Truly (New York 1)

“What’s on your agenda this morning? You need to get on my computer?”

“If I can. I guess I should check on flights and see what the rules are on flying with no ID.”

“Hang on, I’ll grab it.”

He retrieved the laptop from the bedroom and set it on the counter. “You should have an Internet connection. Let me know if it’s hinky. Sometimes I have to reset it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to take a quick shower. Then I’ll see about whipping up some breakfast.”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I can grab a bagel or something. I mean, if you’d just as soon be sleeping, you can go back to bed, and I’ll—”

“Let yourself out? No, I owe you breakfast. Part of my duty as your host.”

She seemed to take that at face value, giving him a nod. “Okay. I think while you’re in there, I’ll see if I can freeze my cell phone account and my credit cards.”

“You have the phone numbers you need for that?”

“I can find them online.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll probably need it.”

Ben left his coffee and headed for the bathroom, wondering at himself. My duty as your host—had those words ever left his mouth before? With most of the women he’d brought to the apartment, he’d woken up thinking, How do I get her out of here?

Maybe he’d made more progress in the past six months than he’d thought.

He showered, wrapped a towel around his waist, and popped his head out of the bathroom to check that she was occupied before he went back to the bedroom. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable if he could help it—and Jesus, when had he turned into such a sensitive New Age guy?

In the bedroom, he pulled on a T-shirt and a warm chamois button-up. He had to do the farmer’s market this morning, and the sky was overcast.

“You mind if I shower, too?” May called while he was still behind the door.

“Go ahead. Clean towels are under the sink.”

“Thanks.”

When the water started up, he focused on breakfast. No point in thinking about heat and soap and wet woman. He had eggs, half a loaf of brioche on its way to stale, and a few apples that had been sitting on the countertop for a week.

French toast, then.

The toast was sizzling in the pan and the apples sautéing on a back burner when she padded back into the room, her wet hair dark and sleek against her head. She hadn’t put her jersey back on, and the long-sleeved white shirt she’d worn underneath skimmed close over her body.

Ben turned away to stir the apples. They didn’t need it, but otherwise he’d just be staring. His imagination hadn’t done her justice.

He reached for the cardamom he’d ground up and sprinkled it on top of the apples.

“That smells so good.”

“Hope you like apples.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

She settled at the counter again, and he flipped the bread and put the chopped walnuts on to toast. “So what did you find out? Can you fly?”

“I think so. The TSA website says I should be able to get through security with no ID as long as I can answer some questions to verify my identity.”