"Both."
He regaled her with anecdotes about his constant hassles with the querulous air conditioner, and by the time they reached her apartment they were laughing easily.
"Here we are."
The stately old house was set like a matriarch on a tree-shaded lot in the middle of a street lined with similar houses. It had three stories, if you didn't count the basement. Tall windows flanked a front door decorated with a heavy brass knocker. The wide front porch was lined with thick shrubbery. The roof was dramatically pitched and gabled.
"All this belongs to you?" Ian asked in surprise.
Shay laughed. "Just the corner apartment on the second floor. Come on."
She led him up the steps to the porch and through the front door. Their footsteps were muted by an ancient Persian runner as they climbed the majestic staircase to the second floor.
At the landing Shay turned toward the door with a discreet 2 stenciled on it. After unlocking it, she went inside ahead of him. She gave a hasty glance around and breathed a sigh of relief. She'd left things in some order that morning.
"This is great," Ian said with admiration as he looked around him. The room was positioned in the corner of the old house, and its two bay windows overlooked the front lawn and were filled with plants. There were no curtains or drapes. The living area was spacious. Shay's knack with color was reflected in the tastefully chosen sofa and easy chair, the framed prints on the walls, the rug covering only a center square of the oak floor, and the variety and combinations of textures. "I like it," Ian said. "Does the fireplace work?"
"When I can afford the wood," she replied. "The bedroom's through there." She pointed toward a partially closed door. "It has a wide window, too. And the kitchen is through here. I'll get the coffee started."
Nervously she scurried toward the tiny kitchen, dropping her purse and jacket on a chair. It had suddenly occurred to her that Ian Douglas was the first man ever to stand inside the door of her apartment. Many had begged for the privilege. All had been refused admittance.
"How long have you lived here?" Ian called.
"Since—" She bit off her sentence, then realized that that kind of reticence was silly. "Since my divorce. About three years."
He followed her into the kitchen. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed that he'd taken off his coat. Her fingers fumbled as she spooned coffee grounds into the filtered cup of the coffeemaker.
"Why didn't you choose to live in New York? Isn't that where you lived when you were married?" He took a seat at the round table, which was only large enough for two chairs.
His ease at making himself at home discomfited her. She was sure this was only a friendly call, perhaps to smooth the troubled waters between them for their parents' sake. He looked upon her as a stepsister whom he'd have to learn to tolerate.
But she didn't see him that way. His presence was crowding her heart and mind just as his large body was crowding her tiny kitchen. Up until then her small domain had remained inviolate, as had her heart. Now neither would ever be the same.
Squelching her nervousness, she replied to his question, "I like New York City. I enjoy going periodically. It's exciting, energizing. But I'm always glad to come back home." She took cups and saucers from the cabinet, trying hard not to look at the long legs stretched out over the linoleum floor. She tried even harder not to remember how they looked in tennis shorts. "Besides, if I lived in the city, an apartment like this, even if I could find one, would be exorbitantly expensive. And I prefer trees and grass to concrete. Do you use cream or sugar?"
"Black."
The coffeemaker seemed determined not to drip. She glared at it, willing it to work so she wouldn't have to stand there not knowing what to do with her hands.
"You don't have any paintings or photographs of yourself on the walls."
Turning in the narrow space to face him, she brushed her skirt against his pants leg. "No, I don't." Was he going to start mocking her again, taunting her, rebuking her for her modeling? "There's one painting in the bedroom. I gave it to Anson for a wedding present. When we split up, I asked for it back."
"Yes. I can see why you'd want to do that." He avoided her eyes, and she turned back to the coffeemaker.
"It's ready," she said, hoping her relief wasn't too obvious. She set the tray on the table and poured him a cup of coffee. When she handed it to him, the tips of their fingers touched. Her eyes flew to his, and he looked up at her at the same time.
"Sit down, Shay," he said softly.
Not even thinking to argue, entranced and bewildered by the emotions rioting inside her, she sank into the opposite chair. Her eyes remained riveted on his.
"Do you want some coffee?" he asked.
Shaking her head, she said almost soundlessly, "No, I don't think so."
He looked down into his cup, but she didn't think he was really seeing it. She had the distinct impression that he was gathering his thoughts, outlining what he was about to say. She stared at the top of his head, remembering the splendor of having his hair curl around her fingers. The caress had been far too brief. She longed to touch those silky black strands again.
"I know you were surprised that I came to see you today," he began.