First Time: Penny's Story (First Time (Penny) Book 1) (13 page)

I added, “You have no idea how often I’ve
looked at this place and fantasized about what it might be like
inside.”

“
I hope the fantasy lives up
to the reality, but you have to remember, a very single, very
depressed man has been living here.”

“
My mom used to tell people,
‘I’m here to see you, not your house,’ but then she would bitch
about their housekeeping for the entire ride home.” I rolled my
eyes at the memory. It had seemed like such a hateful thing to do.
Especially when I’d seen genuine relief in the expressions of the
people she’d said it to. “I promise I won’t do that to you. As much
as I want to see the inside of your apartment, I really am here to
see you.”

I hoped he would be kind enough to ignore the
fact that my purse sounded like I was smuggling a nest of bees in
it. Rosa was having an unholy conniption in our text.

I was already impressed that Ian had an
elevator up to his apartment. Not his floor, his apartment. He had
to put a key in it and everything. When the doors opened and we
stepped into the place…

The room was one big square, broken only by
pillars and the raised platform in the center, where we’d entered.
The centerpiece of the elevated area that we’d entered onto was
another, smaller elevator for the upper floors of the apartment.
Some really nerve-wracking floating stairs headed up there, too,
arranged in dizzying flights of precisely cut golden wood around
the glass elevator shaft.

“
Oh my god,” I said, hardly
believing I was in a place like this, let alone standing with the
person who’d dreamed it all up. “You made this.”

“
I designed it,” he
corrected me. “Many people who are far more skilled than I am built
it.”

I approached the living room window, one of
the four huge clock faces Ian had described to me on the drive
over. From where I stood in front of one, I could see all the
others, albeit one of them had to be viewed through the obstruction
of the glass elevator shaft. “And they really work?”

“
They do. There is a very
nice service technician by the name of Andrew who comes by every
now and then to inspect the machinery and make sure it’s all
running properly. There’s a room where all of the clock-related
equipment is. I don’t go into it.”

I assumed the clock face and hands were on
the outside of the glass, but it was so clean it was hard to tell.
For someone who thought he wasn’t very tidy, the place looked like
a showroom.

Well, except for the pair of jeans over the
back of the couch. In the reflection on the glass, I saw Ian
hastily shove the garment under the white throw beside it.

The view of Manhattan was as glamorous as if
it had come out of a movie. The sun was beginning a late-afternoon
descent, taking its time and casting warm golden shadows over the
bridges and building faces.

And all I wanted to look at was Ian.

Being with him was easy. All of my senses
seemed more alive when we were together. It was like I became some
better version of myself, or maybe just the true version of myself.
I was certainly at my most authentic when I was with him, because I
felt like I had nothing to lose. Whatever happened between us
wouldn’t hurt me; disappoint me, maybe cause me some pain, but it
wouldn’t harm me. There was no sense that we were playing a game or
that I should be on the defensive. We felt real together, in a way
I’d never felt with anyone else.

There were only eight more days until Labor
Day.

I turned away from the window. To my left was
the longest galley kitchen I’d ever seen, and far wider than the
one in my apartment, that was for sure. No walls distinguished it
from the dining room beside it, but the placement of the counters
and cabinets and the modern, stainless steel hood for the
stove—which looked odd all by itself and not installed against a
wall and some cupboards—clearly delineated it was its own separate
space.

As did the placement of the couch in the
living room area. A very modern, very wide circular coffee table in
white enamel sat in the center of that, a pleasant contrast with
the sharp angles of the room.

“
Your decorator really knew
what they were doing.” I walked around the couch toward him,
trailing my fingers along the gray upholstery on the back as I
did.

He looked down, his expression darkly
humorous. “My— Gena. My ex-wife, Gena, excuse me. She did all of
this.”

He’d been about to
say,
my wife
, I was
sure of it. There was a flash of jealousy on my part, but I reeled
it back in. He’d probably been married for a long time. I’d known
him for two weeks. I didn’t really get to be jealous in this
situation.

