We laugh at the same time, and I start, my laugh ebbing as I realize that he’s really funny. A silence settles between us as our gazes bounce off each other—and dammit, why can’t I look away? I dip my head, swallowing. “Ah, we should go.”
“Ah, right.” We take off again, our steps in sync. “Walking clears my head, you know, especially when it’s cold. It needs clearing a lot these days.” He grimaces. “You a football fan?”
“No.” I’ve watched a few games with Brogan, but that’s it.
“I can teach you, little princess. First, I’m a wide receiver. My job is to catch the ball, then outmaneuver the opposing team and get yardage. Jasper is the quarterback. He’s the one throwing the ball.”
I roll my eyes. “You and Cupid are in the NFL. I’m still wrapping my head around it.” I glance at the white scars on his knuckles.
His eyes follow mine. “Ah, those came from glass. Plus the ones on my wrist.”
“How?”
A frown flits over his face. “I pushed my hands through a window. Someone was inside a car ...” His voice trails off. “It’s not important.”
I nod, pushing away my curiosity. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and really, the less I know about him, the better.
“Wait a sec, will you, Francesca?”
I’m not sure what he means, but I stop near a streetlamp.
He gives me a quick nod, then walks over to a man, maybe in his sixties, sitting on the concrete near an antique store. With his legs crossed, he wears a torn T-shirt, ragged jeans, and tennis shoes. Next to him is a cat and a cardboard box stuffed with junk, although I’m sure it’s not junk to him. Tuck bends down and talks to him longer than I expected, at least ten minutes, yet I don’t have the urge to leave. Tuck pets the cat, then takes off his coat and scarf and hands them over to him. They clasp hands; then Tuck walks back to me.
“Sorry I took so long. Ready?”
“That was nice. Most people just keep walking.” Me. I do. It’s as if you don’t see the homeless after a while. It’s a terrible thought, and I cringe. “Do you hand out coats frequently?”
When he doesn’t answer, I glance over at him, then gasp. “Oh my God, you do! What ... do you just walk around at night and give out winter apparel?”
He shrugs. “There’s over fifty thousand homeless in Manhattan. If you count the entire state, it’s up to eighty. Some go to shelters—some don’t. The ones on the street, sometimes all they want is to talk tosomeone and make a connection. Giving him my coat isn’t much, but to him it is.” He pauses, wincing. “The tricky part is I feel good afterwards. Is that bad, that I do it for me too?”
“Not at all.”
He nods. “My therapist told me to help others last year. I started with giving more money to charities, but it was meaningless to write a check. So I started this.” He huffs out a small laugh. “Wow. I’ve never told anyone this.”
I mimic zipping my lips. “I’m surprised the media didn’t pick it up.”
“Most of the homeless don’t know who I am.”
A couple walks toward us holding hands, and we sidestep them to give them more room.
He glances over at me. “So do you ever think about that night?”
I don’t have to ask which night. “No, never.” Big. Fat. Lie.
“Yeah, me neither. It really sucked. Worst ever.”
“Totally, right?”
“Totally.” He smirks.
We walk up to the entrance, and Herman opens the door for us, a smile on his face. “Two of my favorites. How was the walk?”
“Great,” we both say at the same time, then glance at each other.
We head to the elevators and step inside. He’s on one side, and I move to the other as he types in his password for the penthouse. Several other residents get in, and we end up at the back together. Our hands brush as we face straight ahead.
“Would you like to come up?” he murmurs under his breath. “I’ll be good.”