Nick was a lot better than most. It was a rare day indeed when you would see a crack in the perpetual armor. He hid the constant stress and anger beneath a carefully crafted smile, one that he had been perfecting since he was about four years old.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I muttered, remembering my near epileptic break down in the swarm of flashing lights. “I seem to remember a picture of you as a child comforting the Secretary General of NATO when the cameras got too intense.”
By now, in the folklore of our fair city, it was an iconic picture. Like the returning WWII soldier sweeping that woman off her feet. Lennon in his glasses. Things like that.
The two of them were on the steps of the MET. One kneeling down to his knee to be at the same height as the other. Nick, in his miniature tuxedo, giving sage advice to one of the leaders of the free world.
At least, that’s how the picture was captioned in the New York Times.
“Are you kidding?” Nick laughed softly and shook his head. “If anything, that picture proves my point. I was having a full-blown panic attack. Javier Solana took pity on me, knelt there and told me stories until I was able to calm down.”
My jaw dropped open as my messy bed-curls tumbled into my face—completely aghast at the debunking of such a famous pose. It was like hearing that Marilyn Monroe wasn’t really the one in the white dress. That Elizabeth Taylor didn’t really like diamonds.
“Seriously? You’re not just saying that?”
“Take a closer look.” He downed the rest of his coffee and tossed the empty cup onto my nightstand. “It’s why he kept a hand on my jacket—he was holding me steady.”
I clapped a hand to my chest, overwhelmed by the adorable tragedy of it all.
“...he was holding you steady?”
Nick shrugged dismissively.
“I was six. I got scared.”
Yeah. He was six. Then why was it that right now, I was feeling so protective of him?
“I should have been there,” I murmured without thinking.
Nick’s face lit up with a bemused grin. “What? Four-year-old Abigail Wilder swoops in to the rescue? Pelts the paparazzi with her building blocks?”
I raised my eyebrows knowingly.
“You’d be surprised what damage I could do with those things...”
He chuckled.
“I think the Royal Navy had it covered.”
It was my turn to laugh. But then something he’d said suddenly clicked.
“Wait a minute...you know how old I am?”
For a second, we both just stared. Me—pale as a ghost as my faithful ‘I’m twenty-nine’ cover story blew up in smoke. Nick—with the world’s most inscrutable poker face.
...a face that cracked into a smile.
“Of course I know how old you are.” He shot me a chiding grin, as if I’d been a fool to underestimate him. “I’ve known since the minute we started working together.”
Working together. Not, from the minute you started working for me.
That was one of the things I loved about Nick. To most people—especially the high-caliber clients that filled my day-book—it was a huge distinction. But Nick didn’t think twice.
“I actually happen to like that you’re a little younger than me.” His smile twisted up into a confident smirk. “Makes me want to show you the ropes.”
“I am not that much younger,” I replied with a matching grin.
But a part of me was thrilled to know he was in on the secret. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep up the façade of hovering just a year before thirty. Besides, something about the way he said show you the ropes made me want to know exactly what that meant.