But is he?—
“Going in?”
An older gentleman opens the door and gestures for me to go ahead of him. “Heading inside, miss?” He’s clearly a resident, carrying an air of success and wealth like a cloak around him. But he doesn’t seem arrogant about it. This man, who appears to be somewhere in his seventies, has an almost kindly, Santa Claus vibe to him.
“Yes,” I reply with a smile. “I am. Thank you.”
“No problem,” he says. “Always hold the door for a woman. That’s what my father used to tell me.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” As we part ways in the lobby, me headed to the reception desk and him to the elevator, I call after him, “Have a good night.”
He flashes a quick smile over his shoulder. “You too.”
Once he disappears into the elevator, I turn my attention to the black-suited man waiting behind the reception desk. He gives me a polite smile, and as I approach, he asks briskly, “Can I help you?”
Nerves explode in my belly.
Nausea rises.
Calm down, I tell myself.It’s fine. You can do this.
I close the distance to the glossy wood desk and take one more deep breath for courage. “Hi. I’m here to see Nico Parisi.”
He stares at me with an unreadable expression. “And you are?”
My heart jumps. “Sofia Shaw. He should know me.”
The man—doorman? Security guard? Concierge?—nods in a businesslike way that doesn’t really reveal anything. “Very well. I’ll call him.”
Then he picks up the phone beside him and presses a few numbers. He listens for several seconds before setting the phone back down. “Sorry, miss. But he’s not available right now.”
My jaw clenches.
Of course.
Ofcoursehe wouldn’t be home.
I drag myself all the way to Manhattan, giving up my own pleasant evening, and he’s not even here.
Although I didn’t exactly call to let him know I was coming. So I shouldn’t be annoyed, should I?
Except I am.
And for some stupid, irrational reason, I grab onto his absence as just another example of how he let me down.
It’s ridiculous, I know. But I can’t help how I feel.
“He’s usually back from work around this time,” the man offers in a slightly more pleasant tone. “You could wait over there”—he waves in the direction of a cluster of velvet chairs in the corner of the lobby—“if you’d like.”
Do I wait? Go home? Come back another time? Or give up on this idea altogether?
“Or there’s a decent diner just a couple blocks down,” he adds. “I go there for lunch a lot. You could grab a slice of pie, some coffee, check back in half an hour or so.”
At the mention of food, my stomach makes an unhappy rumble. I worked through lunch, and normally, I’d have had dinner by now. So, despite the anxious feeling in my belly, I’m hungry, too.
“Thanks,” I reply. “I could go for some pie, actually. Maybe I’ll head to the diner, like you said.” So he doesn’t think I’m some weird stalker, I add, “I knew Nico from high school. It’s been a while, and I thought it would be nice to surprise him.”
It’s partly true, at least.
