Dolly All the Time(28)

“You’re welcome. I’m available to eat a twenty-five-thousand-dollar steak anytime.”

He laughs just a bit. I reach up to fidget with the ends of my hair and remember it’s gone. I run the back of my hand along the straight line of my bob instead. It feels like silk.

“I’m sorry about Busy,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s fine. I mean, it is now. We didn’t talk about it for a long time and her treatment was all in Boston, so people didn’t really know. But we want to start doing more to help, so we’re telling her story. If I can get more people into the hospital to see what they’re doing, meet the kids—it would make a difference.” He stops himself and looks back out the window.

“Do you want kids?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. I knew it. I could see it in that photo.

“How many?”

“Any number greater than zero.”

“They’re good,” I say. “I mean, I have one, I know.”

He’s looking out the window again and his face is serious. I’m wondering if he’s thinking about his unborn heir and where it’s going to come from. He needs a thirty-year-old woman with an appetite for shopping. If only such a person existed.

“You sniffed me,” I say. “Should we talk about that?”

“I know, sorry. I got sort of caught up and you smelled good.”

“Well, I’m great at my job,” I say. We’re quiet again and he pulls out his glasses and scrolls through emails. “So are you looking for notes? On tonight?”

“That speech wasn’t really supposed to be a big thing.”

“No, on your dating. I mean, you’ll have to get out there eventually. Especially if you want a baby.”

“I’m not the one who brought up Princess Diana’s death,” he says, still not looking up from his phone.

“I’m serious. You rock a tuxedo like no one I’ve ever seen on TMZ, but your boyfriend skills could use some help.”

“All right.” Stewart takes off his glasses and rests his hands on his knees. “Okay, I’m ready, shoot.”

“The complimenting.”

“Come on.”

“I’m serious, it matters. I’m not saying you greet your dates by telling them how beautiful they look all the time, but if there’s something you notice when you see them, just get in the habit of saying it. Blurt out the first nice thing that pops into your head, right away. It’s kind and it’s free.”

He turns toward me and says, “I like the outline of your leg in that dress. When you cross your legs like that.”

I blush, hot, and untuck my hair from behind my ear, forgetting that there’s so little of it to hide behind. “I didn’t mean me, now.” I uncross and recross my legs. “But yes, that was a nice thing to say.”

“Good for me.” He smiles and I get a glimpse of the dimple again.

“It’s good when it’s specific like that. ‘You look pretty’ isn’t as good as ‘You have pretty eyes.’?”

He nods. “What else?”

“Don’t call anyone ‘honey.’ It gives diner waitress vibes.”

“I thought so.” He smiles and unknots his bow tie. He undoes his top button, and I find myself running my eyes down his neck again. “I knew it sounded weird the second I said it.”

“What did you call Audrey?”

“Audrey.”

I laugh and then turn all the way toward him on the seat. “And the hand-holding, what even was that?”

“What? You asked me to. I was trying to get you through the room.”

“That’s exactly how it felt. Like you were the UPS guy, and I was the package you were delivering to someone’s porch.”

“I’m not a big hand-holder,” he says.

“Give me your hand.” He extends his hand to me, palm up, and I clasp just the tips of his fingers in the tips of mine. “This is not hand-holding. Manicurists get more intimate than that. As you well know.” He smiles at this little inside joke. “You need to hold someone’s hand like it’s precious.” I undo my seatbelt and scoot a bit closer and take his whole hand in mine so our palms touch. His hands are strong and warm, and I just sit and feel them for a bit. It’s really been an eon since I’ve held a man’s hand. “It’s the palms,” I say to our hands. “There’s a heartbeat there, or at least something happens that releases oxytocin into your system.”

He gives my hand a squeeze and then entwines our fingers, each one slowly scraping the inside of mine as it settles in close. I feel his touch on that delicate skin trickle through my body. And in that moment, I know exactly what Stewart Whitfield would be like in bed. I have a sudden and complete understanding of what his hands would feel like on my bare back, the inside of his leg against the inside of mine. This understanding settles low in my belly. I look up at him and he’s watching me.

“Better?” he asks.

“Not bad,” I say, and take my hand away.





Chapter 11





He texts me at work on Friday. I called scissors to my dad’s rock and got stuck in the back room, deveining shrimp. Stewart: Are you off at four again?