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Authors: Nora Roberts
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Youâll never get the chance to do it againâand you know what, Hawke? Iâdâve made a man out of you.â
She turned on her heel and walked out.
Chapter Four
B EING alone was something Jordan did very well, under most circumstances. When he was working, thinking about working, thinking about not working, he liked to fold himself into the isolation of his SoHo loft.
Then, the life, the noise, the movement and color on the street outside his windows were a kind of film he could watch or ignore depending on his mood.
He liked seeing it all through the glass, more, very often more, than he liked being a part of it.
New York had saved him, in a very real way. It had forced him to survive, to become, to live like a manânot someoneâs son, someoneâs friend, another student, but a man who had only himself to rely on. It had pushed and prodded him with its impatient and sharp fingers, reminding him on a daily basis during that jittery first year that it didnât really give a goddamn whether he sank or swam.
Heâd learned to swim.
Heâd learned to appreciate the noise, the action, the press of humanity.
He liked its selfishness and its generosity and its propensity for flipping the bird to the rest of the world.
And the more heâd learned, the more heâd observed and adjusted, the more heâd realized that at the core he was just a small-town boy.
He would forever be grateful to New York.
When work was upon him, he could drop into that world. Not the one outside his window, but the one inside his own head. Then it wasnât like a film at all, but more like life than life itself for however many hours it gripped him.
Heâd learned the difference between those worlds, had come to appreciate the subtleties and scopes of them in a way he knew he might never have done if he hadnât stripped away the safety nets of the old and thrown himself headlong into the new.
Writing had never become routine for him, but remained a constant surprise. He was always surprised at how much fun it was, once it all got moving. And never failed to be surprised at how bloody hard it was. It was like having an intense, frustrating love affair with a capricious, gorgeous, and often mean-spirited woman.
He loved every moment of it.
Writing had carried him through the worst of his grief when heâd lost his mother. It had given him direction, purpose, and enough aggravation to pull himself out of the mire.
It had given him joy and bitterness, and great personal satisfaction. Beyond that, it had provided him with a kind of financial security heâd never known or really expected to know.
Anyone who said money didnât matter had never had to count the coins that fell between the cushions of the couch.
He was alone now, with the afterburn of Danaâs wordsstill singeing the air. He couldnât enjoy the solitude, couldnât fold himself into it or into his work.
A man was never so lonely, he thought, as when he was surrounded by the past.
There was no point in going out for a walk. Too many people who knew him would stop and speak, have questions, make comments. He couldnât lose himself in the Valley as he could in New York.
Which was one of the reasons heâd bolted when and how he had. And one of the reasons heâd come back.
So, he would go for a drive, get away from the echoes still bouncing off the walls.
I loved you .
Jesus! Jesus, how could he not have known? Had he been that cluelessâor had she been that self-contained?
He walked out and climbed into his Thunderbird, gunned the engine. He felt like speed. A long, fast ride to no particular destination.
He punched in the CD player, cranked it up. He didnât care what pumped out, as long as it was loud. Claptonâs blistering guitar rode with him out of town.
He had known heâd hurt Dana all those years ago. But heâd assumed the nip had been to her ego, exactly where he
She turned on her heel and walked out.
Chapter Four
B EING alone was something Jordan did very well, under most circumstances. When he was working, thinking about working, thinking about not working, he liked to fold himself into the isolation of his SoHo loft.
Then, the life, the noise, the movement and color on the street outside his windows were a kind of film he could watch or ignore depending on his mood.
He liked seeing it all through the glass, more, very often more, than he liked being a part of it.
New York had saved him, in a very real way. It had forced him to survive, to become, to live like a manânot someoneâs son, someoneâs friend, another student, but a man who had only himself to rely on. It had pushed and prodded him with its impatient and sharp fingers, reminding him on a daily basis during that jittery first year that it didnât really give a goddamn whether he sank or swam.
Heâd learned to swim.
Heâd learned to appreciate the noise, the action, the press of humanity.
He liked its selfishness and its generosity and its propensity for flipping the bird to the rest of the world.
And the more heâd learned, the more heâd observed and adjusted, the more heâd realized that at the core he was just a small-town boy.
He would forever be grateful to New York.
When work was upon him, he could drop into that world. Not the one outside his window, but the one inside his own head. Then it wasnât like a film at all, but more like life than life itself for however many hours it gripped him.
Heâd learned the difference between those worlds, had come to appreciate the subtleties and scopes of them in a way he knew he might never have done if he hadnât stripped away the safety nets of the old and thrown himself headlong into the new.
Writing had never become routine for him, but remained a constant surprise. He was always surprised at how much fun it was, once it all got moving. And never failed to be surprised at how bloody hard it was. It was like having an intense, frustrating love affair with a capricious, gorgeous, and often mean-spirited woman.
He loved every moment of it.
Writing had carried him through the worst of his grief when heâd lost his mother. It had given him direction, purpose, and enough aggravation to pull himself out of the mire.
It had given him joy and bitterness, and great personal satisfaction. Beyond that, it had provided him with a kind of financial security heâd never known or really expected to know.
Anyone who said money didnât matter had never had to count the coins that fell between the cushions of the couch.
He was alone now, with the afterburn of Danaâs wordsstill singeing the air. He couldnât enjoy the solitude, couldnât fold himself into it or into his work.
A man was never so lonely, he thought, as when he was surrounded by the past.
There was no point in going out for a walk. Too many people who knew him would stop and speak, have questions, make comments. He couldnât lose himself in the Valley as he could in New York.
Which was one of the reasons heâd bolted when and how he had. And one of the reasons heâd come back.
So, he would go for a drive, get away from the echoes still bouncing off the walls.
I loved you .
Jesus! Jesus, how could he not have known? Had he been that cluelessâor had she been that self-contained?
He walked out and climbed into his Thunderbird, gunned the engine. He felt like speed. A long, fast ride to no particular destination.
He punched in the CD player, cranked it up. He didnât care what pumped out, as long as it was loud. Claptonâs blistering guitar rode with him out of town.
He had known heâd hurt Dana all those years ago. But heâd assumed the nip had been to her ego, exactly where he
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