I cross to where she stands. We’re so close I can smell the shampoo scent of the still-damp hair she’s pushed behind her ears. A visceral memory intrudes: washing her hair the night we met. My pulse jumps. Her wide, black pupils are like dangerous holes in a blue sky. She drags her gaze from mine and looks at the bookshelf again.
“This one… is Sofia’s,” she says.
“What of it?” My defensive grief is so obvious I can hear it myself.
Natalia lays one hand flat at the center of my chest—a lightning-quick touch, and no less shocking. “Don’t take it like a criticism, Klaus. It’s just a thing I noticed.”
Could she feel my heartbeat against her palm in that moment? I’m not sure if its pounding is more like the promising kick of a growing infant or that of an unbroken horse warning away those who venture too close.
Suddenly we’re farther apart. I assume she’s taken a step backward before I realize it was me—the woundedness on her face clues me in.
“Isn’t it time we got this thing started?” she asks crisply.
My eyebrows lift. “This…?” I echo, the word more a shape than a sound.
“The interview.” She takes a step back and points a thumb. “It, uh, smells like the food’s almost ready. Let’s work during dinner. No need for phony small talk.” She pivots and nearly collideswith the wall before redirecting her path and disappearing into the dark corridor.
I watch the empty doorway as the warmth of Natalia’s touch on my chest fades like a handprint on cold glass. Before following her out, I turn to the shelf and putCat’s Eyein its proper place—exactly where Sofia chose.
The food is so good that conversation is impossible until we’ve razed the appetizers—marinated eggplant, goat cheese spread with thyme and lemon, rosemary pita, tomatokeftedes.
“Damn,” Natalia sighs, mopping up a puddle of seasoned olive oil with her flatbread, “I’m almost scared of Elena. How’s she such an amazing cook?” She folds the bit of bread into her mouth. Her tongue darts to catch a drop of olive oil sliding down her thumb, and I try not to stare.
She dabs her mouth with a napkin and leans back. “I’m not going to have room for the main course if I don’t control myself.”
She flips back a fresh page on her legal pad and uncaps a fountain pen—lapis blue with mother-of-pearl. Something about the way she holds it tells me it’s new and unfamiliar. I assume it’s a gift, but it seems too luxurious to have been bought by the aunt whom Natalia has described as frugal and practical.
“Did he gift you that for Christmas?” I ask, nodding at the pen.
The “he” in question isn’t a specific person, though an image springs to mind of the Scotsman who was Natalia’s date at the party two months ago. I’m purely cold reading, hoping she will fill in the blanks.
“Hewho? Nice try. It’s from Nefeli. Lots of writers at the magazinegot one.” She scribbles a spiral in the margin of the page to set the ink flowing. “Okay, let’s cover basics: your thoughts on last season, hopes for the upcoming one, blah blah blah.”
As the interview unfolds, I glance at the legal pad and pause midsentence, surprised by the collection of curls and swoops there.
“You know shorthand? Quite skilled.”
“It’s just Teeline, not Pitman or Gregg,” she says with an airy wave, as if this is somehow less of an accomplishment.
“I’ve always seen you use your phone recorder on race weekends.” I give her a mischievous smile. “Are you trying to impress me?”
“Wow, absolutely,” she deadpans. “Again, it’s all about you. What time are you getting up tomorrow so you can crow and make the sun rise?” She sweeps her heavy curtain of dark hair around to one side of her neck. “Okay, back at it. What would you say was your biggest challenge last season?”
Trying not to fall in love with you…
From inside the house, I hear the front door open and close. Then a woman’s voice calls out: “Yo, Franky-boy! You here?”
Natalia’s eyes are cold when they light on mine. Moments later, Sage Sikora appears in the open patio doorway, gripping the frame with drama like she’s a fashion photograph.
“Theeeere you are,” she announces brightly. “Think fast!”
She underhand-tosses a ring of keys to me, and I catch them against my chest.
Sage’s attention shifts to Natalia. “Oh hey, it’s you! Natalia.Evans,” she adds with a self-deprecating smile. “I remember this time. Got Klaus in the hot seat, eh? Or…” She angles a sly look at me. “Is this more recreational?”
I’m about to reply, but Sage goes on without waiting for ananswer. Her mind is as energetic as her driving, and she’s off chattering again after an interval shorter than the quickest pit stop.
“Thanks for letting me use your new Jag while I was here. Awesome ride.”
