"What did one ocean say to the other ocean? Nothing, they just waved. Sea what I did there?"
- Phoebe West, wondering if she should try her hand at standup comedy.
"Booooooooooo." I tug at the leash. "Come on."
He's sniffing a tree so thoroughly, he looks like a kindergartener in possession of the coveted blue smelly-marker at the craft table. When I tug the leash again, his tiny head swivels my way, unmistakably peeved by my interruption. The glare he shoots at me is downright lethal.
"Dogs are supposed to bring warmth and joy," I inform him. "Caesar Milan assured me I'd never have a more loyal, loving companion." I plant my hands on my hips and level him with a stare. "You, my grumpy fluff-ball, are supposed to adore me. Not flash vengeance in your tiny, beady eyes and drag my ass around the streets of Boston at midnight for Sniffapalooza."
He ignores me, per usual, trotting around to smell the other side of the tree and weaving through the wrought-iron fence until his leash is hopelessly tangled.
He totally did that on purpose.
"Don't make me play Old Yeller for you again," I mutter, sighing as I move to detangle it — a process which will take at least forty seconds, by which point he'll be ready to move on to another tree. Devious little bastard.
We walk Comm Ave toward the Public Garden, our usual late-night loop. Boo's white body practically glows in the dark, pristine fur catching the moonlight, proud profile clear even from ten feet behind him.
They say New York is the city that never sleeps. Boston, on the other hand, is the city that gets drunk in the middle of the day at a Patriots pre-game party and passes out by seven.
Sure, certain neighborhoods are lively until the wee hours — mainly the student-infested bars packed around Fenway Park — but Back Bay, with its tree-lined streets, clean-swept sidewalks, and population of young professionals and families, is quiet by city standards even at midday. By this time of night, it's practically deserted.
It seems emptier than usual, tonight — shops closed down, windows shuttered tight, hardly a soul out wandering the streets... besides a crazy woman talking to her Pomeranian, of course. At a cross street, a group of college girls stumble along, giggling and shushing each other as they try to sneak into one of the area's swankier bars. Down the block, a man and woman walk hand-in-hand, probably headed to the pond for a moonlit make-out session on one of the benches overlooking the swan boats.
Ah, romance.
I contemplate following them and ordering Boo to poop directly in front of their bench, thus ruining their ambiance, but I refrain. Just because I'm miserable and alone doesn't mean everyone else should be. I can rise above.
(I guess.)
By the time we've circled back to my brownstone, it's well past midnight, my stomach is rumbling — can't stress it enough, Cheez-Its are not an adequate dinner — and I'm no more in the mood to sleep than I was pre-walk. When I got home from Karma, I was so revved up, I spent an hour tossing and turning in my bed before I finally threw off the covers, pulled on the faded Harvard sweatshirt I stole from Parker ages ago, and grabbed Boo's leash from the peg by the front door.
I'm sure my cellphone has exploded with messages from Lila and Gemma... which is precisely why I powered it off as soon as I got home and haven't looked at it since.
I've no desire to be berated for skipping out on the gallery opening. Not tonight, at least.
Actually, I've no desire to do much of anything except microwave some edamame — my yoga instructor's "healthy alternative suggestion" to delicious, buttery popcorn — plunk myself on the couch, flip on Netflix, and force Boo to snuggle with me for the next two to three years.
We finally reach my brownstone. My foot is on the bottom step as my mind scans through my to-be-watched queue, considering movie options. I'm simultaneously tugging Boo away from the neighbor's flowerpots and fishing through my sweatshirt pocket for my front-door key, when a shadow detaches from the brick wall of my landing. Before I can blink, he's moved to the top step and is towering over me like a demon straight from the depths of hell.
The grim reaper.
On my stoop.
In the dark.
Ahh!
I remember some distant self-defense teacher telling me to use my keys as a weapon, so I reach frantically for them. When my fingers close over metal, I pull them from my sweatshirt pouch, preparing to jab.
Except... where do I jab, again?
Throat? Eyes? Testicles?
Somewhere in the back of my mind, Sandra Bullock is telling me to SING.
Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin.
Oh, who am I kidding? I'm barely coordinated enough to walk up my stairs, let alone conduct an FBI-inspired takedown on them.
