Brooklynaire Read online

  “Go on up,” I say. “I swear I’ll find my way to Manhattan before my two o’clock.” I tip my head toward the door. “Get out of here. You know you want to.”

  “Raise your right hand.”

  I do it just to humor her.

  “I solemnly swear I will not make Lauren reschedule anything else for the rest of the week.”

  “The week? Come on.” I drop my hand. “Ask my car to wait, okay? I’ll be in it soon.”

  “You’d better,” she threatens. Then she peers around me, sees that the coast is clear, and starts to take her leave, while I chuckle. She turns around just before she gets to a set of double doors. “Give Rebecca my love,” she says. And when I check her face, she gives me a knowing smile.

  I’m so busted.

  “Uh…” Fuck a duck. Lauren is on to me. But she’s pretty smart. I don’t know why Rebecca’s illness has broken my brain. But if Dr. Herberts can help her, maybe I can go back to being the normal amount of distracted.

  Lauren backs toward the exit. “If Dr. Herberts clears Becca to come back to work, I want to be the first person who knows.”

  “You will be,” I assure her.

  “I’ll be on the first subway to Manhattan.”

  “I know you will.”

  “I hate you,” she calls as she turns to push through the doors.

  “No, you don’t.”

  She raises her middle finger over her shoulder, getting the last word. Of course she does. The women in my life are fierce. All of them. I’m a very lucky man.

  As I leave the alcove, I’m greeted by a couple of hockey players who are on their way to lunch. Then I bypass the rink and the locker areas and head down the corridor housing the training staff offices. The team doctor’s office is at the end, and when I reach the door, it’s closed. A tap on the door silences the murmuring voices inside. “Come in,” the doctor says.

  When I open the door, both the doctor and Rebecca look up at me. Then Rebecca’s gaze drops to her hands, and I feel a wave of unease. Why does she look so tense? “Any news?” I ask into the silence.

  Dr. Herberts clears his throat. “Since Rebecca is not a hockey player, she enjoys doctor-patient privilege. I can’t discuss her case without her permission. And since you’re her boss, she might feel pressured to…”

  She looks up at him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind at all if Nate listens in.”

  That’s enough of an invitation for me. I walk right in, closing the door behind me. I take the seat next to hers and wait for the doctor to speak.

  Dr. Herberts studies me for a moment, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “All right. Rebecca is still ailing. Her balance is off, and she’s troubled by noise. She’s easily tired, and physical exertion leaves her nauseated.”

  Yikes. I risk a look at her, but she won’t meet my gaze. She isn’t acting like herself. Just the expression on her face makes me cold inside.

  “That said, she’s passed every cognitive test. Her memory is sound. Her thinking is clear. She’s easily frustrated, but that may not be a clinical symptom, but rather a natural reaction to a distressing situation. In short, the presentation of her head injury is not like a classic concussion.”

  Jesus. “Then what is it?”

  The doctor toys with his fountain pen for a moment before answering. “There’s a specialist I want her to see in Manhattan. He’s the guy to whom we send all the toughest cases.”

  “Okay,” I say quickly, as if it were up to me. “Who is it?”

  “Dr. Evan Armitage. He’s a neurologist who specializes in post-concussion and vestibular therapy. And he loves a good riddle. I’m certain he can figure out what’s troubling Rebecca. The only thing I don’t like about him is his packed schedule. Might be tricky to get an appointment.”

  I have my phone out and I’m searching this doctor’s name before Dr. Herberts can finish the sentence.

  “If Armitage can’t see you, there are a couple of other guys I can call. In the meantime, I’d like to see you getting more rest, young lady. It’s hard for the brain to recover without a whole lot of rest.”

  “All right,” she says quickly. “Are we done here for now? I’ll call Dr. Armitage this afternoon.”

  “We’re done any time you wish,” the doctor says kindly.

  Becca shoots to her feet. “Thank you very much for the consult.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Call me anytime. Day or night.”

  I get up, too, because Becca looks ready to bolt. “Running off already?” I ask. “Got a minute for me?”

