“Could, yes. Would? No. That’s not who you are, Nikki Heat.”
“A little presumptuous.” She ate some of the ceviche, and as she tasted the citrus and cilantro, relishing how it made the fish even fresher, Nikki reflected on how close she had come to bringing Don home with her that night. “And how do you know that’s not who I am, Jameson Rook?”
“It’s not about knowing. You can never really know someone. It’s really about trust.”
“Curious. We’ve never really defined our . . .”
“. . . Exclusivity?” he said, finishing for her.
She nodded, “Yeah, that. And yet you trust me?” He chewed a Green Envy and nodded back. “And what about you, Rook, am I supposed to trust you?”
“You already do.”
“I see. And how far does this trust extend?” she asked, chopsticking a dab of wasabi for her next victim. “What about travel? What’s it called? The Hundred Mile Rule?”
“You mean the one that says you can do whatever—meaning whoever—you want if you’re more than a hundred miles away? The variation on the ‘What Happens in Vegas’ Rule?”
“That’s the one,” she said.
“Since you brought it up, the places I’ve been, situations do present themselves. Do they ever. And yes, I absolutely subscribe to the Hundred Mile Rule.” She set her chopsticks on the side of her plate, parallel to each other, and studied him. He continued, “But here’s the thing. According to Rook’s Rule, no matter where I am in the world, a hundred miles or a thousand, Mile Zero starts here.” He poked two fingers on his chest.
Nikki thought a moment, then picked up a piece of sushi with her fingers. “When I finish this Samba roll? I want you to pretend Mile Zero is a beach in Fiji. . . . And we’re on it alone.” She popped it in her mouth in one bite and flicked her eyebrows at him while she chewed.
* * *
The next morning “brisk walk” took on a literal meaning as she and Rook picked their way over ice patches on the way to the subway in minus-two degrees Fahrenheit. At least the smack of cold in her face helped wake her up. Heat had to tear herself out of that toasty bed with him to make her breakfast meeting on time. He helped by getting up with her and brewing coffee while she showered. When she stepped out, he was packing up gear so he could get to his loft in Tribeca and a day of writing. The deadline for his arms smuggling article loomed, and he told her that on its heels he owed the proofread galleys for his ghostwritten romance novel, Her Endless Knight.
“I feel like I just had one of those,” she said as they kissed at the stairs leading down to the 6 train at 23rd.
“Any complaints?”
“Only one,” said Heat. “It is about to end.”
Nikki made one more survey of Park Avenue South and was satisfied she wasn’t being followed. And as Rook stood holding the cab he had hailed, waiting in the street while he watched her, his pause confirmed Nikki’s suspicion that his early rise to get to work was an excuse to escort her without saying so. The sidewalk rumbled like distant thunder below, and she could hear the screech of the subway braking as it slowed at the station. She gave him a head nod and hurried down to meet it.
* * *