We Have Till Dawn

Sure. Yeah, sure. Anonymous. I wondered if Anthony or I knew anyone with that kind of money, maybe someone who’d recently entered my life…

I huffed out a breath and looked down the street again. His driver usually drove up from that direction so he could pull up right outside the building.

“Hold up,” Anthony said. “You don’t think…”

“I don’t know what I think.” I heard the tightness in my voice and tried to calm my fucking tits. I had warning bells sounding inside my head, but it was too soon to get worked up.

Fuck. I rubbed at my chest. It felt like a giant had closed a fist around it.

The city commotion didn’t sound like my favorite noise machine anymore. The sirens wailing in the distance, the honking, the occasional hollering, the steady hum of conversation from the pedestrians at the intersection twenty feet away from me, the steam billowing up from the pavement, the lights—all of it sent my heart rate up. Something was wro—

I snapped my gaze to the left as a familiar-looking Bentley rolled up, and I coulda fuckin’ cried from the relief. It was him.

“I’mma have to call you back,” I said, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. “Gideon just got here.”

“All right, talk later.”

I ended the call and caught a glance at the time. I’d nearly freaked out over his being five minutes late. If there was something wrong, it was with me. Jesus H. Christ.

“Hi.” I felt like I’d just run a marathon, but seeing him calmed me down. He looked less frazzled today. He’d donned a fall coat that fit him unfairly well, as if he needed to get any sexier. And he wore that kind smile for me.

“I apologize for being late. There was an accident on Eighth.”

I didn’t care. I met him halfway and yanked him down for a hard kiss.

How fucking ironic that I’d fall in love in a New York minute.

He was caught off guard by the force at first, but then he grinned a little. “I like being greeted like this.”

“Good,” I chuckled. “You ready for our walk?”

He nodded. “I’d like to stop for fries somewhere, if you know a good place. I forgot to eat dinner today.”

Some worry trickled in, ’cause here we go again with the forgetfulness. He was forgetting to take care of himself.

“We’ll find something better,” I told him, grabbing his hand. “Ya gotta eat proper food, papito.”

“Fries are potatoes.” He frowned. “It doesn’t get much more proper than that. You’re part Irish—you should know.”

I barked out a laugh and hugged his bicep. “You’re funny.”When was a good time to bring up the donation?

Something in Gideon’s life must’ve changed for the better because he was a chatty Cathy today. As we strolled through a part of Hell’s Kitchen, he spoke at length about Chester’s latest escapades in the park and that Gideon had booked a photographer for a shoot, ’cause the dog looked “precious rolling around in the fallen leaves.”

We reached the piers along the Hudson, which was usually where we started turning back toward the apartment, but now he was talking animatedly about an old goth metal band he’d found. In two days, he’d gone through their entire discography, and he couldn’t stop raving about them.

That was precious.

I soaked up every word.

“…and on that note, do you ever sing?” he asked.

He’d gone from the guitar solo of a Swedish metal artist to my singing? Fair enough.

“You’ve heard me sing.” As we passed the USS Intrepid, I gestured for us to cross the street while it was still green. It was time to find a place to eat.

“Not solo,” he pointed out. “I’ve only heard you provide your brother with backup.”

True. “I prefer backup and harmonies,” I replied. “We have a few songs where I sing more, though. ‘Stand by Me,’ for instance. Which we’ll be performing this Saturday.” I nudged him.

“I’m looking forward to it. I’ll be the stalker in the back.”

I chuckled.

We walked in comfortable silence for a moment once we’d reached West 45th Street, and I thought we could take it all the way to Times Square. He’d told me he avoided the area because it was always so crowded, but then he’d also admitted that he hadn’t walked below Central Park in years. Wherever he went, he got there in a car.

We made it through a residential area before he spoke up again. “I haven’t felt comfortable rambling to anyone since I was young.”

I kissed his shoulder, equally thrilled he had no issues being honest about those things…and bummed out, because it fucking sucked that we had no future.

He squeezed my hand. “By the way, is Nicky short for Nicholas?”

“Nicola. No one calls me that, not even my family, so don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh. But it’s such a beautiful name. Don’t you think I’m special enough to be granted permission to call you that?”