“So you live in Toronto?” I asked.
“It’s my base. I travel a lot. I’m involved with several developments in Europe at the moment—Spain and Portugal. And in Turks and Caicos. I’ve got something brewing in the Cook Islands. No wife or kids, so I move around where the work takes me.”
Hope burned hotter. And alcohol had loosened me enough to say, “A guy like you, no wife? I’d have pegged you as taken.”
“I was in a long-term relationship until very recently. Never married, though. And it’s over now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I . . .” He hesitated, and I caught a flicker of emotion in his eyes. “I wanted a family. Kids—several. I wanted to do the whole white-wedding-vow-traditional thing. She didn’t. Simple as that. And when I forced the issue . . .” His voice faded. He adjusted his tie. I felt a twinge of guilt for pressing him. I’d ruined the mood.
“I clearly wasn’t her Mr. Right, that’s all. I figure down deep somewhere she was reserving options.” He changed the subject. “So what brought you to the Hartley Plaza tonight if not the AGORA convention?”
“Oh, just a meetup with a very old and dear friend from art school.”
“An event that called for high heels.”
“Serious heels.” I laughed. “Don’t you know that women dress to impress other women?”
“How about your family—you have siblings?”
I shook my head.
He studied me in silence for a few moments, his gaze so direct, so intense, it was like he’d slipped his hand into my shirt and touched bare skin. And I almost wished he would. I felt myself lean in. He lowered his voice to a whisper, and it did things to my insides.
“I’ve never met a children’s book illustrator. I’ve met a lot of people. But never one who makes children’s books come alive.”
I took out my phone and showed him some of my work, our heads close. I could smell his aftershave. I could feel his breath against my cheek.
“Whimsical, Ellie. Beautiful.” His fingers brushed mine as he returned my phone. He looked at me. Really looked, this man who wanted kids. Who’d dreamed of traditional wedding vows. Who’d loved family holidays by the sea. “Truly wonderful,” he whispered. “How did you get into this work?”
I cleared my throat. “I got a degree in fine arts and literature and followed up with art school. I had every intention of being a fine artist—gallery exhibitions, the works. But I found I loved illustration, especially for children, and I . . . I like the freedom that freelancing offers, to travel, move around.” My heart beat fast. I felt hot, excited, suddenly. I’d just made a decision—yes, I wanted to travel. I wanted the flexibility. This was my new narrative. My choices, my decisions. Adventurous Ellie.
“And no long-term relationship, no kids for you?”
Wham. Just like that he flipped me over.
I tried to smile. My mouth wouldn’t cooperate. “I . . . I should go.” I reached for my purse at my feet.
He put his hand on mine. “Must you?”
Did he expect sex? Would he be angry if I said no?
“I need to get home. I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow.”
He hesitated, then quickly took a pen from his pocket and scribbled a number on a napkin. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, Ellie Tyler.” Not a hint of disappointment in his voice. Which made me like him all the more. Martin Cresswell-Smith was a man who could be my friend. And I realized I would actually like to have sex with him. I wanted it. Very badly.
“But it hasn’t been long enough, and I’d really like to see you again.” He held the napkin out to me. “My mobile number. Call me. Please.”
No threat. It was all up to me. My choice to call. Or not. I could just drop this napkin into the trash on my way out. Or I could keep it. I took it from him and our fingers touched. A shiver chased down my spine.
I cleared my throat again. “Are you going to be in town for a while?”
“Four more days at this hotel. I’m checking out on Monday. But seriously, Ellie, call. Anytime. Like I said, I travel a lot.” He paused and held my gaze. “But I can make long distance work.”
We let those words hang between us—a visceral, ectoplasmic, shimmering sense of promise. I tucked the napkin into my purse.
He called for the check. I saw him sign the tab to his room. I got to my feet and wobbled slightly. He helped me into my coat and placed his hand gently at the small of my back as he escorted me from the bar into the lobby, the pressure of his palm both gentle and firm. Both sexual and benign. Both controlling and charmingly chivalrous.
He accompanied me outside and made sure I got safely into a cab. I nestled into the warm back seat of the taxi, and he waved goodbye from the hotel doors. As the cab pulled away I pressed my palm against the cold window and watched him through the softly falling snowflakes, feeling as though I were in a romantic movie.
“Where to?” asked the cab driver.
Home.
I gave him my address.
Except it doesn’t feel like home anymore.
As the taxi started down the snowy street, a traffic light turned red. We stopped,
