Truly (New York 1)

“Not always.”

A clock above the TV ticked off the seconds, and she drifted.

“You’re going to put me to sleep,” she mumbled.

“I know.”

After an unknown interval, he plucked the glass out of her hand, and she turned onto her side into the couch, tucking her arm against her chest.

“Thanks for being so nice to me.”

She thought he might have said “My pleasure,” just before she fell asleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

He woke to the clang of metal on granite.

A dropped pot. He’d know the sound anywhere.

The bedside clock read 5:18. Way too fucking early. The downstairs tenant was a dick.

Ben turned his face into the pillow.

Another sound—a quiet clink this time—brought his head back up. That had come from his apartment. His kitchen.

May.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Clumsy with sleep when he stood, he had to put a hand out to keep from bumping into the wall.

Where’s the fire, Hausman?

He made himself stop in the bathroom to take a leak and give his brain a few seconds to catch up. After, he found her sitting at the kitchen counter next to the French press, hands wrapped around a mug.

“Morning,” she said. The room was dark. She hadn’t turned on any lights, just cracked the curtain. “Sorry if I woke you. I was trying to find something to heat the water in, and I dropped a pot.”

Ben opened the curtains. “That’s all right.” He flipped a few light switches and helped himself to the rest of the coffee in the French press, adding cream from the fridge. “You sleep okay?”

“Sure. Sorry I conked out on you.”

“No problem.” Far better that she relax and fall asleep on the couch than lie awake all night, jumpy over him possibly making a pass at her, or crying because of what happened with her ex.

Some ex, too. Thor fucking Einarsson. Ben wondered what the guy had said to make May go after with him with a fork.

Had to be bad. She wasn’t the type to attack unprovoked.

“You been awake a long time?” he asked.

“An hour or so. I’m an early riser. I hope I didn’t make too much noise. I couldn’t decide whether to flush the toilet.”

He looked up from his mug to find her bashful, eyes averted. Because she’d said toilet?

“Decided to be civilized and take the risk?”

She nodded. “Sorry.”

“You gotta stop apologizing. You’re going to run out, and it’s not even six yet.”

“Sorry, I—” She stopped and gave him a small smile. “Habit. I’ve got that Midwestern politeness thing pretty deeply ingrained.”