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“The walk to work, of course,” he says as if it’s the most obvious answer.
Loving the gesture, I nod and, grinning like an idiot, follow him out the front door.
Walking through the streets of New York with Hardin is slightly on the strange side. He fits in here, his style and the way he’s dressed, but at the same time he seems to fill the street with his voice, his animated expressions lighting up the dreary day.
“The one, well, one of the problems that I have with this city is this . . .” He waves his hand through the air. I wait a second for him to elaborate. “The sun is hidden,” he says at last.
His boots smack loudly on the pavement as we walk, and I find that I love the sound. I missed it. It’s one of the smaller things about him that I hadn’t realized I loved until after I left him. I would find myself alone, walking down the loud streets of the city, and miss the noisy way Hardin always stomped around in his boots.
“You live in rainy Washington—you can’t bash New York’s lack of sun,” I counter.
He laughs and changes the subject, asking me random questions about the world of waitressing. The rest of the walk to work is nice; Hardin asks question after question about what I’ve been doing for the last five months, and I tell him about my mother, David, and his daughter. I tell him about Noah’s spot on the soccer team at his college in California, and how my mother and David took me back to the same town that I went to with Hardin’s family.
I tell him about my first two nights in the city, and how the noise kept me up all night, and how on the third night I climbed out of bed and took a walk around the block, and that’s when I met Joe for the first time. I tell him that the sweet homeless man reminds me of my father in a way, and I like to think that bringing him food is helping him in a way that I couldn’t my own blood.
This confession has Hardin reaching to pull my hand into his, and I don’t try to pull away.
I tell him about how worried I was about moving here, and also that I’m glad he’s here visiting us. He doesn’t mention the way he refused to have sex with me and then teased me until I finally fell asleep in his arms. He doesn’t mention his marriage offer, and I’m okay with that. I’m still trying to make sense of this, as I’ve been trying to make sense of the way I feel about him since he crashed into my life a year ago.
When Robert meets me at the corner, the way he does when we work shifts together, Hardin moves closer, holds my hand a little tighter. Neither of them say much; they just eye each other up, and I roll my eyes at the way men behave in the presence of a woman.
“I’ll be here when you get off.” Hardin leans in to press his lips against my cheek, and his fingers push my hair behind my ear. “Don’t work too hard,” he whispers against my cheek. I can hear the smile in his voice, but I also know a hint of seriousness is behind his suggestion.
Of course, Hardin’s words curse my entire shift. We get swamped, with table after table of men and women drinking too much wine or brandy and overpaying for tiny portions of food on decorated plates. A child decides that my uniform could use a makeover: a plate of spaghetti, to be exact. I don’t have time for a break the entire shift, and my feet are killing me by the time I finally clock out over five hours later.
As promised, Hardin is waiting for me in the lobby. Sophia is standing next to the bench he’s sitting on. Her dark hair is pulled into a high bun, bringing attention to her stunning face. She’s exotic looking, with high cheekbones and full lips. I look down at my dirty uniform and cringe, smelling the garlic and tomato sauce staining my shirt. Hardin doesn’t seem to notice my soiled clothes, but he pulls a small chunk of something from my ponytail as we walk outside.
“I don’t even want to know what that was.” I laugh softly. He smiles and pulls a napkin—no, a tissue—from his pocket and hands it to me.
I use the tissue to wipe under my eyes; my smeared eyeliner from sweating at work can’t be remotely attractive right now. Hardin leads the conversation, asking simple questions about my shift, and we get back to the apartment quickly.
“My feet are killing me,” I groan, pulling my shoes off my feet and tossing them aside. Hardin’s eyes follow them, and I can practically see the sarcastic comments forming behind that head of hair about my making a mess. “I’m going to put them away in a minute, of course.”
“Thought so.” He smiles and sits down next to me on my bed. “Come here.” He gathers my ankles in his hands, and I turn to face him as he rests my feet on his lap. His hands begin to rub my aching feet, and I lie back on the mattress, trying to ignore that I’ve had my feet stuck in shoes for hours.
“Thank you,” I half moan. My eyes want to close from the instant relaxation that comes from Hardin’s hands massaging my feet, but I want to look at him. I have suffered through months without looking at him, and now I don’t want to look away.
“No problem. I can deal with the smell to see that relaxed, fucking dreamy look in your eyes.” I lift my hand, swatting at the air, and he laughs and continues to work his magic on my feet.
His hands move to my calves and up to my thighs. I don’t bother to stop the noises falling from my lips; it’s just so relaxing and calming to have him touching me, working the sore muscles of my body.
“Come sit in front of me,” he instructs, gently pushing my feet from his lap. I sit up, climbing over his lap, and sit in between his legs. His hands grip my shoulders first; he presses his fingertips into the tense muscles and rubs every ounce of tension out of them.