This place must have cost millions.
I take a seat. Ambrose is very still nearby, watching until I’m settled, and then he sits on the opposite side to me. Something about that reassures me. They’re both being very careful to make me feel settled, which I wasn’t expecting.
Crawford comes to sit between us after handing me my glass of wine.
“Did Melvin behave himself?” he asks me. “He has taken a shine to you, I think, and the man can talk your ear off if you let him.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind. He was telling me about a mafia boss he drove around New York for a few years. It was very entertaining.”
Ambrose snorts into his wine, and Crawford grins. “Don’t believe a word that man says. He’s full of shit.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” I joke.
“Please do, I tell him all the time.”
I sip my wine, looking between the two of them curiously. I can’t work out their relationship, but Crawford seems extremely relaxed.
“How long did it take you to get here?” Ambrose asks me. “Sorry to drag you out so late.”
I shrug. “Not too long. The traffic wasn’t bad at all.”
Well played, Amelia. Let’s talk about the weather next.
“Lucas says you live in Brooklyn?”
“I do.”
“Do you live there alone?”
I hesitate for a second and then shake my head. “I live with my sister.”
Crawford is watching me now. He hasn’t drunk any of his wine, resting it on his knee, his gaze laser-focused on me.
“Is she close to you in age?” Ambrose asks.
“She’s nineteen. She’s much cleverer and more sensible than me, though, so she keeps me in line,” I say lightly, and both men smile.
There’s a pitiful little mew from behind me as a fluffy white cat leaps onto the couch.
Crawford stiffens as the cat approaches me, sniffing my hair, and then climbing down over my shoulder and curling up in my lap. I stroke her idly. I love cats and always feel very privileged if one decides to be my friend.
“Jesus Christ.” I look up, and Ambrose is staring at me. “What the hell? That heathen hates everyone!”
“Don’t call her a heathen,” Crawford says, scowling at him. “She’s just picky.”
I scratch her behind her ears, and she starts purring.
“You’re a cat whisperer,” Crawford says, with a fond little smile as he looks at Alexis.
“Maybe she just likes women,” I hedge, and Ambrose laughs.
“Not if Megan is anything to go by.”
I glance up at Crawford, who is glaring daggers at Ambrose, but the other man looks entirely unapologetic.
“She clearly has good taste,” he says, tipping his glass to me.
I chuckle, and Alexis repositions herself, rubbing against my hand.
