“
I haven
’
t seen him,”
I said. “
I plan on returning it to him when I do.”
Ian was quiet for a min
ute, his eyes wandering around the apartment, avoiding mine.
“
Portia,”
he said finally, still not looking at me. “
I
’
m afraid I owe you an apology.”
“
No,”
I said, moving a step closer. “
You don
’
t. I was totally wrong and I feel horrible about what I said.”
“
It
’
s all right. I understand how you would have jumped to conclusions. I overreacted and I apologize for that.”
“
I
’
m sorry, too.”
He nodded. He still wasn
’
t looking at me. I took another step closer and leaned my head into his line of vision. “
What is it?
”
His eyes glanced up, then away. “
It
’
s just that...the fact that I reacted...as I did...got me thinking
…”
He met my eye again. I had a crazy idea for a moment that he was going to kiss me.
I was mistaken.
“
I think it would be best if we kept our friendshi
p...just a friendship.”
I bit my lip. “
Oh.”
He paused. “
I
’
m going back to London as soon as I finish my book.”
Ice ran down my spine as I digested this. He was fairly close to done, from what I knew. He could be leaving any day, then. He gave an uncomforta
ble shrug and gestured to me, his focus landing on the window past my shoulder.
“
And you
’
re going back to New York at the end of the summer. It
’
s just...bad timing.”
If that
’
s all it was, you
’
d be looking me in the eye right now,
I thought. But what was th
e point? There was no beating the Teflon. It was all-powerful.
“
Sure. You
’
re right. Okay.”
He raised his eyes to mine. “
I want you to understand. It
’
s not that I don
’
t...It
’
s not personal.”
Rejection is always personal.
“
Of course not. I agree, actually. I
mean, things are complicated for me right now.”
“
Yes,”
he said slowly.
I swooped some hair behind my ear. “
So really, what would be the point, right?”
“
Right,”
he said. I couldn
’
t read his expression. Sad? Relieved? A little of both? Neither? I didn
’
t kno
w. I hoped my expression was as unreadable for him. Fair
’
s fair.
He jingled his keys in his hand. “
Well. I do hope that you
’
ll continue to come over in the afternoons. I rather enjoyed our time together, and I
’
d hate to lose it.”
He paused and
gave a small smile. “
I
’
ve missed you.”
I smiled back. “
Missed you, too.”
We each gave a self-conscious laugh. The comfort I usually felt in his presence
was
replaced by a painful awkwardness.
“
Right, then,”
he said, motioning toward the door. “
Shall we?”
I
stepped in front of him and headed out the door, wondering if maybe Penis Teflon was actually a physical characteristic, something in the genetic makeup of Miz Fallons that we exude, like pheromones. It would certainly explain a lot.
“
Hit me.”
I had sixte
en showing. Ian had fourteen. It was a gamble.
Ian flipped over the next card.
Five of hearts.
“
Woo hoo!”
I did a little shimmy as I sat Indian-style on the big block end tables we
’
d pushed together to create our mini-casino. Turns out Ian was right; the l
ittle beasts do take forever to make the scene. It was two in the afternoon, and still no baby. Davey and Beauji
’
s mom were in the room with her, and they came out with updates every so often. In the meantime, Ian and I played blackjack.
“
Not so fast,”
Ian
said, holding up his hand. “
I still have to take my card.”
I rolled my eyes. “
You
’
re not going to get twenty-one.”
He tapped the face-down card at the top of the deck. “
How can you be so sure?”
“
What are the odds?”
He shook his head. “
I don
’
t know, but I
have a chance.”
“
You have no chance,”
I said.
“
We
’
ll see.”
He flipped the top card onto the table, keeping his eyes on me. I glanced down, then looked back up at him, my mouth open.
“
You
’
re a cheater,”
I said as he gathered the cards up, leaving the seven
of clubs he
’
d just picked off the deck for last.
“
I most certainly am not,”
he said, “
and I resent the accusation. No matter. I win. Push goes to the dealer.”
“
Since when?”
He grinned. “
Dealer makes the rules.”
I sighed. “
Fine. A bet
’
s a bet. What do you w
ant?”
He shuffled the cards between denim knees, his work boots tapping on the floor for a second while he thought. “
Tell me the whole story about you and Peter.”
“
The whole story? Why do you want to know?”
“
I have to admit, I
’
m curious.”
