The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

She smirks, used to my teasing. “I’m just saying. You’re a bachelor for forty-eight hours. Use them wisely.”

“I’m also a thirty-five-year-old dad,” I say, deadpan. “I’m hardly about to go on a bender.”

“Then I suggest you do the thirties version of a bender and binge on good food. There’s a place around the corner that has amazing pizza. Seriously. You’d die for it.”

Sadie has a weird habit of saying she’d die for a meal. “I happen to like my life,” I say. “But I’ll think about it.”

“Ready?” Sadie asks Bell, taking her hand.

We say goodnight, and the two most important women in my world descend down the steps without me.

I shove my hands in my pockets, watching long after they’re gone. It’s a fifteen-minute walk back to Penn Station, but at the thought of going home to an empty house, I slow to a crawl. I’ll be on my own for an entire weekend—the first time since Bell’s mom left almost four years ago. I have an open invitation to go out with the guys at my shop, but most of the time I prefer to stay home with Bell. And on the rare occasion I get a sitter, at least I know I’m coming home to find Bell safe in her bed. Two nights without that comfort feels like the loss of a limb.

As I approach Sadie’s office on my way back to the train, my sight snags on the smoking-hot blonde coming out of the building before I realize who it is. Digging through her purse with one hand, Sadie’s boss, Amelia, stops a few feet in front of me. She’s carrying a small package, plus a laptop bag and purse over her shoulder, and both crooks of her arms are occupied by manila folders, magazines, and a coffee thermos.

I walk until I’m standing right in front of her. “Need some help?”

She keeps her head down. “No.”

I cross my arms at her curtness. “Just trying to be friendly.”

“Right,” she snorts. “In this city? Friendly means—” She glances up and squints at me. “Oh. You’re the plumber.”

“For the last time, I’m not a plumber,” I say. “I’m Sadie’s brother.”

The corner of her red mouth twitches as if she’s going to smirk, but she manages to contain it, which is almost worse. “Of course. My mistake.”

The thermos wedged in her elbow clatters on the ground. “Shit,” she says, trying to balance everything and go after it.

“Let me give you a hand,” I say, scooping it up. “Where are you headed?”

“I’m fine.” She takes it from me. Some papers slide out of the folder, dangerously close to falling out. “Just because you fixed my toilet doesn’t make me helpless.”

“I wasn’t implying you were.” Since my help isn’t wanted, I have to ball my hands under my pits to stop myself from saving the papers slipping through the folder. I glance at them, pages ripped from a yellow legal pad, hoping she’ll get the hint. The handwriting—hers, I assume—is messy, but I still make out the words assets and alimony.

“If you’re going to stare at my breasts, try not to be so obvious about it.”

“I wasn’t, actually,” I say and let my gaze drift a few inches over. Unless she’s wearing a bionic push-up bra, she’s got more to work with than her slight frame suggests. “But I am now.”

Amelia covers herself with the stack in her arms and one by one, papers start to flutter from her folder. “Goddamn it,” she says, dropping the magazines to the sidewalk with a smack. A breeze scatters the scribble-covered pages away.

I keep my arms over my chest, watching her scurry around in an attempt to recover everything. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she snaps, barely glancing up. “This stuff is important.”

I shake my head, chuckling to myself, and jog past her to retrieve the ones that skittered the farthest. I manage to grab them all, but not before a suit on legs with a cell attached to his ear walks right over them. “Hey, asshole,” I say loud enough for him to hear. He doesn’t bother to respond.

When I turn back, I’m greeted with a startling and welcome sight. Amelia’s bent over, piling the contents of the folder on top of the magazines. The chick has barely an ounce fat on her, but she’s got an ass like a couple of cantaloupes and I’m suddenly the kind of hungry that can’t be satisfied with pizza. There’s definitely enough for me to get a handful—and it’s giving her rack a run for its money.

I let my eyes travel down her sculpted calves—is she a runner?—to her thin ankles and high, high black heels. The sleeping giant in me wakes, as if my body knows I finally have a weekend with nowhere to be—a rare couple days without the all-consuming responsibility of raising a six-year-old. My mood morphs. Curiosity gives way to intrigue. I stalk back toward her, and when she’s gathered herself and is upright again, I hold out the stack I managed to collect. There’s a footprint smudge on top of a paper printed with paragraphs of terms and conditions. She looks at it, blinks, and starts to laugh.

I grin, caught off guard by her sudden openness. “That’s one way to get the message across,” I say.

