“Got it.” Margo was being discreet, but it wasn’t because of him. Protecting her daughter, I could get behind.
“She’s going to another sleepover tonight, and I’m solo. I was going to stay in, but a drink sounds kind of nice, I think?”
Margo’s nerves and hesitation seeped through the phone the way the sweat had poured out of me moments earlier. She made a statement sound like a question, but I wasn’t the person to answer that.
“Let’s do it,” I said lightly. If I gave her a moment to overthink it, the prospect of us meeting would be over. Although, that would probably be for the best.
“Okay,” she said.
I figured it was better than a flat-out no, although I wasn’t sure why I was working so hard for this hookup. It was unlike me, but that first day, her worst really touched something inside me.
“How about I send an Uber to pick you up and bring you into town? I’m in the Back Bay. We can go somewhere around Copley. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Under normal circumstances, I would say as long as it’s not a steakhouse, I’m cool with it.” Her voice lowered on the last part, and then she added, “That’s where ...helikes to go. A steakhouse.”
“Not my scene anyway,” I said quickly. “I’m more of a wood-paneled bar or an Italian place on the North Shore kind of guy.”
“Oh,” she said softly.
Immediately, I felt as if I should apologize. “I didn’t mean to compare us. That was wrong.”
“No offense. It actually made me smile. I’m not a steak-place kind of gal.”
Of course she wasn’t. Margo was the type of woman you sat in a quiet corner with, lingering over cocktails and antipasto for hours, never wanting it to end.
“But I have to say, it’s kind of strange for a guy named Mick, short for McKenzie, to be an Italian guy.”
I couldn’t stop the laugh erupting from my chest. “You got me. My mom was a nice Irish lass named Peggy, but I had a coach in high school, an Italian guy, Frankie Pappa, and he introduced me to real Italian food.”
For a moment, I thought about Frankie and how he’d taught me to be a man. He showed me right from wrong, and I’m sure he would think what I was doing right now was a mix of both. Wrong to pursue a married woman, but right to want better for her.
“I can come to town,” she said softly. “It’s not far.”
I could feel the heaviness hanging on each of her whispered words.
“Should I send an Uber to your house?” Honestly, I didn’t go around picking up married women. I wasn’t sure how this worked, but I felt like Margo needed someone to take charge.
“Um, okay. Maybe next door?”
“Sounds good to me. Do you want to text me the address?”
“I can do that.”
Our conversation was feeling a bit tense, each statement blander and blander. Granted, she was sneaking a call in her backyard, away from her kid, but I didn’t like the way this felt.
“Margo,” I said, and heryeswas breathy. “I want you to know I would never hurt you. In any way. If this is too much—”
“No,” she said, not allowing me to finish. “It’s not too much. Just new, okay?”
“Okay. I’m looking forward to seeing you,” I told her, and I was.
“I have to go. I’ll text you the address.”
“Sounds good. How’s the Oak Bar at the Fairmont?”
“Never been,” she said, and I knew it would be perfect. “Bye,” she whispered before ending the call.
After I sent the Uber later, I put on dark jeans with a white shirt, and rolled up the sleeves. I ran some shit through my hair that my fucking hairdresser insisted I use if I continued to insist to wear my hair longer. Deciding against loafers, I slipped my feet into my Adidas Boosts and headed toward my parking garage.
