Maybe he’s not so bad.
He set the drinks down and sucked spilled beer off the flat space beside his thumb. His hands were big, his knuckles covered with dozens of tiny scars.
He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “So. May.”
Then silence. He seemed to have nothing more to say.
May took the initiative. “Ben. Are you from around here?”
Small talk. Bright and cheerful. Just what her mother would have prescribed for such a situation. Not that her mother would ever find herself in this situation, because who moved in with her boyfriend, attacked him, slunk out of his apartment, got purse-snatched by a paparazzo, and ended up drinking with a hostile stranger?
Only May.
“I live in Hell’s Kitchen,” Ben said. “Ninth and Fiftieth.”
“I’m staying in the Meatpacking District.”
Ben nodded but didn’t comment.
It was as if he didn’t know how small talk worked. Or he hated her.
So why had he bought her a drink? Pity?
“Have you always lived there?” He seemed like the sort of man Hell’s Kitchen might have spawned.
“I grew up in Ashland.”
“Ashland where?”
“Wisconsin.”
“All the way up north?”
He nodded.
“I’m from Manitowoc.”
Another nod, and now he looked bored, probably because this conversation was lame even for small talk. Whereas May was kind of stunned. She’d never in a million years have guessed he was from back home. He was so armored.
He passed her one of the short glasses of whiskey.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“Six years.”
“I’ve been here six weeks.”
And then more nothing.
She wished he would say something. Anything.
Part of her wondered if this was some kind of elaborate setup, like this morning. That guy who’d stolen her purse must have planned it. He must have wanted access to her phone, hoping for juicy details to feed the media’s fascination with Dan. Or not with Dan, really, but with Dan’s celebrity. Fans called him “Thor” for his longish blond hair, his build, his Scandinavian roots. In his uniform, she could see it. He looked like a Viking quarterback god.
But he wasn’t what he looked like. People often weren’t. If the thief had looked like a thief, rather than a runty guy in a uniform with a baseball hat shading his eyes, May might have told him not to bother. There were no juicy details on her phone, because there were no juicy details, period. Her personal life was ordinary. Drama-free.
Or it had been until yesterday.
The funny thing was, Ben looked more like a thief than the runty guy had. She could easily imagine him being sent to snatch purses. But to coax the truth out of a troubled woman? Not his style.