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Authors: Stefanie Pintoff
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wait.
She picked up the phone all the same. She had saved the hardest call for last. Her history with Haddox was complicated. So she planned to keep the conversation simple.
Chapter 12
T he rain that had drenched New York City early that morning had reached Boston when Corey Haddox woke up late—drowsy, satiated, and craving a smoke. He stretched his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his white undershirt and jeans, listening to water gurgle down the drainpipe outside the window.
Where is my shirt?
Not on the floor.
Not on the chair.
Then he looked to his right on the bed and found it on the stunner who was snoring softly beside him.
She was wearing nothing but a shirt.
His
shirt. It looked grand on her.
He pulled a Marlboro Red out of his pocket, lit it, and sat—just savoring the moment. Taking one last look at the redhead beside him. A great kisser, phenomenal between the sheets. He was tempted to put his hand under her shirt one last time, knowing
this
woman’s skin was lean, firm, warm.
Yes, he would have loved to spend more time with Bridget Malone. But he needed to get moving.
He appreciated how lucky he’d gotten. And Haddox knew one thing about luck: It always ran out.
He took a long, final draw on his smoke, then ground it into the makeshift ashtray—a soap dish with a pink seashell on it—that she’d given him for the nightstand. Found his shoes where they’d been flung across the room. Threw his leather jacket on. Tiptoed down the hall—and offered a silent prayer that she wouldn’t wake up. Because now he had a job to do. And maybe it was the romantic in him, but he wanted Bridget Malone to believe
she
had chosen
him
at the Emerald Inn last night. She ought to remember him for what he’d seemed to be—a charming Irishman briefly in Boston to visit old friends.
It was gloomy outside, so Haddox was forced to turn on a brass lamp in the living room. He surveyed the room. Bridget’s decorating style was pure Pottery Barn. Sofas with loose, easy slipcovers and cabinets with fake apothecary drawers. Brand-new, but designed to look old.
She was also a neat freak. The remote control sat in a special holder on the end table. Magazines were on the coffee table:
Pointe,
Dance Spirit,
and
Time Out Boston.
They were displayed in a half-fan position, organized by date, with newer issues on top. This was good. Even better than he could have hoped for. A girl who organized her magazines probably had a special place for her bag.
Where is that purse?
He scanned the room, came up empty.
Is there a hall closet?
No. Which wasn’t really a surprise, not in an old building like this.
He walked toward the front door. There was an umbrella stand and bench just beside it. A quilt was folded and draped across its length.
He lifted it up. Found nothing underneath.
He should’ve stuck to his original plan, which involved only chatting her up at the bar and pinching her phone. Problem was, he liked women—and he’d liked this one, in particular.
On the floor, he saw the simple ballet flats she’d worn, and his memory flashed to last night. They’d come in the door, she’d kicked off her shoes—and…
Then what?
The answer came:
Kitchen. Look in the kitchen.
Her bag was there, dropped on the counter. A small zippered pouch by Michael Kors. Not much in it. Pink lipstick. A pack of Trident, spearmint flavored. He fished out her wallet, opened it, and found five twenties and six ones. Usual array of credit cards: AmEx, Visa, and Discover. Driver’s license.
His heart took a hopeful leap in his chest—but the address was for this apartment. The one he was standing in, not the one he was searching for.
Damn.
There were no photos or receipts or scraps of paper. This was the electronic age. What he needed was going to be on her cellphone.
From the street outside, he heard voices. Loud and angry.
He scanned the countertops. It was a tiny kitchen. Barely enough room for a coffeemaker and a
She picked up the phone all the same. She had saved the hardest call for last. Her history with Haddox was complicated. So she planned to keep the conversation simple.
Chapter 12
T he rain that had drenched New York City early that morning had reached Boston when Corey Haddox woke up late—drowsy, satiated, and craving a smoke. He stretched his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his white undershirt and jeans, listening to water gurgle down the drainpipe outside the window.
Where is my shirt?
Not on the floor.
Not on the chair.
Then he looked to his right on the bed and found it on the stunner who was snoring softly beside him.
She was wearing nothing but a shirt.
His
shirt. It looked grand on her.
He pulled a Marlboro Red out of his pocket, lit it, and sat—just savoring the moment. Taking one last look at the redhead beside him. A great kisser, phenomenal between the sheets. He was tempted to put his hand under her shirt one last time, knowing
this
woman’s skin was lean, firm, warm.
Yes, he would have loved to spend more time with Bridget Malone. But he needed to get moving.
He appreciated how lucky he’d gotten. And Haddox knew one thing about luck: It always ran out.
He took a long, final draw on his smoke, then ground it into the makeshift ashtray—a soap dish with a pink seashell on it—that she’d given him for the nightstand. Found his shoes where they’d been flung across the room. Threw his leather jacket on. Tiptoed down the hall—and offered a silent prayer that she wouldn’t wake up. Because now he had a job to do. And maybe it was the romantic in him, but he wanted Bridget Malone to believe
she
had chosen
him
at the Emerald Inn last night. She ought to remember him for what he’d seemed to be—a charming Irishman briefly in Boston to visit old friends.
It was gloomy outside, so Haddox was forced to turn on a brass lamp in the living room. He surveyed the room. Bridget’s decorating style was pure Pottery Barn. Sofas with loose, easy slipcovers and cabinets with fake apothecary drawers. Brand-new, but designed to look old.
She was also a neat freak. The remote control sat in a special holder on the end table. Magazines were on the coffee table:
Pointe,
Dance Spirit,
and
Time Out Boston.
They were displayed in a half-fan position, organized by date, with newer issues on top. This was good. Even better than he could have hoped for. A girl who organized her magazines probably had a special place for her bag.
Where is that purse?
He scanned the room, came up empty.
Is there a hall closet?
No. Which wasn’t really a surprise, not in an old building like this.
He walked toward the front door. There was an umbrella stand and bench just beside it. A quilt was folded and draped across its length.
He lifted it up. Found nothing underneath.
He should’ve stuck to his original plan, which involved only chatting her up at the bar and pinching her phone. Problem was, he liked women—and he’d liked this one, in particular.
On the floor, he saw the simple ballet flats she’d worn, and his memory flashed to last night. They’d come in the door, she’d kicked off her shoes—and…
Then what?
The answer came:
Kitchen. Look in the kitchen.
Her bag was there, dropped on the counter. A small zippered pouch by Michael Kors. Not much in it. Pink lipstick. A pack of Trident, spearmint flavored. He fished out her wallet, opened it, and found five twenties and six ones. Usual array of credit cards: AmEx, Visa, and Discover. Driver’s license.
His heart took a hopeful leap in his chest—but the address was for this apartment. The one he was standing in, not the one he was searching for.
Damn.
There were no photos or receipts or scraps of paper. This was the electronic age. What he needed was going to be on her cellphone.
From the street outside, he heard voices. Loud and angry.
He scanned the countertops. It was a tiny kitchen. Barely enough room for a coffeemaker and a
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