Precious seconds slip away as I consider the best location to stab someone — not fatally, just enough to, like, get them off my stoop so I can go inside and watch FRIENDS in peace. The shadow descends another step.
Eeep!
I jerk involuntarily, panic overriding my system. My body swings backward and my hands flail out like a baby T-rex attempting a hug, the sudden move sending my keys flying. I watch forlornly as they arc through the air and land in a nearby bush, out of reach.
Boo, my demon-dog, is nowhere to be found, now that I need him. Apparently, protecting the life of his beloved owner falls below licking flattened sidewalk chewing gum on his list of priorities.
Typical.
"Frack!" I shriek. With no other weapons left in my arsenal — unless I want to shoot him in the eye with a hair elastic or beam a pink Ugg boot at his head — I drop into a ninja-like crouch on the bottom step and position my hands in front of me like fleshy blades.
"Okay listen, buddy, I don't know what you're doing on my steps, but you have about two seconds to vanish before the cops get here!" I yell, hoping my voice sounds menacing and not like I'm about to pee in my silk pajama shorts from Bloomingdales.
"West, are you off your meds?"
I freeze, heart pounding in my chest, hand-blades taught with tension.
No. Freaking. Way.
All the air whooshes out of me as Nate takes another step down, until he's standing on my level. He's so tall, he still towers inches over me — I resist the urge to ease onto a higher step, just to level the playing field. It doesn't escape my notice that his face is narrowed in anger.
At least, until his gaze flickers down to my hands. Taking in the sight of them, still extended ineffectually in the space between us, his mouth twitches and the skin around his eyes crinkles up, fine wrinkles feathering his temples.
You wouldn't think wrinkles would be hot but... damn. Seeing Nate almost-smile at me with those crinkly eyes... Let's just say it's a miracle I'm able to remain standing.
"You planning to karate-chop me to death?" he asks, voice thick with mirth.
Mirth!
My brain is having trouble processing a version of Nate who knows how to experience such an emotion.
"No," I mutter defensively, dropping my hands to my sides and curling them into fists. My mouth produces an incredulous puff of air, akin to an orca breaching. Sexy. "Of course not."
"Looked like you were."
"Well, I wasn't," I snap. I glance at my dog, who's given up sniffing the bushes in favor of Nate's shoes. "Boo, attack the evil man. Attack!" I order.
At the sound of his name, the Pomeranian glances at me with an utterly bored expression, then almost immediately resumes sniffing.
I sigh. "Some guard dog, you are."
Nate glances at Boo. "He seems like a real killer."
"We're working on it. For some reason, he only seems to have lethal tendencies when it comes to me. Oh! And his plushy duck toy. He has it out for that thing."
Nate chuckles.
The sound is so foreign, so achingly compelling, it melts through me like liquid gold. I haven't heard him laugh, really laugh, in years. Not since we were kids, before he left Harvard and went through the military training that left his eyes too cold and his words too guarded. Hearing it now, rusty from disuse as it rumbles from his throat, I fight the need to close my eyes and savor the timbre of it, like I do when I'm front-row at the Boston Pops listening to the orchestra crescendo.
He falls silent all too soon, eyes finding mine once more. They're no longer crinkly-warm as they scan from the dog at his feet to my hyper-short pajama bottoms to the baggy sweatshirt draping me to mid-thigh, taking in every detail with painstaking attention.
"You were out walking alone? At this time of night?"
"Um..." I gulp at the accusation in his words. "No."
He stills dangerously. "Someone with you, then?"
"Um..." I'm having trouble forming words. "Yes?"
He goes so tense, he's practically vibrating. "O'Dair?"
"What?" My mouth gapes.
"You meet up with O'Dair somewhere?" His voice drops lower to mutter words I'm pretty sure I'm not intended to hear. I hear them anyway. "Man has a fucking death wish."
My heartbeat picks up speed. "Excuse me?"
"West—"
"I didn't meet up with Cormack. Why would you even think that?"
His jaw unclenches a bit. "You said you met up with someone."
"No, I said I wasn't walking alone."
"Then who the fuck were you walking with?"
"Um..." My voice gets small. "Boo?"
His mouth twitches as he stares at me, his expression flickering between frustration, anger, and amusement, like a slot machine spinning numbers. He settles on anger.
