Made in Manhattan

Ashley nearly snorted her tea. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Long story,” Violet said, waving her hand.

“And one I’d like to hear in extreme detail,” Ashley said with a cheeky grin.

After Violet brought her friend up to speed on her first morning at Cain’s house, as well as describing his overnight guest, she lifted her hands in helpless frustration. “You see? The man has no idea how to behave, no clue how to fit in, and I don’t even think he wants to.”

“Hmm.” Ashley pressed her lips together and got that distant expression that Violet recognized as her science-minded analytical face. “Maybe that’s part of the problem,” she said after a long moment.

“The problem is that he’s prone to sullen silences and wore a faded bomber jacket to the Frick on Friday instead of the wool peacoat I specifically told him to wear.”

“Well, yeah, there’s that,” Ashley agreed. “But to be fair, do you like going to the Frick?”

“Not particularly,” Violet admitted after a moment.

“What about shopping? Because as I recall, we’re both known to get more excited about free shipping and returns than window-shopping these days. And,” Ashley continued, “you’re wearing makeup and your pearls, but—” She waved a finger at Violet’s bottom half. “Yoga pants.”

Violet narrowed her eyes good-naturedly. “Do I even want to know where you’re going with this?”

“What’s that phrase your grandma used to love? Something about bugs and honey?”

“You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” Violet said without hesitation. Her grandma had loved that phrase.

“Exactly. There you go,” Ashley said with a confident nod, as though everything was clear now.

“I don’t follow. You think I’ve been serving up vinegar?” Violet asked, trying not to be offended.

“Not exactly. I mean, on the surface, your plan makes sense. The guy is going to have to learn to endure wearing a tie and tolerate museums, you’re right on about that. But come on, Vi. That’s not all New York is—it’s not all we are. It’s not why we love it, it’s not why we live here. Right?”

“I guess so,” Violet said slowly. “But I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“I just think maybe he’d find the shopping and ties and museums in his future a bit more palatable if you cushioned the boring stuff with parts of New York he’ll actually like.”

“So far, the only things he’s confessed to liking are bagels and sex.”

“Well, who doesn’t?” Ashley grinned.

“I’m all for catching the fly, but I am not giving Cain Stone that kind of honey,” Violet said, even as the thought of Cain and sex in the same sentence made her a little bit warm and irritable.

Ashley’s answering grin was pure mischief. “Not at all what I was suggesting, but interesting that you thought it was.”

Nine

Now where are we going?” Cain asked dubiously, following Violet through the stone entrance. “I swear to God, woman, if you’re dragging me to another hushed museum…”

“No museum today,” she said pleasantly as she lifted Coco out of her purse, clipped on her leash, and set the little dog on the dirt path. “Mr. Stone: welcome to Central Park.”

Cain narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, then turned his attention toward their surroundings.

“Huh,” he said, looking around at the famous urban oasis as they walked farther into the park. Coco darted quickly to her left, barking furiously at movement in the bushes.

Cain looked amused. “Um, Duchess, hate to be the one to tell you this, but Toto is chasing after a rat bigger than she is.”

“You love being the one to tell me that,” Violet said. “But yeah, she does that. You’ll get used to it.”

He glanced down, surprised. “Are you used to it?”

“Of course. I mean, it’s not as though I’d tolerate rats running through my house or in a restaurant. Here?” She shrugged. “It’s their home too. That’s the beauty of Central Park.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t have rats in New Orleans?”

“We do.” He lifted his shoulders. “I just don’t get romantic about it. Not the cockroaches either.”

“Don’t worry, we have those too,” Violet said. “You should feel right at home.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

Violet made no reply to that. She was learning that when Cain wanted to be surly, which was pretty much always, it was best to let him have at it.

They walked in silence for a few moments, headed in no direction in particular, which was sort of the point of Central Park; none of the paths went in a straight line.

“What do people do here?” Cain asked, though he sounded more curious than derisive, and she didn’t think it was her imagination that he seemed slightly more relaxed here than he did on the bustling sidewalks.

“Just what you see,” she said, gesturing around. “They go for a run. Push strollers. Walk dogs. Skateboard. Sit. Read. It’s busier in the summer, especially on weekends. There’s live music, Shakespeare plays, picnics.”