“
Did she?” I asked, keeping
a neutral expression. “Well, it looks fantastic.”

“
She’s talented. Unfocused,
but talented. And I’m not saying that to be bitter, I—” He stopped
himself, and I was so glad. I did not want to listen to the guy I
was having hopeful dating feelings about describe his ex-wife. He
scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I have to confess
something.”

He’s not really divorced. He’s a widower.
He’s a widower, and he’s going to start crying.

“
You’re the first woman I’ve
had over here, since Gena. Besides her and our female friends at
parties and the like. You’re actually the first date who’s come
here.” The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened with his
pained expression. “I hope I’m not out of line telling you
that.”

“
No, I don’t think that’s
out of line,” I assured him. It wasn’t necessarily my first choice
of conversational topic, but I could roll with it. “Thanks for
telling me, instead of being weird all night about it.”

He stepped up close to me and reached to tuck
an escaped curl behind my ear. “I didn’t see the point in being
weird. Honesty worked well enough yesterday.”

“
For what it’s worth, I’m
glad I’m here.”

He cupped my cheek and leaned down to kiss me
at the corner of my mouth, and my knees went weak. I was
practically swaying from that brief contact when he straightened,
put his hands in his pockets, and said, “So. Dinner.”

Right. Dinner. That was what we were here
for.

He nodded toward the kitchen. “That’s where I
keep the delivery menus.”

I followed him, looking up at the ceiling two
floors above our heads. “In the refrigerator?”

“
You’re going to laugh at
me, but I do keep them in the cupboard.” He walked around the
counter and opened a door.

Ian wasn’t kidding when he’d said he didn’t
have any food in the house. There was a jar of peanut butter, an
eighth of a box of macaroni, and a bag of pitted dates. The dates
had dust on them.

“
Ian…” I didn’t want to be
rude. I really didn’t. But this alarmed me. “What have you been
eating?”

“
Delivery, mostly,” he
admitted sheepishly. “And peanut butter.”

I looked around the bare counters. “Do you
even have any bread?”

“
Not as such.” He looked
guiltily at the floor.

“
God, I hope you are using a
spoon and not your hand.” There. I said it. I couldn’t have stopped
myself if I’d wanted to.

“
Well, of course I’m using a
spoon,” he said, sounding mildly offended. He pulled a drawer
handle, and trash and recycling bins rolled out. One was full of
beer bottles, the other was fairly empty but for a clump of peanut
butter streaked plastic spoons at the bottom.

He was so unashamedly pathetic that I
couldn’t hold in my laughter. “You’re a mess.”

He laughed with me. “Ah, you were going to
find out soon, anyway.”

“
You’re right. So, thanks
for once again not being weird.”

“
You’re weird enough for the
both of us.”

We looked through the delivery menus and
decided on Italian. While we waited for the order to arrive, Ian
showed me around the rest of the apartment. We went up to the
second floor, to his studio. It had some amazing square windows
that perfectly illuminated the space around the large drafting
table. There were some can lights in the ceiling, but I would have
expected something more than the adjustable lamp clipped to his
desk.

“
Why don’t you have lights
up there, if this is where your table is?” I asked, examining the
ceiling before turning my attention to the drawing in progress. I
gestured to it. “Can I look?”

“
Sure,” he said, after a
moment’s hesitation. “And the reason I don’t have lights directly
above my desk is because they would be coming right at the back of
my head. It’s hard to draw in your own shadow.”

“
Oh. I wouldn’t have thought
of that.” The picture he was working on was a sketch of a young
man. Though it was clearly unfinished, I felt as though I were
looking at a photograph of a person who looked similar to, but not
exactly like, Ian. “Is this a relative?”

“
My brother, Robby,” he
said. “When he was twenty. I’m trying to do it from memory, but I
can’t quite get it right. I may turn to a photo reference
soon.”