"You shouldn't be out alone at night, West." His eyes burn into mine. "Tell me you're at least carrying your pepper spray."
"Tell me you don't actually believe I own pepper spray." I snort. "Come on. Who do you think I am? Five minutes ago I was ready to karate chop you to death, for god's sake. You think if I had mace on hand, I would've been like Oh, look! A creepy stranger on my steps! Yep, now seems like a good time to test my samurai skills. Let's do this. Crouching Tiger Hidden Phoebe." I strike a ninja pose, hands slicing through the air between us in a faux-strike. "Heeeeya!"
His mouth tugs up against his will. "Are you a ninja or a samurai?"
I pause — hands dropping, head tilting. "Aren't they the same thing?"
He shakes his head, amused.
"Oh." I fight a blush. "Whatever. My lack of knowledge concerning ancient Asian warriors is not the main issue here."
"Really?"
"Really." I pin him with my best no-nonsense look. "Why are you here on my stairs, scaring me half to death at one in the morning?" I glance down at my ninja hands then back at him, eyes wide with mock concern. "I could've killed you with these!" I waggle my fingers at him. "They're lethal when I unleash my qi."
His mouth twitches again.
You are not fourteen. You are a grown ass woman. Do not squeal or do cartwheels because the man deigned to smile at you.
"Seriously, Nate, I didn't send up the bat-signal, or anything." I shiver — more from the image of Nate dressed in a skin-tight Batman costume than the cold. "So... why are you here?"
"Let's talk inside." His eyes scan my body, taking in the goosebumps on my bare legs. "You're freezing."
I sigh, but don't fight him. Truthfully, I am kind of chilly. And hungry. And horny.
Not that I'll be acting on those last two — not while he's around, anyway.
I climb the steps, rolling my eyes when I see Nate step over Boo with an uncomfortable grimace. Little dogs always have a way of making large men uneasy. As though if they're ever caught walking one or, god forbid, cuddling with one, it'll be an automatic deduction of masculinity points.
Hands searching my empty pockets, I pause at the door and groan. "Oh, frack."
Nate's eyebrows go up.
"My keys." I sigh. "They're in the bush."
Brows go higher.
"I kind of... threw them." I swallow and try not to blush.
"When you flailed like an epileptic fish on dry land?"
"Was that a joke that just came out of your mouth?" I ask, taken aback. "I didn't think you knew how to do that, anymore."
His eyes are steady on mine. "A lot you don't know about me, West."
Oh, I'm sure there is...
My heart is pounding so loud by this point I'm pretty sure they can hear it down the block. I try to swallow but find my throat is clogged by a bundle of nervous, sexual energy.
"Well, you surprised me, appearing out of nowhere like that." I cover hastily, making my voice haughty so he won't know I'm seriously considering the repercussions of dry humping his leg. "Which means it's your fault my keys are in the hydrangeas, and you are the one who's going to climb in there and find them."
"Or..." He steps closer, until our chests are nearly brushing, and I forget to breathe, forget to think, forget to do anything but stare as his face moves toward mine. Extending one arm behind my back, he comes to a stop before we actually touch, but his mouth is so close to my ear I can feel his breath on my neck when he whispers. "...I could just use my key."
The sound of a lock turning over and my door swinging inward snap me out of my momentary lust. I'm still standing there like a fool, attempting to process the fact that Nate just opened my door with "his key" when he steps around me and strolls inside. His gait is so casual as he strides through my foyer and disappears into my kitchen, you'd think he's stepped over my threshold every day for the past five years.
What. The. Frack.
"You coming, Miyagi?" he calls from somewhere inside.
I glance down at Boo, who's gazing up at me in expectation, clearly wanting to follow the strange man inside — the man who's likely looking through my private documents, hacking my hard drive, and cracking my safe as we speak.
"You do realize we're totally fucked, right?" I ask Boo in a serious voice.
Swear to god, he nods his doggy head in comprehension before giving up waiting for me to grow a set and trotting after Nate.
"Frack," I mutter, stepping inside with a groan and shutting the door at my back. If not for the sudden tension in Boo's leash, pulling me away from the entryway, I'd have happily stayed there all night rather than face whatever message of doom and gloom Nate's undoubtedly here to deliver.