Simon Noone scares the shit out of her. But being around him also makes her vibrate at some deep, restless frequency. She thinks of his thumb stroking the skin of her inner thigh, like the rough lick of a cat’s tongue.
Goddammit, she really needs to get laid.
Nomi sighs, leaves the chain on, opens the door. “What’s up?”
Noone is standing in the hallway. Black peacoat, black shirt, navy sweater, blue jeans, boots—entirely normal clothes for a supremely normal person. Rain glitters on the shoulders of his coat and at the ends of his damp hair, and he’s got a small spiral-bound notepad in one hand.
He sees the chain on the door, and his posture becomes awkward. “I, um, thought about buying you a plant.”
“What?” Nomi frowns.
“But then I thought you might appreciate this more.” He raises the notepad, begins reading. “Gloria Axedale, fifty-two years old, born in Queens, attended public high school, graduated valedictorian 1953—”
“Noone . . .”
“Attended Radcliffe College, Harvard Law School, married to Bill Axedale since 1961, three kids. After practicing as a litigator with McMahon, Segal & Holtzman, served as Democratic member of the New York State Senate from 1971 to 1978. Appointed by the mayor to the New York City Planning Commission in 1980—”
“Okay, stop.” Nomi takes off the chain and opens the door wider. “Just ... stop reciting Gloria Axedale’s curriculum vitae outside my apartment.”
“Are you still angry?”
“I’m not answering that. Where did you get all this information?”
“Public library.”
“You caught the subway?”
“Yes.”
Nomi considers the significance of that. “Right. Well.”
He brings his other hand out from behind his back. He’s holding a small soggy potting tube with waxy green leaves spilling over the side. “I ... also bought you a plant.”
She touches her tongue to the scratch inside her lip as she looks between him and the plant. “You’re really trying hard, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never bought a plant before.”
She waits a beat before relenting. “Fine, come in. Stop cluttering up the corridor.”
He looks so grateful, she wants to laugh, but that wouldn’t really be appropriate.
In the hallway, he sniffs the air as they get closer to the kitchen. “You made coffee?”
“You don’t have to pretend to like my coffee, Noone. You’ve done enough.” She pours them both mugs, but when she hands his over, she pauses. “I’m still angry.”
“Okay,” he says cautiously.
“But I don’t want to rehash it right now.”
“Okay.” He’s more relieved.
“Sit down and show me your Axedale notes.”
Once they’re situated in their respective spots—Noone on the lounge chair and herself on the sofa—Nomi gestures “gimme” and he hands her the notepad. She sips from her mug and scans through his spiky scrawl. He hasn’t done a terrible job as her quote-unquote “research assistant,” although there are some gaps she’d like to fill.
“This is a good start, but we might need a little more detail.” She sits back and crosses her legs, examining the notes. “I’d like to know who she hangs out with. We should see if she pops up on the society pages.”
“Axedale seems very conservative.” Noone leans forward with his mug, forearms on his knees. “Very proper etiquette.”
