Page 18 of Between Two Strangers

Had she thought at all about me today? I wondered. Had she worried that she hadn’t been able to reach me, and that I might be really concerned? Probably not. It was always me worrying about Chloe, if she was doing okay, wondering if she wanted to share a pizza on a Saturday afternoon or if she would need a ride home for the holidays.

Part of me fantasized about telling my mother what had happened, just to let her see the thoughtless side of Chloe that she seemed oblivious to. But I could imagine what she’d say:Oh, Skyler,your sister has so much on her mind right noworThat’s just Chloe being Chloe. Since my little sister Nicky found Chloe enchanting, I always seemed to be the only one complaining.

I stripped off my clothes and took a long bath, something I never had the chance to do in my apartment, where we only had a standing shower. As I toweled off, I realized I was starving, but the idea of leaving the hotel and going out into the city to pick up takeout was totally unappealing.

The hotel bar, I decided. I’d been there with Tess a couple of times and recalled they served some reasonably priced bar bites like shrimp cocktail and blistered shishito peppers. I might be able to trick my stomach into thinking one of them was an entire meal.

By the time I exited the elevator on my way to the bar, Tess had been replaced at the front desk, so I texted her to say how much I was looking forward to the evening. The wood-paneled room turned out to be only a quarter full, a pleasant surprise for a Saturday night. I took a seat at the far end of the empty bar. In my jeans and fisherman sweater, I didn’t think anyone would mistake me for a call girl, but I certainly didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to myself.

There was indeed a shrimp cocktail on the single-page menu, and I ordered one with a glass of the cheapest rosé they had and asked the bartender if I could also have a piece of bread or some crackers. He nodded, though I could see him fighting off an eye roll.

The wine, when it came, was delicious and very cold, and I congratulated myself for my decision to come downstairs. It was good to be alone, scanning news headlines on my phone and no longer fretting about Chloe.

I was halfway through my wine—taking tiny sips since the bartender showed no interest in topping it off gratis, and one glass was all I could afford—when out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone take a stool several down from mine. Barely turning my head, I slid my gaze off my phone screen in that direction to see it was noneother than the guy from the lobby. He was out of his blazer now and wearing a navy crewneck sweater with no shirt underneath. Though I’d practically needed neon wands and a reflective safety vest to get the attention of the bartender, this guy beckoned him over with nothing more than a small cock of his chin.

He ordered a Johnnie Walker on the rocks. And then, without warning, he turned to me and flashed a small smile, polite rather than flirty, the kind you offer strangers when you move into their space a little. I nodded pleasantly and returned to my phone.

But I couldn’t help stealing brief glances at him now and then. He was as attractive as I’d thought earlier, but in such a different way than someone like, say, Carson, my crush from oil painting class. This guy was aman, emanating confidence and self-possession, the kind of guy who surely knew how to pick the perfect wine for a meal, change a flat tire without breaking a sweat, and get himself rebooked instantly after his flight was canceled. And if I started choking on my last piece of shrimp, he’d probably jump over and rescue me in seconds with a perfectly executed Heimlich maneuver.

For the first time I noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Which didn’t confirm he was unattached to a wife or partner, but it meant there was a chance he might be single.

My glass was almost empty now, and the bartender asked if I wanted another.

“No thanks,” I said, though I did.

He whisked the wineglass off the bar so fast you’d hardly know it had even been there, and then turned to ring up my bill.

“You sure?”

It wasn’t the bartender speaking, but the guy a couple of stools down. I glanced back over at him. Could he be trying to pick me up?

“I have to leave in a minute to meet someone,” he added before I could summon a response, “but I’d be glad to buy you a round before I go.”

Interesting. He seemed to be saying that there’d be no strings attached to the drink, that he wasn’t going to be hanging around and expecting me to hightail it up to his suite with him once I’d drained it. And this would mean I could chill at the bar a while longer.

“Um, sure,” I said. “Thank you for that.”

He asked the bartender to bring me another glass of rosé and shook his head when he was asked if he wanted another scotch.

“I’ve been to Boston only a couple of times but that was years ago,” he said, redirecting his attention back to me. “Do you think I made a good choice with this hotel?”

“Well, you’re right near Boston Common and the Public Garden, which are really nice to wander in. And there’s a trolley stop close by, on the corner of Arlington and Boylston.” I smiled at how stupid that sounded. “Though you’re probably not planning to travel much on the T while you’re here.”

He smiled back. His eyes were blue like mine but appeared much darker, at least in the dimness of the bar.

“Hey, Ilovemass transit.... Are you in town on business, too?”

I chuckled. “Do I really look like a businesswoman?”

“If I were to guess, I’d say you’re a tech genius working for a cutting-edge start-up.”

“If only,” I said, and smiled. “What if I told you I actually work for the National Board of Rosé Importers and part of my job is to travel around the country and make sure bars and restaurants are pushing our wines enough.”

Now it was his turn to chuckle. His skin, I noticed, was a little bit weathered and his lips slightly chapped, like he might be someone who sailed as a hobby. I was pretty sure he didn’t do anything outdoorsy for a living, though. No, he looked like the kind of guy who ran meetings and told people things likeLet’s make it happen—but not in a jerky way. He seemed too comfortable with himself for that.

“Ah, a rosé undercover agent,” he said, clearly aware I was teasing. “That’s the kind of job I might relish myself.”

He drew a credit card from his wallet and laid it on the dark wooden bar for the bartender.Please, I thought,don’t leave right this second.

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