Sunset In Central Park. Sarah Morgan
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a little kick. “You own the space.”
“So we’re back to owner’s privileges.” Matt gave her a long look and then picked up his fork and started to eat. “Does your mother know you lost your job and set up Urban Genie?”
“No.”
“You’re worried she’d fuss over you? Paige will tell you our mom always says you never stop worrying about your kids.”
Frankie felt a pang. “My mother wouldn’t fuss. She’s not really interested in what I do. As you know, we’re not close.”
“Do you wish you were?”
“No.” She disposed of the eggshells. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been years since we had a proper conversation about anything. I’m not sure we ever did. Most of our verbal exchanges were on the lines of ‘clean your teeth’ and ‘don’t be late for school.’ I don’t remember ever really talking.” Maybe that was why she wasn’t good at it. Or maybe it was just her nature to be private. “Let’s talk about something else.”
He glanced across the room. “Most people keep pots and pans in their kitchens. You have shelves of books.”
“I can’t fit them all in the living room. And anyway, I love books. Some people like looking at paintings. I like looking at books. What are you reading at the moment?” She relaxed. Books were something they often talked about. It was a comfortable, safe subject.
“Haven’t read anything for a month. Business has exploded. The moment my body hits the bed I’m unconscious.” He took another mouthful of food and glanced at the bookshelf again. “What’s the brown one on the end? I can’t see the title.” His tone was casual and she followed the direction of his gaze.
“It’s Stephen King. The Stand. Why? Do you want to borrow it?”
“No, I have that one, but thanks.” He gave her a thoughtful look and then returned his attention to his food.
Frankie had the feeling she was missing something.
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything is great. This omelet is fantastic. I didn’t realize you were such a great cook.”
“Food always tastes better when you’re not the one who cooked it.”
“You’re not eating?”
“I ate some cheese earlier while I started a new book. Reading food.”
He stuck his fork into the salad. “Reading food?”
“Food you can eat while you’re reading. Food that doesn’t require any attention. Can be eaten one-handed while I turn the pages with the other. You don’t know about reading food?”
“It’s a gap in my education.” There was a tiny smile on his lips. “So what else qualifies as reading food?”
She sat down and puffed her hair out of her eyes. “Popcorn, obviously. Chocolate, providing you break it into chunks before you settle down. Chips. Grilled cheese sandwiches if you cut them into bite-size pieces.”
He reached across the table and picked up the book she’d been reading. “The latest Lucas Blade? I thought this wasn’t out for another month.”
“Early copy. Turns out Eva’s favorite client is his grandmother, and I get to be the one who benefits from that friendship.”
“Well, now I understand why you need to eat while you read. I’ll borrow it when you’re done with it. I love his work. So that’s what you were doing when I knocked? You were sitting here reading?”
Frankie nodded. “I’m halfway through chapter three. Gripping.”
He put the book back on the table carefully. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, although I haven’t guessed the twist yet if that’s what you want to know.”
“It isn’t.” He’d finished his food and put his fork down. There was a pause. Her heart started to thud a little harder.
He looked serious, but surely if something was wrong he would have said so right away.
“What do you want to ask me?”
He pushed his plate away and lifted his gaze to hers. “How long have you worn glasses you don’t need?”
Oh, God.
Had he really just said what she’d thought he’d said?
What was she going to say? She looked at him stupidly. “Excuse me?”
“When I knocked on the door you were reading, but I saw your glasses on the stand in the entryway so you can’t be long-sighted. Of course you could be short-sighted, but you read the title of that book perfectly just now. Which leads me to believe you’re neither.” His tone was neutral. “You don’t need them, do you?”
Flustered, she lifted her hand to her face.
Her glasses. She’d forgotten to wear her glasses.
She remembered taking them off when she’d walked through the door. She hadn’t put them back on because she hadn’t been expecting company.
“I need them.” What should she do? She could squint and trip over a chair, but it was a bit late for that. “It’s complicated.” Lame, Frankie. Lame.
“I’m sure it is.” Matt’s tone was gentle. “But the reason you need them has nothing to do with your vision, does it?”
He knew.
Horror washed through her. It was like arriving at work and discovering you’d forgotten to dress. “If you’ve finished, you should probably go.” She snatched the plate from him, her face burning. “Claws is scratching my sofa. And I need to get back to my book.”
The book she could read perfectly well without glasses.
Matt didn’t budge. “We’re not going to talk about this?”
“Nothing to talk about. Good night, Matt.” She was so desperate for him to leave she stumbled over the kitchen chair on her way to the door. The irony almost made her laugh. If she’d done that sooner, he might never have guessed. “Have a great evening.”
He stood up slowly and followed her.
“Frankie—” The gentleness of his tone somehow intensified the humiliation.
“Good night.” She pushed him through the door and Claws shot out with him, clearly unimpressed by the level of hospitality.
Frankie slammed the door, narrowly missing his hand.
Then she leaned against it and closed her eyes.
Crap, crap and crap.
Her cover was totally and utterly blown.
Matt let himself into his apartment and dropped his keys on the table.
He’d known Frankie since she was six years old and for the past ten years, since she’d moved to New York, she’d been a constant feature in his life. He didn’t just know her, he knew her. He knew she burned easily and always wore sunscreen. He knew she hated tomato, romance movies, the subway. He knew she had a black belt in karate. And it wasn’t just those basic facts that he knew. He knew deeper things. Important things. Like the fact that her relationship with her mother was difficult and that her parents’ divorce had affected her deeply.
He knew all those things, but until tonight he hadn’t known she didn’t need the glasses she always wore.
He ran a hand over his face. How could he have missed that?
She’d worn glasses for as long as he could remember, and he’d never once questioned her need for them. He’d noticed that she fiddled with them when a situation made her nervous or