Truly (New York 1)

“Like she was having a bad day.”

She had. Uncomfortable, nervous, a little sad—way too pliable. She reminded him of three-quarters of the girls he’d gone to high school with, and she interested him not at all.

Except that when he’d told her Einarsson was a douche, the sour shape of her mouth had chastised him with all the force of a whip, and his heart had kicked in his chest, hard.

Then she’d blinked and turned innocuous again.

“Not my type.”

“No shit. She’s all soft. You spend a week filling in for Sam in the kitchen, and you look like you’re ready to take somebody’s head off. I’m surprised she even had the courage to talk to you.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“You’re worse. I bet you couldn’t be nice if you tried.”

Ben exhaled and threw another dart. When it lodged, quivering, in the floorboard, he felt like ripping it out and stepping on it, but he didn’t do it.

Progress. Even if it looked like failure.

He used to bulldoze his way through his days fueled by tension and aimless hostility. He’d wanted to be the best chef in New York. He hadn’t had a lot of time for darts, but on the rare occasion that he’d played, every missile had flown straight and true from his fingertips, like a bolt of sheared-off fury.

And t

hat was great, except he’d also been a miserable bastard with stress-induced hypertension, insomnia, and a tendency to fly into unprovoked rages. He’d screamed at his kitchen staff and fought with his wife so much, they’d practically made an Olympic sport of it.

He didn’t blame Sandy for leaving him for greener pastures eighteen months ago. Hell, he would have left him, too, if he’d been able to figure out how. She’d done him a favor, delivering that wake-up call. Hey, Ben? You’ve turned into an unbearable asshole.

These days, he was learning how to keep a cool head. Even if it was hell on his dart game.

Ben inhaled, squinted, cocked, and let another dart fly. It hit the drywall to the left of the target.

Connor snorted. “When’s Alec back?”

“I’ve got a week.”

“You find another place to live yet?”

“No.”

“You even look?”

“Sure.”

Connor raised an eyebrow.

“Some.” If glancing at Craigslist for five minutes a week ago counted as looking.

Ben went through his whole routine—deep breath, focal point, directing his energy—and threw the last dart. This time, he managed to hit the target.

“Two points,” Connor said. “You’re setting the world on fire.”

“I have to savor the small victories.”

“You know it’s supposed to be a big deal, right?”

“What, two points?”

“Finding an apartment in New York. You’re not supposed to be this casual about it.”