We stand near the entrance as he tells me about his wife’s root canal, then shows me a pic of his youngest grandson’s first birthday. My chest tightens at the image of a little toddler with cake smeared on his face.
“Are you going for a walk?” he says as I inch closer to the sidewalk.
I nod. “See you soon.”
He nods. “All right. Sorry again about Edward getting past me. Don’t tell the manager, yeah?”
Edward hasn’t even crossed my mind. He came to apologize, maybe absolve himself, and then found out I was pregnant. Priceless. “I doubt he’ll be back, Herman.”
I wave goodbye as I stick my hands in my black leather moto jacket and step out into the early December air. I walk down Fifth Avenue, then turn on East Seventy-Third Street and go inside Lottie’s Coffee and Book Shoppe. I’m yearning for a steaming cup of coffee, and the nutty, caramelized smell nearly makes me break my vow to ease off the caffeinefor the pregnancy. With a sigh, I order a dragon-fruit-and-mango tea. It’s been the only thing that settles my stomach. I buy a book, then head back out.
I’m halfway back to Wickham when a man walks briskly past, then stops and glances at me.
His voice is deep and husky. “Francesca?”
My lips part in surprise until I find my voice. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, walking to me. Wearing a black wool coat, a thick scarf, and a Nike wool cap over his head, he’s not easily recognizable, but it doesn’t stop the women from giving him second and third looks.
“How are you?” he asks, and I can’t help but stare at his lips, the deep V at the top, the plump bottom one. Wicked lips. The way he used them on my neck, my breasts, the curve of my waist ...
I shake myself inwardly.
Must stay away from the hot baller.
“Good.” Pregnant. I start walking again, and his steps adjust with mine.
“You headed home, I guess?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“You already are.”
“My sweet princess is long gone.” He chuckles, then sobers. “I’m glad I saw you. You’ve been on my mind.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t know who stops walking first, me or him, but we do. We end up near the overhang of a store, and our eyes cling. Without dropping my gaze, he takes his hat off and pushes tawny hair away from his forehead, the ends brushing against his diamond-cut jawline. A small smile curls his lips. “I had a dream where you worked at Café Lazzo. You tossed spaghetti in my face when I asked for my order. Then everyone turned into breadsticks. Even you.”
A small laugh wants to erupt, and I bite my lips to hold it in. “You must have gone to bed hungry.”
“I had another one. Horrible.” He pulls his gloves off and tucks them in his pocket. “There was this virus that hit the world, and everyone turned into clowns. Little kids in bright clothes and makeup were running around everywhere trying to kill people. Women—did you know women clowns are called clownettes?”
I blink. “No.”
“Now you do. Anyway, these clown women were chasing me. They had crazy hats and big floppy shoes.” He shudders. “I’d just outrun them when I bumped into you as you ran from a ferret turned clown. We ran to Wickham, jumped on the elevator, and hid on the roof of my penthouse. Then, Jasper showed up as a pirate clown. He had a hook on his arm and said he wanted to slice us up and eat us. You grabbed a chain saw—from where, I don’t know—and tossed it at him. It hit him right in the forehead, and he fell off the building. Then I woke up.”
I shake my head as a laugh comes from me. “What do you think it means?”
He smiles, slow and sexy, and a shiver dances down my spine. “To make sure you have a chain saw when the clown apocalypse hits.”
“I read Stephen King’sIt, and that was it for me and clowns. They’re awful,” I say.
“Same! Jesus. Clowns are fucking scary.”