My smile widens. She’s adorable. How can a badarse in combat boots—the smartest person I’ve ever met—be so goddamn adorable?
It’s doing things to me. Things inappropriate for this venue.
Ian: I would recommend myself. But it’s a conflict of interest.
Eve: How can I trust anyone you recommend? It could be a setup.
Ian: Possible.
Eve: If it is a fake identity, it’s elaborate. There are plenty of news articles about you. A few mention your time in the military. You were a pilot.
Ian: Still am.
Eve: Really?
Ian: I can fly you somewhere.
Eve: Where?
Ian: Anywhere you need a good view. I fly helicopters.
Eve: What does a helicopter pilot do in New York City?
Ian: Very little. For its size, the city lacks helipads. But I volunteer with a local hospital once a week.
Eve: What do you do for them?
Ian: Mostly organ transfers. Some med-vac.
Eve: A philanthropist.
Ian: Do I need pure intentions for that?
Eve: What are your intentions?
Ian: I’ve been called an adrenaline junkie.
By my ex-wife. But no sense in bringing her up. It’s not time to kill the mood.
Eve: What are your intentions with me?
Ian: I only send dirty texts if I’m sure a woman wants them.
Eve: You know what I mean.
Ian: I’m not sure I do.
Eve: Why are you offering to buy my virginity? You’re a rich man. Clearly handsome. Very successful. And very tall. How tall are you anyway?
Ian: I suppose you want it in feet?
Eve: I can convert centimeters on my phone.
Ian: Other yanks have asked. Six three.
Eve: Yanks? Do you say that to make a point?
Ian: Usually. In other parts of the world, we don’t see how you can claim the title America when you’re in the middle of the Americas.
Eve: It’s a bit myopic.
Ian: It is.
Eve: You like to rile people.
Ian: Maybe.
Eve: Is that it? You’re trying to rile someone?
Ian: No. I don’t joke about money. I made you an offer. I meant it.
Eve: But why? You don’t seem to need help with women. You’ve been photographed with lots. Women more beautiful than I am. More successful.
Ian: I don’t know any women more beautiful than you are.
Eve: That sounds like a line.
Ian: It’s the truth.
Eve: It’s not. I’m cute, sure. And, yes, I have a look. But I’m not beautiful. I’m not a New York ten.
Ian: That’s an awfully conventional lens for you, Eve.
Eve: Because of the hair?
Ian: You have a large tattoo from The Handmaid’s Tale on your arm.
Eve: And the hair?
Ian: I like your hair.
Eve: Got a thing for mermaids?
Ian: I can’t make a mermaid come.
Eve: Oh.
Ian: That’s my intention. To make you come.
Eve: That’s it?
Ian: Eve, you’re determined to hurt my feelings, aren’t you?
Eve: Uh-huh.
Ian: What else is there?
Eve: Is that all you want from me?
Ian: Meet me somewhere. This will be easier in person.
Eve: I have work tonight.
Ian: You don’t have to go.
Eve: I do. I have to fill the fridge somehow.
Ian: What are you doing right now?
Eve: It’s barely nine.
Ian: And?
Eve: I’m drinking tea and eating oatmeal. Like a normal person. Are you between helicopter missions? Or maybe some sort of covert operation?
Ian: The gym in my building.
Eve: How normal. I can’t see that.
Ian: Picture me naked. It might help.
Eve: That would be more fun somewhere else.
She’s full on flirting with me. I don’t know what to make of it. Of her.
Ian: Somewhere quiet. My office will be empty. Or my apartment.
Eve: Your apartment?
Ian: It’s not wise to go to a stranger’s apartment, I know. That’s why I suggested the office.
Eve: Or you’re afraid of me.
Ian: Terrified.
Eve: The office is downtown?
Ian: Yes.
Eve: Let me guess. You live on the Upper East Side?
Ian: I can’t give away that information.
Eve: But you’ll send me the address?
Ian: A driver.
Eve: I really am a subway girl.
Ian: Because you haven’t been in the back of a limo.
Eve: Even so.
Ian: What if I insist?
Eve: I don’t think you will.
She’s right. I grew up in London without a penny. The Underground was a luxury. Cars aren’t a big part of my life.
I don’t have a car. Or a driver.
A service? Sure. I can hire a limo anytime, day or night.
I prefer to send women home in a car. Usually, they’re too exhausted to remember their fucking subway stop.
Eve isn’t there yet. She’s smart to insist on riding herself.
She’s careful.
I appreciate it. Even if it’s making this harder.
Ian: The office then. One o’clock. Unless you want to call into work.
Eve: One it is.
Ian: I’ll see you then.
I send her the address. Finish another set. Wipe my brow.
It’s not the workout making me sweat. It’s her.
In less than three hours, I need to convince Eve Miller to give up on finding a higher bidder.
No, I need more than that.
I need her to choose me.
Chapter Eleven
Ian
I check the floor one more time. No one is here. My office is clean. The kitchen is stocked.
Tea, tonic water, almond milk—whatever she wants, I have it.