He set the deck o
f cards neatly between us. “
It
’
s the writer in me.”
Sure. The writer.
“
Okay,”
I said, standing up. “
But it
’
s a long story. Make yourself comfortable. I
’
m gonna get us some coffee.”
“
You do realize that this whole idea of Penis Teflon is patently absurd, do
n
’
t you?”
Ian leaned over me on the lumpy hospital couch and tossed his empty coffee cup into the garbage. It had taken us three cups and ninety minutes to get from the day Peter and I met three years before to the moments right before Ian came to pick me
up for our date.
I shook my head. “
No, I
’
m totally serious. I think it might be a chemical thing, like pheromones...”
Ian huffed. “
Look, the man abandoned you with a note. Scribbled in the front page of his own novel, which tells me that he
’
s completely se
lf-obsessed, which in turn suggests that this sudden change of heart likely has more to do with him than it does with you.”
“
Oh, gee, thanks.”
He let his head fallback against the couch. “
Sod it. I should have known better.”
I folded my arms over my stomac
h. “
Excuse me?”
He lifted his head. “
What I
’
m trying to say is that a person who is that self-obsessed is not likely to suddenly become otherwise. I was not making any commentary at all on whether or not you might be worthy of the change.”
“
I didn
’
t say th
at you did.”
But, of course, that was the way I
’
d taken it. Time to get the subject back on track. “
So, you don
’
t think people can change?”
“
I believe they can, yes. I don
’
t believe they often do. But I think the real question is, is that a risk you really
want to take?”
His brown eyes dug into mine, pushing for an answer. My mouth was open, but I had none. It was then that I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I looked up and saw Beauji
’
s dad, Beau Sr., dumping some luggage on the floor and rushing ove
r to me. His face was as red as the fringe of hair that ran around the back of his head.
“
Portia,”
he said, pulling me into his arms for a hug. “
Good to see you. Where
’
s my baby girl?”
“
She
’
s still in labor, far as we know.”
“
She
’
s okay, though? Baby
’
s oka
y?”
I smiled. “
Yes, both fine so far.
We're
just waiting for the final showdown.”
He grinned. “
I wasn
’
t going to go to that conference, but Beauji
’
s mama told me it
’
d be fine, babies never come on time. Shows you what women know.”
He gave me a nudge and a
wink. “
I caught the first flight out of Atlanta and damn near killed myself getting here. Can
’
t miss my first day of being a grandpa, can I?”
“
No,”
I said with a laugh. “
Absolutely not.”
He looked at Ian and held out his hand. “
Beau Miles.”
Ian shook it. “
Ian Beckett. I
’
m a friend of Portia
’
s.”
Beau gave a gasp of recognition. “
You
’
re that fella writes those spy novels, aren
’
t you? I heard you
’
d be in town this summer.”
Ian nodded. “
Yes, sir.”
“
Well, you and Portia are coming by for dinner before the summer
’
s out, and I won
’
t take no for an answer. It
’
s not often a guy gets to show off his grandbaby to a famous author.”
Ian glanced at me, then smiled and nodded at Beau Sr. “
I
’
d be honored, Mr. Miles. Thank you.”
“
Oh, Mr. Miles, nothing. You
’
re a friend of Po
rtia
’
s. You
’
ll call me Beau.”
Beau Sr. winked at me and I felt a blush creeping up my neck, but was saved by the sound of squeaky sneakers on the linoleum. We all turned to see Davey, red-faced and grinning, coming up behind us.
“
It
’
s a boy.”
Ian and I wai
ted an hour for Beauji and the baby to get settled in her room. She looked beautiful, if a little tired. Her face glowed. The baby was a tiny cocoon of blankets sleeping in a clear plastic bassinet next to her bed. Beau Sr. stood on one side with his arm
a
round Beauji
’
s mom, Wendy. Davey sat with one hip on the bed next to Beauji, cooing at his sleeping son.
Ian squeezed my hand and whispered, “
Congratulate Beauji for me. I
’
ll be in the waiting room.”
As the door closed behind him, Beauji held her hand out
to me.
“
Come see my baby, Portia,”
she said. Davey stood up and moved to the side to make room for me. I walked over, took her hand, and looked. “
Isn
’
t he gorgeous?”
I peeked at the wrinkled, scrunched-up pink face poking out from the blanket cocoon and th
e light blue baby cap. He resembled a hairless pink pug dog, but she was right. He was beautiful.