“Woah, sexist,” I joked, giving him a decent dig under the ribs. “Why don’tIget to name the boy, huh?”
“Because I’d want to call him Liam, after my dad,” Harry muttered, a spark of sadness entering his eyes.
Harry had told me how his dad had died when he was twelve years old in a car accident, holding me close to him one night in his dorm room. It was unusually stormy and outside the window, the wind howled and screamed like a pack of staving wolves.
But inside, we were pressed close, a ball of scorching passion between us.
As far as I knew, it was only Harry and his mom left now, since he never talked about his family.
Nor did I, really.
We were in love in that young way, where the only thing that mattered was the here and the now and our future together.
The rest of the world fell away as if we were two people standing in a field during an earthquake, and the ground we were standing on was the only section not to topple and crumble.
I ran my thumb along his lower lip. “Okay, Harry, we’ll call our son Liam.”
He smiled. “What about our daughter?”
“Alice,” I said. “Definitely Alice.”
He tilted his head at me. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “Because ofAlice in Wonderland.”
“Yeah! How did you know?”
He tweaked my nose before planting a light kiss on the end of it. “Because it’s been your favorite book forever. Believe it or not, darling, but I do listen sometimes.”
***
I’m jolted from the memory when the creaky wooden door whines open on its hinges.
I stare as Adam walks in, seeming more skittish than ever. He glances around and then nods strangely when he spots me. He rubs his hands up and down his pant legs as he gets closer. His red hair is dank with sweat, and his eyes are fricking saucers.
He’s on drugs.
It’s so fricking obvious that even me, not a drug-taking guru by any means, can spot it.
“Oh, Grace,” he says, sounding like an actor who can barely remember his lines. “What a coincidence. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I. Did not. Expect. To see you … here?
Worst delivery ever.
He couldn’t be less convincing if he tried. It comes out stilted, awkward.
“What?” I mutter, narrowing my eyes at him. “What’re you talking about, Adam? Are you really saying you just walked into this random New York bar and happened to spot me?”
“Uh, yeah.” He laughs awkwardly. “What’reyoutalking about?”
I look closely at him. Suddenly, cogs start turning in my mind, logic forging connections it had no reason to entertain before.
I’ve never talked to or seen Markus Kirby, except for a photo he attached to his email signature … which is, in itself, odd. Who attaches a photo to their email signature?
I can’t find Markus Kirby online anywhere else, even though he’s supposed to work for a big fitness company.
And now Adam justhappensto walk in here, acting downright conspiratorial.
“Adam,” I say, standing up and taking a few steps away from him.
