“Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
“Maybe. If Dr. Jekyll were a billionaire who was too handsome for his own good. And if Mr. Hyde were secretly strong and grieving and lonely.”
“I feel like that story wouldn’t make a great musical.”
“No,” she says. “But it makes a great man.”
Warmth suffuses my chest. Goddamn. This woman really should be illegal. Not only because she’s sexy, but because she’s the real deal. Not like me. I’m fake. Pretend. Temporary. Every second that I spend with her, I’m one step closer to the end.
Oh, everyone knows we’re not promised a long and healthy life.
We can live with that uncertainty.
Unfortunately, my fate isn’t uncertain. I know exactly how it’s going to play out. And I watched my mother lose affection for my father as he drooled and babbled and essentially turned back into a child. I watched my father, in his lucid moments, ask for her.
I lie, of course. She’s shopping. She’s at the spa. Anything but the truth, which is that she hasn’t been in this house for years. In a matter of hours he’s forgotten about her again.
It’s a strange blessing.
I raise my hand to call the waiter over. “Put a hold on the foie gras and the risotto. We’re having dessert first. One of everything. And I expect at least one thing to be on fire.”
She smiles, like I hoped she would.
Christ.
I could spend a lifetime with this woman.
The only problem is, I don’t have a lifetime left to live.
“Tell me something about you,” she says after eating a bite of chocolate cremeux and caramelized banana. “I know about the casino and the boxing. Do you spend all your time seeking out illegal activity or do you have other hobbies?”
“Horses,” I tell her. “I breed them. Race them.”
A small notch forms between her eyes. “I remember seeing something about that. An article somewhere. That you were the youngest owner to win the Kentucky Derby.”
“It’s not precisely an achievement, owning them. It’s the jockey that does the work. And mostly the horse. You don’t make them race, you know. They want it. The real champions want to push the limits of what they can do, just like human athletes do.”
“Ah,” she says in a knowing tone.
“Ah, what?”
“It’s another one of your risky things. Like gambling.”
“There’s definitely a gambling element to horse racing. And they’ve made me a lot of money. But the truth is, I feel a connection to the horses. An understanding.”
“You like to be ridden?” A moment after the words are out, she turns pink.
I’m a gentleman enough to ignore it. Barely. “The horses are bred to be champions. They enjoy it, but they were also made that way. They can’t help it.”
She frowns. “Is that how you feel? That you were… bred?”
My voice drops. I’m aware that people are around us, even though they can’t really hear. “I know I was bred. That’s why my parents got married. Someone had to carry on the family name.”
“You have the horses at your estate?”
“There’s not enough room for them. We have a property upstate. I visit when I can, which never seems like enough. Especially now that Hemingway is home.”
“Your brother?”
I make a face. “He got expelled.”
“Oh no.”
“He was having sex in the bathroom. I feel… pretty useless, actually. I should have had the birds and the bees talk with him years ago. And maybe a sexual orientation talk. And a gender identity talk, maybe. I don’t even know. I’m failing him.”
Sympathy crosses her face. “I feel the same way.” Her voice drops. “Lizzy thought she might be pregnant. She took the test at my loft. Negative, thank God. She’s supposed to start college in the fall. She has a lot to do before she’s ready for kids.”
I stare at her, surprised that I never put it together before. “We’re the same.”
“What?”
“You and I. Both of us are raising our siblings.”
Awareness raises her brow. “You’re right.”
“Though you have quite a few more than I do.”
No fucking wonder I was drawn to her. She’s beautiful and perfect and… the same as me. We share an experience that’s shaped us. That connection remains while we finish the dessert and finally get our entrées. Our conversation turns a little lighter, but it never becomes completely playful. There’s a new gravity between us, pulling and pulling.
When we’re done I help her stand and lead her out of the restaurant.
A man approaches me, his expression intent, and I force myself not to flinch. I try to offer a handshake, but he pulls me in for a hug. He’s my father’s friend. No, scratch that. He’s my father’s best friend, which makes it that much worse.
Which is why I’ve been very careful not to make close friends.
“How’s Dan?” he asks, trying to mask his hurt and not being very competent at it. “I’ve missed him at the country club. Other guys ask me about him.”