So are you going to tell me anything more about this date of yours?” he asked.

“Nope,” I told him, kneeling back down next to the bike.

“Come on, man,” he complained. “I tell you about all my dates.”

“What dates?” I shot back. “You go out even less than I do.”

“Even more reason to tell me about her,” Mac said. “It’s been a long dry spell for me. Besides, if I had a date, I’d tell you about her.”

“Fine,” I looked up at him. “When you manage to convince some poor girl to go out with you, I’ll tell you all about my date tonight.”

I knew that Mac was in a similar boat as me, only instead of a kid, he tended to baby his shop. It was his everything, and not a lot of women liked to come second fiddle to an old, oil-stained building in Brooklyn.

I took a little pity on him.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m taking her out on the Bullet.”

His eyes widened. “Holy shit, dude,” he laughed. “You must really like this girl.”

I didn’t respond.

“Really?” Mac asked. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“You need to know more?”

“You are the worst friend, ever,” Mac told me.

I shrugged, and got back to work on the bike, still trying to figure out where I was going to take Libby tonight.