The thrill of it—Does she know? Does she not know?—I could live in this moment for years and never get tired of the game.
Winnie gulps the cognac.
“You’re supposed to sip it. It’s a 5K bottle.”
“What? No, it’s not.” The way her face scrunches up—I know I’ve blown it. In five seconds, she’s going to put it together.
“Winnie, I can’t go on the date—” Her sister is racing down the staircase. “Winnie, you should have seen what he posted. I can’t go.” Kathy sobs.
I stand up. She stops in the doorway. “Oh.”
Winnie’s looking between Kathy and me. “Kathy, Fitz is here. You can’t just bail.”
“So soon?” Kathy sniffles.
That makes Winnie really pissed.
“Why don’t you come sit down, have a drink?” Kathy offers. “Winnie can entertain you. She made mini beef Wellingtons.” Kathy smiles at her sister.
Winnie glares. “No. Go get dressed. This is the first day of the rest of your life.”
“It’s never going to be like being the captain’s wife.” Kathy sighs.
“You can’t be talking about your ex in front of the guy you’re trying to trap.” Winnie pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Is that what this is about, Creampuff? And here I thought you didn’t have financial troubles.”
“I don’t have financial troubles. I have family troubles. Kathy”—Winnie shoos her to the stairs—“go.”
“But, Winnie, his new girlfriend posted ring photos,” Kathy wails.
“It’s just a brand endorsement deal.” Winnie’s voice trails off as she herds her younger sister upstairs.
I sip my cognac and walk through the familiar room. Now that I’m not focused on Winnie, I concentrate on the surroundings. Something smells delicious.
What is that?
It’s the pasta—the mushroom in a cream sauce with gemelli pasta that she serves at the café on Mondays because it’s easier to start your week with pasta.
Garlic bread is baking in the oven.
It smells like home.
This is why I love coming to her house.
Sure, my penthouse is expensive and packed full of multiple colors of everything I ever wanted to own and a lot of stuff that I didn’t. But Winnie’s house feels lived-in. Not curated. It’s just her.
“Negroni?” A woman that looks like a mix of Winnie and Kathy sails into the room. “We’re so excited that you’re here, Fitzgerald. Let me refresh your drink. Where are my daughters? Honestly, I raised animals. They’re terrible hostesses.”
“The man doesn’t want a negroni. Try this.” Mark shoves a glass in my hand. “It’s the official drink of the US Open. It’s a melon ball mule. See the little balls of honeydew melon? They look like tennis balls. Isn’t that nifty? I’m the prouddad, by the way”—he beams, shaking my hand—“Mark, and this is my wife, April. Nice ta meetcha!”
“Honestly, Winnie gave you a dirty glass.” The woman snatches it.
“Maybe he wants some water, April. Or we have red wine,” Mark offers, excited.
“That’s supposed to be served with the dinner. Winnie says—”
“She probably means to serve the white with dinner,” I tell them smoothly. “The sauvignon blanc.” The one I left her last night with the big white bow.