  “Of course.” But she swallows hard after she says it. Like she really isn’t looking forward to an extra few minutes of my company.

  Too bad. She’s scaring me, and I’ve only seen her once in the last three weeks, which has to be a record. I thank Dr. Herberts and then follow her into the hallway. We walk together, but Rebecca is silent. Her arms are crossed, and she’s huddled in on herself.

  I hate it.

  We reach the tunnel that leads up to the office building. I hold the door open for her, and Rebecca leads the way. Sunshine has lit up the glass bricks, and the rays are bouncing off all the surfaces, like jewels. The ramp beneath our feet stretches upward, and it’s so bright that the path seems to ascend toward heaven.

  Rebecca slows her steps. Then she weaves to the side, and I lunge before I’m even sure what’s happening. My hand finds her elbow, and then I catch her weight against my body, her back against my chest.

  “Shit!” she squeaks, her hand shooting out to steady herself on the glass wall.

  She rights herself and straightens up, but I hold her until she moves out of my grasp. “Hey. Take a minute, okay? What was that?”

  “Nothing.” She sighs. “I just got disoriented. It’s so bright.”

  Disoriented. Is that a symptom of concussions? The cold prickle of discomfort I felt in the doctor’s office returns. I wrap an arm around Becca’s shoulders. “Come on.”

  She doesn’t like the help, but I leave her no choice. And since I’m steadying her, we proceed up the sunlit tunnel without any further drama. At the top, the lobby is quite dark by contrast, the brick interior lit only by the vintage nickel and glass fixtures hanging from the ceiling. There’s a seating area here, although nobody ever uses it. I guide Rebecca onto an upholstered bench and then sit beside her. “Better?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Rebecca takes a long blink. “I’m okay now.”

  “Like hell you are.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to. “Let’s get you home.”

  She glances toward the door. “I’m going.”

  “I’ve got the car.” I tug my phone from my pocket. “Let me tell him to pull around.”

  “Jesus. It’s two blocks, Nate. I’m okay.”

  No, you’re not, and it’s freaking me the fuck out. Luckily I’m smart enough not to say that aloud. “I’ll walk you.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” she said.

  Ouch. “Why?”

  “Because I…” She takes a deep breath and looks me square in the eye for the first time today, and it hits me like a punch. I miss those eyes. “I can’t stand this. I can’t stand being such a mess. And I can’t stand missing work. I’m sorry for the big fucking disruption, okay? Don’t spend any more time on me. There’s ten other places you’re supposed to be right now, and Lauren is somewhere sharpening her talons to shred up both of us, probably.”

  “Now wait a minute, hothead.” That last thing is probably true. But Rebecca is focusing on all the wrong things, and I’m not going to stand for it. “Some things are more important than a little kink in the schedule. Like your health.”

  “I know!” She’s shouting at me now. Because women often do that. “But I’m so sick of me! It’s been three weeks. With no change. Every night I go to bed thinking that tomorrow I’ll feel better. But I don’t.”

  Both my hands flex, because I have the urge to reach out and pull her into my arms. The attraction I feel toward Rebecca
is inconvenient, to say the least. But I never act on it. “You will feel better,” I say. And then I realize how helpless I am right now. There isn’t much in my life I can’t fix with a phone call or a sternly worded memo.

  Except for this.

  Rebecca swallows hard. “Remember when you visited my apartment, and we had the stupid conversation about parallel universes?” she whispers. “Well, I think I’m in one. In this universe, nothing works right for me.”

  “You’re scared.”

  “Of course I’m scared!” Her eyes look red. “You and Hugh have been great. Really great. But I need to show up for work eventually. It’s what people do.”

  “No—you take all the time you need. I don’t care how long that is. How long have we known each other?”

  She glances up, frowning again. “Seven years. But…”

  “But nothing. You’re not some flaky intern who doesn’t know what it means to hold down a job.”

  “Nate, there are limits to sick days in the employee handbook.”

  “What page? I’ll change them.”

