Jane jumped as a tissue fluttered in front of her face. The little white square was hanging from Manny’s blunt fingertips, and he wagged it again as she just stared at the thing.
“You’re crying,” she heard him say.
Moving the mop handle into the crook of an elbow, she took what he offered and was surprised to find that he was right: When she blotted at her eyes and took a peek, the Kleenex was damp.
“You know,” Manny drawled, “seeing you like this makes me wish I’d amputated that damn leg of his.”
“This is only partially his fault.”
“So say you. I’m allowed to look at it any way I like.”
She glanced over. “You have another one of those?”
He held a box forward and she snapped out a couple more. Dab. Dab. Delicate nose blow. Dab. She rounded out the crying jag with a quick one . . . two . . . three . . . tosses into the trash bin.
“Thank you for helping me.” As she glanced up, his glower was front and center on his face and she had to smile. “I’ve missed that.”
“Missed what.”
“That pissed-off expression you wear so often. Reminds me of the good old days.” She regarded him steadily. “Is V going to be okay?”
“If I don’t kick his ass for fucking with you—yes.”
“So gallant.” And she meant that. “You were amazing tonight.”
She meant that, too.
He put the Kleenex aside on a counter. “So were you. That happen a lot?”
“Not really. But I have a feeling that may be changing.”
Getting back to work, she made some perfunctory passes with the mop, not really improving the condition of the floor, but just moving the blood around. At this point, she probably would have more luck hosing the place down.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and Fritz put his head in. “Your repast is ready. Where would you wish to dine?”
“He’ll take it in the office,” Jane answered. “At the desk.” She glanced over at her former colleague. “Better go before it gets cold.”
The look in Manny’s eye was the ocular equivalent of a middle finger, but she just waved bon voyage. “Go. And then get some rest.”
Except no one told Manny Manello what to do. “I’ll be right there,” he said to the butler.
As Fritz ducked out, her old boss put his hands on his hips. And although she braced herself for an argument, all he said was, “Where’s my briefcase.”
When Jane blinked, he shrugged. “I’m not going to berate you into talking to me.”
“So you’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“Go, me.” He nodded over at the phone that was mounted on the wall. “I’m going to have to check my messages, and I want my damn cell phone back.”
“Ah . . . okay, your car has to be in the parking garage. Just go down the corridor. Maybe it’s in your Porsche?”
“Thanks—”
“Are you thinking of leaving?”
“All the time.” He turned and went for the door. “It’s all I can think about.”
Well . . . didn’t that make two of them. But then, Jane had never imagined that she’d not be here.