“
Do all of you guys look
alike?” I asked. Siblings absolutely fascinated me.

“
I take after my dad. Most
of us do. My sister, Annie, looks more like Mum,” he said, walking
slowly beside me as we headed to the door. “The third floor is my
bedroom—”

Nope. No way. It wasn’t that I thought I
would pounce on him or something. Or that I thought he would take
advantage of me or anything like that. We’d climbed the stairs to
get to the studio, so I said, “No, I’m not used to your creepy
stairs yet, and that’s way too high.”

It was such a bad excuse, with an elevator
right there. He could have easily said, “Then we can take the
elevator,” but he didn’t. He said, “We’ll take the elevator back
down, then.”

And that was it. No pressure to get me into
his bedroom. He just respected my gentle refusal, even though the
reason I’d given him would have been easy to argue with. Despite
being some kind of shambling human tragedy, he was unreasonably
perfect.

When the food arrived, he said, “Let’s bring
this with us,” and headed for the elevator.

“
Where to?” I asked him,
following after with silverware and a couple of the beers from his
fridge.

He hit the button with his elbow. “Up to the
deck.”

“
The deck?” I’d seen a boxy
structure on the peak of the tower on occasions when I’d passed by
it, but I hadn’t been sure it was a roof access and not just a
design feature.

“
It’s more of a widow’s
walk, but it has great views,” he promised.

As we ascended, I did catch a peek at the
third floor, but the doors were closed. A giant, long-haired gray
cat was slinking around the loft-style hallway. “Is that Ambrose?”
I asked, pointing, but we passed through the ceiling too quickly
for Ian to follow my direction.

“
If it was a cat, and it was
in my apartment, then I very much hope it was.”

The doors opened onto what had to be the very
best view in Brooklyn. Three-hundred and sixty degrees of pure,
purple twilight that stretched over the city like an amethyst
blanket.

“
This is amazing,” I
whispered as we stepped out. There was a low-backed black chair
with white linen upholstery, and a matching, blocky chaise longue
around a square black coffee table that sat at knee
level.

“
Not an ideal dining
arrangement, I know, but I think it’s worth it for the atmosphere,”
he said, depositing our plastic containers of food onto the
table.

I took the chair and left the chaise to Ian.
“I think it’s fantastic. I eat a lot of meals sitting on the floor
next to our coffee table at home, anyway.”

The bridges were lit up like diamond
necklaces strung over the water, and lights from cars winked as
they passed through the cross streets. We talked about easier
things than we had the day before. I told Ian about what it had
been like to move from Pennsylvania to New York, and he talked
about the differences he’d found when he’d arrived from Scotland.
We were both kind of introverted, in that we didn’t have many
friends, and the ones we did have were extremely close.

Which made me wonder, “How do you know
Sophie?”

He paused with a forkful of spaghetti
bolognese hovering just above his plate. Then he said, “I went to
university with her husband. Briefly.”

That was odd. Why did he hesitate to tell me
that? I innocently pressed, “Oh really? Where was that?”

“
Exeter. I went for fine
art.” He took a bite and chewed, never looking up.

“
And that turned
into…architecture?” Not that I knew enough about architecture to
know if that was an odd development.

He washed his food down with a long swallow
of beer. “The two have a lot in common. But some personal
circumstances arose that changed my career path, as it were.”

“
Ah.” Something still seemed
to be missing, not because his story was suspicious, but because he
was acting so suspicious. “So, was Neil a fine arts
major?”

I knew he hadn’t been. I’d read his Wikipedia
article, because it was weird to know someone who was married to
somebody famous.

“
No, economics,” Ian said,
and that checked out, so at least I knew he hadn’t lied to me. “We
met through a club. I’m not sure I want to tell you
which.”

If he was trying to hide the fact that he’d
belonged to a math club or some kind of Star Trek fan club, it was
unnecessary. I could already tell he was a nerd. “Well now you have
to. You’ve piqued my interest.”