  Finally I get a smile out of Rebecca. I wait for her to laugh. She has a great laugh that goes from 0 to 60 in under a second. But today I only get a grin before her face gets sad again.

  “Come on,” I whisper. “This is you and me. We always figure something out.”

  She gives me a weary look, but it’s less tense now. “Dr. Herberts thinks this specialist might be able to figure out why I’m having such a rough time. But even if he puts a label on it, I won’t magically get better.”

  “It’s a start, though, Bec.” I reach over and squeeze her wrist briefly, and then let go. It’s the most amount of contact I ever allow myself with her. “You’re not very good at being patient.”

  “I noticed that.” She stands up. “I’ll work on it.”

  “There’s one thing I want you to do for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  I rise too, and I get a whiff of the lilac body lotion she wears. The sweet familiarity of it practically knocks me over. And I know the thing I’m about to do breaks all of my rules. I’ve kept myself on a tight leash for years. But this is an emergency.

  “I’ll tell you in the car,” I say.

  4

  Rebecca

  I let Nate steer me into a shiny sedan outside the building, where Ramesh—his driver and bodyguard—is waiting. It’s ridiculous to ride along for such a short trip, but I’m all out of energy to argue with Nate. I’m all used up.

  And I’m so, so sick of that feeling.

  Back there in the tunnel, I nearly fell over. Without his sudden embrace, I would have ended up on the floor.

  Every single day I’m having moments like that—when my balance goes haywire and I can’t function normally. It’s fucking scary. Everything about these last three weeks is scary. I’ve followed the doctors’ advice—resting at home. But it’s not working. I’m no better.

  The car pulls away from the curb, and Nate asks me a question. “Can I ask why you’re not sleeping? Herberts mentioned that.”

  “It’s not a huge problem,” I lie. I’m so tired of complaining to my boss. “My nephew is teething, and my, uh, sister’s boyfriend works odd hours.” Renny has been bartending for extra cash. “When he comes in at three in the morning, I always hear him. And since Matthew likes to wake my sister to nurse at all hours, there’s just always someone bumping around the apartment.”

  “Hmm,” Nate says. “That can’t be helping you.”

  “It isn’t the end of the world.”

  “Will you call the specialist?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “No, I mean right now. If the guy is really that busy, you need to get a spot on his docket before it’s too late.”

  Typical bossy Nate. I often push back when he orders me around, but today I just don’t have the energy to fight him. So I pull out the business card with the office number on it. My phone’s bright screen makes me squint, but I tap out the number and then close my eyes against the glare.

  When a receptionist answers, I tell her that Dr. Herberts referred me, and ask if I can get an appointment.

  “Well, we’re booking for mid-June. If that’s okay with you, I’m happy to put you down for two o’clock on the sixteenth.”

  “Okay…” June? If I still feel this way on June sixteenth, I will probably need a psychiatrist and a straitjacket as well as the specialist. But I take the appointment, because I don’t have many other options.

  “Well?” Nate asks as the car glides to a stop. He opens the door and slides out, then waits for me.

  I follow him across the seat and step out. “She gave me June sixteenth.”

  “June? Like, two months from now?”

  “Yep.” I look up. “Nate. What the hell?”

  “What’s the problem?”

  The problem is that we’re not in front of my apartment building on Water Street. Instead, I’m staring at Nate’s mansion on Pierrepont Place. “It seems we’re at your house?”

  “Dr. Herberts was right—your cognitive abilities are unscathed.”

  I smack him on the arm. “Don’t be a wise ass. Why did you bring me here?”

  “For lunch, for starters. And we’ll talk about my other plan.”

  This is mildly infuriating, but I follow him up the brick pathway toward the house. It’s not like there’s anywhere else I’m supposed to be.

  Nate’s home is a mansion in the truest sense of the word. When the house went up for sale four years ago, the New York Times did a whole article about its history and architectural significance.

  Nate scooped it up. He lives here alone, in a six-bedroom house. I’ve been inside a couple of times when he’s hosted charity fundraisers at home. And I use the word hosted casually—when Nate throws a party, Lauren or I hire people to do all the work.