“It certainly is.” She wipes the corner of one eye and pauses. “Wait, to who?”

“Your husband.”

Her face freezes. She goes to take the papers, but she has a thermos in one hand and the package in the other. She extends her elbow a little bit, just enough for me to slip the pages in. I don’t.

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” I ask, looking them over, noting the copious notes in the margin. “Divorce agreement or something?”

Her expression cools, and even though she’s done nothing but boss me around and attempt to belittle me since we met, I feel instantly bad about ruining her good mood. She doesn’t seem the type to laugh easily.

“Never mind.” I straighten the papers in my pile, sticking the handwritten notes on the bottom before grabbing more pages out of her hands.

“What are you—”

“You said they’re important.” I check the page numbers and start getting the contract back in order while she watches.

“They don’t know we’re still married,” she says.

I glance up at her quickly before returning to my project. “Who?”

“Anyone. I told everyone it was done months ago when it was supposed to be, but it’s not yet. So please don’t mention it to your sister.”

“Why not?”

“It’s . . . complicated, and I don’t want them to worry about—”

“No,” I cut her off. I have no reason to mention it to Sadie, and it’s Amelia’s prerogative to keep it private. “I meant, why isn’t it done?”

“Oh.” Her eyes dart away. “Like I said. It’s complicated.”

“What isn’t?”

“Not much these days, I guess.” She glances at the pages between us. “I should go.”

I don’t give them to her. I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet. In the four years I’ve been single, I’ve had plenty of opportunities with eager women. I can’t remember one who treated me like such a nuisance, though. It’s almost nice, the change of pace, and since I’ve got nowhere to be, I might as well see where it leads. I nod behind her. “So this is your business?”

She looks up the building toward her floor and nods. “And no, my dad didn’t give me the capital to start it.”

This girl is feisty, but the more annoyed she seems, the more I want to needle her. “So your mom then?”

She sets her jaw. “Actually, no. I worked through college and then my twenties, saving every dollar I could. I have an investor, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t bust my ass to get here.”

“Relax. I’m teasing you. I own a business too.”

She shifts on her feet, her eyes bouncing from the papers I won’t give her to my face. “Look, I don’t date. So whatever you’re doing, you can stop. I’m not interested.”

I lift my chin. I’d be impressed with her candor if my attention hadn’t snagged on what she’d said. “Don’t date what?” I ask. “Plumbers? Outside the tri-state area?”

“No, I just don’t date. Anyone. Period.”

I lean in a little and catch a whiff of her

perfume. It’s dense, sophisticated, so different from the citrus-scented lotion of the girls I know at home. “Because you’re married?”

“No.”

“Something to do with the soon-to-be ex?”

She holds my gaze. “It doesn’t take a genius.”

“Well, then you’ll be happy to hear I don’t date, either. Not cute biker chicks in tight jeans, even though they’re my type, and not prissy city girls, who are most definitely not.”

She reels back as if I’ve slapped her, but takes a beat before she speaks. And in those few seconds, understanding crosses her face. “You have an ex too.”

“I do.”

“Being called a prissy city girl doesn’t bother me.”

“I didn’t think it would.” The more I stand here, the more I think Amelia might be just what I need this weekend. I have no complaints about my life, but before Bell came along, I was a lot more spontaneous. Sometimes I even thought about getting out of New Jersey. But the truth is, Jersey is my home. I wouldn’t have lasted long before coming back. It’s certainly more my speed than the city, but it’s been a while since I spent an evening somewhere other than Timber Tavern, the only bar I’ve hit up since Bell was born. It’s also been a while since I got to flirt with someone who wasn’t a high school classmate, or a friend of one, or a friend of a friend of one . . .

On a whim, I hide her divorce papers behind my back. “What’re your plans tonight?”

She scoffs. “It’s Friday night. What aren’t my plans? I have drinks with friends in an hour, then a late dinner, and who knows after that.”

“Cancel them.”

She gapes at me. “Cancel my plans? Why would I?”

“Come out with me. Sadie says there’s a place around here with great pizza.”

She laughs, tilting her head and exposing the smooth column of her throat. “First, I don’t eat carbs, so there’s no way you’re getting me to do anything with the promise of pizza. Second, I just told you—I don’t date.”

“And neither do I.”

“Then why are you asking me out?”

“Because despite what you may think, I’m a gentleman, and it’s only good manners to buy you dinner first.”