Dead Connection

specialty.

“A hurricane it is, then,” Ellie said.

“Make it two.”

The waitress was back in a flash with a dangerously tasty concoction of sugar and alcohol.

“So who’s the Golden?” Ellie asked.

Peter’s expression was momentarily confused, then he smiled. “Ah, the very attractive canine in my online photo. He would belong to my sister, Erica. She’s good people, and her dog Boggle’s the closest thing I have to a nephew.”

“And what about your great American novel? The adventures of a dog named Boggle?”

“No, although I can see the commercial potential there,” he said with a squint of mock concentration. “It’s actually about the trials and tribulations of a thirty-five-year-old reporter who lives in Hell’s Kitchen. He writes his columns. He struggles to publish a book. He tries like hell to find a woman who gets him. Pretty darn original, huh?”

“Don’t knock it. Your female counterparts have spawned several bestsellers writing about being single in the city. You might introduce a whole new genre: Call it dick-lit.”

Ellie usually had a better filter between her brain and her mouth, at least with strangers, but Peter seemed to appreciate the comment.

“Are the two of you ordering dinner?” The waitress was back. Ellie and Peter exchanged looks across the table, and then laughed.

“Nah, that wasn’t awkward at all, was it? Um, just give us a second,” Peter said.

The invitation had been for drinks, but every dater – even Ellie – knew that was just a ruse. If all goes well, drinks evolve into dinner.

“I tell you what.” Ellie took two napkins from the tabletop and grabbed two pens from her purse. “We each write down either dinner or drinks. We’ll stay only if it’s mutual. No pressure.”

They scribbled notes on their respective napkins, then showed their cards. Dinner, Ellie had written. Peter’s napkin read, Dinner! For the love of God, just one dinner! He called the waitress back and asked for two menus.

THREE HURRICANES, ONE crab cake, and an oyster po-boy later, Ellie was stuffed and red in the face from the laughter and the booze. Based on the crooked smile on Peter’s face, she thought he was having a good time too. But it was nearing midnight, and Peter caught her looking at her watch.

“It’s late, huh?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

Ellie felt a twinge of regret about the deal she’d struck with herself at the apartment. She’d learned over time that it was better to set boundaries for herself and then stick with them. When she quit smoking, for example, it had been cold turkey. And before she allowed herself to pick up the phone to accept Peter’s drink invitation, she had vowed it would be a one-time occasion.

She was tempted to break her own self-imposed contract, but knew she would not. She hadn’t set this rule for herself arbitrarily. She wasn’t ready for a new relationship, and this one in particular would be off to a bad start from the beginning. She’d lied to him online and then compounded it all night as she rattled on about her work as a paralegal for a real estate attorney. He didn’t even know her name.

Even worse, between all the banter, she’d learned that Peter not only was a reporter, but a crime reporter. He was Peter Morse, the name she’d seen splashed across the byline of crime stories in the Daily Post, a newspaper that sold papers by out-sensationalizing, out-tabloidizing, and out-scandalizing all of the other local rags. She couldn’t even begin to explain why she’d been misleading him all night without tipping him off to the FirstDate investigation.

She told herself not to be disappointed.

“Can I walk you wherever you’re going?” Peter asked.

“No, let’s be unconventional. I’ll walk you home.”

“Oh, you are butch.”

The truth was, Clinton – ne Hell’s Kitchen – could still be a sketchy neighborhood. Peter was tipsy himself, and, despite the gender difference, Ellie was pretty confident that she had the better defensive skills. Plus she wanted a few more minutes with him before she said good-bye.

They walked side by side until they reached a storefront on West Forty-fourth. Peter stopped in front of the graffiti-laden metal gate that shielded the store entrance. “This is it.”

Ellie gave him a skeptical look. “Is this like when you told me you’d be wearing a purple velvet jacket?”

“Nope. It’s one of the last places in the hood zoned for mixed use – live and work. I took the top from some guy who sold tourist tchotchkes downstairs. He got busted two months ago for selling counterfeit goods. They’re trying to give me the boot, but I’ve got a lawyer working on it.” He gave her a name, wondering if she knew him from her paralegal work. The question only made her feel bad.

“It’s hard, losing a good place in the city.”

“A home, I wouldn’t have a problem with. But this is like a second office. It’s only a few blocks from the paper, and I can come here and have a beer and write in peace. I can even file copy from my home computer. I think it’s part of the paper’s goal to phase out our desk space entirely so they don’t have to pay the overhead.”

Peter mistook Ellie’s sad expression for boredom.

“Sorry. I’m rambling. And you, madam, probably have to get home. Thank you very much for the walk. You’re quite chivalrous. You sure you’re all right? Let me at least hail you a cab.”

“No, I’ll be fine. I can walk from here.” She said it, but her feet weren’t moving anywhere.

He took a step closer to her and wrapped her sagging scarf around her shoulders. Then he placed the softest, most gentle, perfect kiss on her lips. “Can I see you again?”

“Um – no, you can’t.”

Peter made a face that said, There you go again, until he realized she wasn’t smiling. “I’m sorry. Did I misunderstand -?” He looked back toward the restaurant as if to make sure he hadn’t imagined the entire evening.

“I know this sounds really crazy. But I shouldn’t have gone out with you. I shouldn’t have even e-mailed you. It’s too complicated to explain, but I just can’t ever see you again.”

“Well, if you really mean that, obviously I’ll respect that. Is there anything I can do that might make you reconsider? Anything legal, I mean? Not kidnapping. That would be bad, of course.”

Ellie gave him a sad smile, wishing he’d be less likeable. “Trust me. I’m saving you a lot of trouble.”

“If it makes any difference, I’m incredibly disappointed – pathetically, really. I’m going to go upstairs and wallow. Like seriously wallow. Ice cream, sweatpants, Lifetime television, the works.”

Ellie smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks.”

As she walked away, she heard him entering a combination into the electric keypad near a narrow door adjacent to the graffiti-covered gate. She turned around to face him again.

“So, that whole thing I just said about not being able to see you again?”

“I think I remember that,” Peter said, nodding.

“There’s no reason our one night has to be over yet. I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for Lifetime myself.”

He walked her upstairs to the apartment he called his second office. There was no ice cream, no television, and definitely no sweatpants. Ellie closed her eyes and enjoyed the night for what it was, trying to convince herself that one anonymous night with a stranger was exactly what she needed. And every time he gently whispered Ally, she pretended it was close enough.

24

“EARTH TO HATCHER. WHERE’S YOUR HEAD AT?”

Ellie snapped from her daydream. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Lieutenant Eckels might send you back to where you came from if we don’t come up with something