Drink your coffee. I like watering my plants.”
His expression changes, half frowning and half
amusement. He shakes his head, but goes back to the bench, retrieves his mug
and then sits in a relaxed, sloppy way. He looks good today in leather boat
shoe type loafers, baggy khaki pants and a pale pink polo.
He lifts his cup and pauses. “So what do you do
up here all day other than water your plants every morning?” he says, curious
and confused by me.
“What do you do up here all day other than run
every morning?” I shoot back with heavy meaning.
“Touché. I guess it was a little rude how I
phrased that. I’m writing my next book. That’s why I like it here. It’s quiet.
No interruptions. I can hear myself think.”
I shrug. “I’m sort of trying to be a songwriter.”
His gaze sharpens on my face and his hazel eyes
start to sparkle. “Sort of?” He laughs. “Still not certain of anything, are
you, Chrissie? I remember you saying ‘sort of a cellist’ once. It was kind of
cute and a little charming.”
My cheeks flush. Second rude comment: bringing up
my embarrassingly low conversational skills during our talk in the kitchen at
Alan’s party in New York.
He takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights
it. “You shouldn’t wonder about things in your life. Not now. You and Neil seem
to have everything all figured out. Looks to me like you’re doing it right.”
He sounds a smidge envious when he says that.
Some of my annoyance with him wanes.
I smile and move to the next plant.
He takes a puff of his cigarette and slowly
releases the smoke and I can feel him studying me. “So whatever happened
between you and Alan Manzone?”
That question takes me completely off guard. I
tense. Why is he wondering about that now? “Are you asking as my
neighbor or are you asking as a reporter?”
He reproaches me with his eyes. “What do you
think?”
I crinkle my nose. “It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t
tell you either way.”
He lifts a brow as if that answer is interesting
to him.
He takes a sip of his coffee. “I don’t think I’ve
ever seen two people hotter for each other than you two were. I always thought
you’d end up married to him someday. Is it true that the hottest fires burn out
the quickest?”
The entire surface of my body burns. That was an
overly intimate question from a guy I’m on
occasional-chats-in-the-driveway-with terms. Fuck, what’s up with Jesse?
I turn away from him, pretending to focus on my
daisies. “I wouldn’t know.”
Silence. No response.
After a few minutes, I chance a peek at him. He
looks lost in his thoughts, staring off into the forest. It feels like he’s
thinking about something private and troubling. Maybe he asked me that last
question trying to answer something for himself.
Jesse is such a mystery. He likes to talk, but he
never says anything about himself except superficial shit. Oh, he enjoys slyly
probing me about myself, probably a reporter thing, but he hasn’t told me a
single personal thing about himself. Not one. Not ever.
The phone starts ringing in the house. I shut off
the hose and toss it on the side patio.
“Got to run, Jesse. If I miss the morning call
from Neil I won’t be able to catch him for the rest of the day.”
He nods and I disappear through the front door. I
maneuver down the foyer stairs, quickly but cautiously, and then grab a
cordless phone from the living room side table. I click it on as I drop to sit
on the couch.
“Neil, I just had the oddest conversation with
Jesse Harris in the driveway,” I say in a rush. “I think you’re right. I
shouldn’t be so friendly with him. And where the heck are you? Why didn’t you
call last night? I hate it when you don’t call me at night. You are in freaking
trouble, mister, with both your girls.”
Silence. Oh shit, maybe he thinks I’m really
pissed at him.
“I’ll call every night forever if you’ll explain
what that was all about, Chrissie.”
I flush.
His expression changes, half frowning and half
amusement. He shakes his head, but goes back to the bench, retrieves his mug
and then sits in a relaxed, sloppy way. He looks good today in leather boat
shoe type loafers, baggy khaki pants and a pale pink polo.
He lifts his cup and pauses. “So what do you do
up here all day other than water your plants every morning?” he says, curious
and confused by me.
“What do you do up here all day other than run
every morning?” I shoot back with heavy meaning.
“Touché. I guess it was a little rude how I
phrased that. I’m writing my next book. That’s why I like it here. It’s quiet.
No interruptions. I can hear myself think.”
I shrug. “I’m sort of trying to be a songwriter.”
His gaze sharpens on my face and his hazel eyes
start to sparkle. “Sort of?” He laughs. “Still not certain of anything, are
you, Chrissie? I remember you saying ‘sort of a cellist’ once. It was kind of
cute and a little charming.”
My cheeks flush. Second rude comment: bringing up
my embarrassingly low conversational skills during our talk in the kitchen at
Alan’s party in New York.
He takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights
it. “You shouldn’t wonder about things in your life. Not now. You and Neil seem
to have everything all figured out. Looks to me like you’re doing it right.”
He sounds a smidge envious when he says that.
Some of my annoyance with him wanes.
I smile and move to the next plant.
He takes a puff of his cigarette and slowly
releases the smoke and I can feel him studying me. “So whatever happened
between you and Alan Manzone?”
That question takes me completely off guard. I
tense. Why is he wondering about that now? “Are you asking as my
neighbor or are you asking as a reporter?”
He reproaches me with his eyes. “What do you
think?”
I crinkle my nose. “It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t
tell you either way.”
He lifts a brow as if that answer is interesting
to him.
He takes a sip of his coffee. “I don’t think I’ve
ever seen two people hotter for each other than you two were. I always thought
you’d end up married to him someday. Is it true that the hottest fires burn out
the quickest?”
The entire surface of my body burns. That was an
overly intimate question from a guy I’m on
occasional-chats-in-the-driveway-with terms. Fuck, what’s up with Jesse?
I turn away from him, pretending to focus on my
daisies. “I wouldn’t know.”
Silence. No response.
After a few minutes, I chance a peek at him. He
looks lost in his thoughts, staring off into the forest. It feels like he’s
thinking about something private and troubling. Maybe he asked me that last
question trying to answer something for himself.
Jesse is such a mystery. He likes to talk, but he
never says anything about himself except superficial shit. Oh, he enjoys slyly
probing me about myself, probably a reporter thing, but he hasn’t told me a
single personal thing about himself. Not one. Not ever.
The phone starts ringing in the house. I shut off
the hose and toss it on the side patio.
“Got to run, Jesse. If I miss the morning call
from Neil I won’t be able to catch him for the rest of the day.”
He nods and I disappear through the front door. I
maneuver down the foyer stairs, quickly but cautiously, and then grab a
cordless phone from the living room side table. I click it on as I drop to sit
on the couch.
“Neil, I just had the oddest conversation with
Jesse Harris in the driveway,” I say in a rush. “I think you’re right. I
shouldn’t be so friendly with him. And where the heck are you? Why didn’t you
call last night? I hate it when you don’t call me at night. You are in freaking
trouble, mister, with both your girls.”
Silence. Oh shit, maybe he thinks I’m really
pissed at him.
“I’ll call every night forever if you’ll explain
what that was all about, Chrissie.”
I flush.
Similar Books
