Page 217 of Morally Black Betrothal

“When you’re what?”

“Um, nervous,” I admitted.

“You’ll have to fix that if you want to be a litigator,” he joked, causing me to turn bright red all over again. Fuck, could things get any worse? Although I wasn’t sure I wanted the job at Sterling Grove, it would have given me a springboard to any other I wanted. I could kiss that opportunity goodbye.

“It’s all right,” Sterling said yet again, patting me gently on the arm.

In the cold, his touch seared through the heavy wool of my jacket. He shivered, and for the first time, I realized he had chased me into the snow in just his suit and very expensive-looking leather shoes, which were already getting watermarks from the snow around the tips. I looked down at my feet. My Manolos were also as good as ruined.

“I’m going to head back inside,” he said, tossing back toward his house. “Care to join me?”

“Oh no, sir, I’m really fine,” I said. “The T is just down this path, and it goes right back to Cambridge.”

Sterling glanced at his watch, which also looked very shiny and very expensive, but not flashy like that fool’s from the bar. Subtle. Tasteful.

“It’s almost one,” he said. “You probably already missed the last train, if you don’t get robbed in the park on your way there. Come on. My driver’s out of town, but I can call you a car while you wait.” When I hesitated, he reached out and squeezed my hand before letting it go, an intimate gesture that seemed to surprise him a bit too. “What kind of boss would I be if I mademy interns stay until after midnight and didn’t give them a ride home?”

“Um…” For some reason, I couldn’t quite tell him that his office wasn’t the reason I was out so late.

“Let’s go,” he said again in a tone that brooked no argument and started to make his way back through the snow.

Someone (most likely Ana) had wised up to Sterling’s arrival. A large fire was alive in the fireplace when we reentered the house through the double-door entrance. There was no sign of his three companions. The house appeared to be empty but for him and me.

Sterling slipped off his shoes and carried them over to the fireplace. He set them down on the hearth while I loitered awkwardly in the foyer.

“Have a seat,” he said, nodding at one of the overstuffed couches I had been eyeing earlier. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He disappeared upstairs while I sat down. When he returned, he carried a newspaper and a small box covered in scratches and paint splotches. He had removed his jacket, vest, and tie, and was decidedly more informal, with his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat and rolled up to his elbows. Though it was practically identical to the outfits of just about every other man I’d seen that night, there was something about the way the tendons in his forearms tested the limits of his rolled-up sleeves that made my mouth water, as if his casual regalia were trying to tame an animalism that was literally splitting seams to escape. Padding silently across the thick carpet, he reminded me of a lion tracking its prey.

“May I?” he asked, kneeling in front of me and taking the heel of my shoe in his hand.

Wordlessly, I watched as he slid my pumps off each foot, then carefully set my stockinged feet back onto the sheepskin. When he looked up, our eyes caught as they had when I had first seen him. The moment quickly passed. He cleared his throat and stood up.

“Manolos,” he said, holding up one of my prized pumps. “The lady has expensive taste.”

“The lady has only one pair,” I responded sadly. “So I hope you’re not going to throw them in the fire.”

“Hardly,” he said, the “r” of the word flattening with a surprisingly thick Boston accent. He set both pairs of our shoes down on the hearth and proceeded to stuff them with crumpled newspaper.

“They’re not too wet,” he said. “I don’t think the fire will damage them at all, just help them dry. I’ll put some oil on them, though, if you’re all right with that.”

He opened up the box, which contained a rudimentary shoe shining kit.

“Where did you get that?” I asked. “It looks like an antique.”

“It was my father’s,” Sterling replied absently as he rummaged around and finally located a container of clear balm. He proceeded to dip a stained brush into the jar and rub it onto his shoes, one at a time.

“Oh, are you close?”

The question came out before I could help it. Sterling glanced up sharply for a half second before returning to his work, now brushing the polish into my shoes with vigor.

“He’s not around anymore,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I shouldn’t intrude. Again.”

He looked up again, this time kindly.

“Skylar,” he said, and it was then I realized how much more I liked hearing my given name roll off his tongue. Much like before, the ‘r’ at the end wasn’t fully pronounced, rolling open with a subtle New England cadence that betrayed a working-class background he hadn’t quite erased.