The SUV pulls away from the curb, and I watch it go, my heart still racing. I should be relieved he’s gone. I should be focusing on what Claire is saying, not thinking about a handsome stranger on a Boston sidewalk. But all I can think about is the way that man looked at me, like he was memorizing every detail of my face. Like he was claiming something that belonged to him.
"Mara? Are you listening?"
"Yes," I lie, shaking my head to clear it. "Send me the details. I'll look at them tonight, and we can talk tomorrow."
"But—"
"Tomorrow, Claire. I promise."
I hang up before she can argue and stand there for a moment, staring at the spot where the SUV was parked. My hands are still shaking. My pulse is still racing. I have no idea why a thirty-second encounter with a stranger has left me feeling like I've just run a marathon.
Get it together, Winslow.
I draw in a breath, trying to shake off the strange encounter. I’ll never see him again, so why am I still thinking about it?
And why does the thought that he’s gone forever make me feel as if there’s something hollow in my stomach?
The brownstone's front steps are steep, and I take them carefully in my heeled boots, balancing the pastry box in one hand while I reach for the doorbell with the other. A moment later, the door swings open.
A middle-aged woman in neat black pants and a button-down shirt opens the door, smiling at me. “Mr. Cattaneo said you would be arriving this morning. Mara?”
“That’s me.” I step inside, ignoring how odd it still seems to me to have a housekeeper. I can’t imagine having staff, althoughI know Annie has lived in households with staff her whole life. “Where’s Annie?”
“Upstairs, second floor, first bedroom on the left. I can show you?—”
“I’m sure I can find it,” I assure her. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
Before she can argue, I hurry toward the stairs, a gorgeous wrought-iron and mahogany staircase that curves up to the second floor. I make my way up, heels clicking on the shiny wood, and knock on the first door on the left.
“Come in?” I hear Annie’s tired voice from inside, and I nudge the door open, stepping into the bedroom.
I can smell woodsmoke from a fireplace at one end of the room—that’s one luxury I wouldn’t mind stealing for my own apartment, a fireplace in the bedroom—and the lavender scent of a candle. Annie is in the massive four-poster bed with a pale blue duvet tucked around her and a mountain of pillows behind her, and the moment she sees me, she sits straight up.
"Mara!"
She’s wearing silk long-sleeved pajamas and a cashmere robe, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looks so happy to see me that I forget all about the man and the SUV.
"Surprise!" I hold up the pastry box. "I brought breakfast."
She pulls me into a hug as I approach after setting down the coffee and food on the side table, squeezing me tightly as I carefully embrace her back. When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes.
"You didn't have to come all this way," she says, but she's smiling, and I can see the relief in her face. I’m sure she’s been lonely when Elio isn’t home, trapped in this house with nothing to do but worry about the baby and try to keep herself occupied.
"Of course I did," I tell her, following her inside. "You're my best friend. What else would I do?”
“Oh, I don’t know—but I do know you have plenty to do that’s more important than coming to Boston to entertain me.”
“Not in the slightest,” I promise her, handing her the latte as I flip open the pastry box.
“Oh, you didn’t!” Annie exclaims. “Oh my god, I’ve been craving those like crazy, but I’ve felt so bad sending someone out for them when I’m not even sure what I can keep down these days.”
“Well,l if you throw them back up, I won’t be insulted,” I promise teasingly, setting a croissant on a cream-colored napkin and handing it to her. “How are you feeling? You look good.” Her cheeks have a nice amount of color in them, and she doesn’t look as if she’s lost too much weight.
"I look like I haven't left the house in a week," Annie says, but she's smiling as she takes the pastry. "Oh my God, you got the chocolate croissants. I love you."
"I know you do." I take a croissant of my own and perch on the end of the bed, exactly as we used to do in our dorm years ago. "So tell me everything. How was the honeymoon? How's Elio and Margaret? How are youreallyfeeling?"
Annie brightens, immediately launching into a story about her honeymoon with Elio, the beautiful sunsets and delicious food. I listen and laugh and try to focus on what she’s saying. But part of my mind is still outside, still standing on the sidewalk, still locked in that moment with the stranger.