  The front door opens as we approach. “Hello, dears! Is that Rebecca?” A plump, smiling woman wearing an apron and a little cap on her head waves us toward the door.

  “Hello, Mrs. Gray!” Nate’s housekeeper is someone I speak to on the phone often enough, but rarely see. “How have you been?”

  “Better than you, if I’ve heard correctly. How is your noggin?” Mrs. Gray asks. “Still a bit under the weather?”

  I glance toward Nate, wondering why his housekeeper would know anything about my head injury, but he looks away and coughs. “I know I didn’t call ahead, but is there something you could feed us for lunch?” he asks, in a more polite voice than he uses with anyone. Ever.

  “But of course! Do you think so poorly of me? In five minutes, I can give you Caesar salad with chicken and a bowl of tomato soup with croutons.”

  “Thank you,” Nate says, sounding sheepish. “That would be perfect.”

  “It’s only perfect if Rebecca agrees,” Mrs. Gray sniffs. “I can make her a sandwich if that menu doesn’t suit.”

  “Soup and salad sound lovely,” I say quickly.

  “Mrs. Gray?” Nate stops her as she hurries from the foyer. “Rebecca is going to be staying here for a little while. I’ll put her in the green bedroom.”

  “What?” I say at the same time Mrs. Gray claps her hands together and smiles, before hurrying off again.

  “Hear me out,” Nate says, taking my jacket off my shoulders. He hangs it on a coat tree in the corner. Nate’s foyer is larger than my bedroom on Water Street. “Your apartment is too noisy. This house has six bedrooms. I’m headed to Washington DC tomorrow. You’ll have complete privacy. Give it a week. See if the quiet helps you rest.”

  I’m just gaping at him. “I can’t stay here.” For a week?

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I just can’t, that’s all.” I’m not making any sense. But the reasons aren’t that much fun to articulate. “You’re my boss.”

  Nate actually rolls his eyes. “I didn’t ask you as your employer. I asked as your friend. Just tell me one thing.”

  “What?”


  “If I was injured and scared and not sleeping well, would you offer me one of your six bedrooms?”

  “Well, sure.” I don’t even have to think about it. Of course I’d help Nate.

  “Good.” He turns away as if the matter is settled, heading toward the rear of the house. “Then let’s eat lunch,” he says over his shoulder.

  I follow him through an enormous parlor filled with antiques, onward to the dining table. This room should seem stuffy, with its long table and sixteen chairs. But there’s a wall of leaded glass windows looking out on a manicured garden, and all that greenery draws the eye away from the antique fixtures and the chandelier.

  Nate pulls out a chair for me, then seats himself at the head of the table.

  We sit down, and I feel like the queen at Buckingham Palace. There’s no way I’m going to stay in Nate’s mansion for a week. That’s crazy talk. But it’s lunchtime and Mrs. Gray is whistling to herself in the kitchen. So I sit quietly and take it all in.

  This is a fun little adventure, even if my head injury was the cause of it.

  Staying for lunch proves to be a good decision, since Mrs. Gray’s soup and homemade Caesar salad are divine. Not that I’m surprised. Nate only hires the best. As I finish up the last bites of tangy tomato soup, he pulls out his phone and starts tapping on it.

  “Nathan,” Mrs. Gray chides, lifting away his empty soup bowl. “Phubbing is rude.”

  “Phubbing?” he looks up, startled.

  “Phone snubbing. God knows you usually dine alone, when it doesn’t matter. But Rebecca is your once-a-millennium guest, and the least you could do is talk to her.”

  I really do like Mrs. Gray.

  Nate bites the corner of his lip, which is a sign of concentration. “Thank you for your input, but I’m trying to help Becca with something.” He speaks into the KattSearch app on his phone. “Is Dr. Evan Armitage on the board of any charitable organizations?” His face lights up when the search results appear. “Ah, this is just what I was looking for.” He taps the screen a few more times.