“Now you know what? I like spicy French fries?” I kept shaking the bottle as a distraction.
“That you’re looking for a good guy, but one who isn’t so good he’s boring. You want a little danger. You crave some crazy in your life.” When I groaned, it only seemed to encourage him. “You want someone who will stay hopelessly devoted to you, the kind of guy you can imagine sharing a glass of Metamucil with in the mornings when you’re old, but the type who lives in the moment. You want someone who isn’t perfect and doesn’t pretend to be, a guy who might have some irritating quirks but has enough redeeming qualities to make them easy to overlook.” He shifted like he was trying to get comfortable. Once he got going, it could be a while before he finished. “You’re looking for a guy who’s close to your age, someone who’s six one’ish, one-ninety, blond hair, blue eyes—” When I realized what he was doing, I looked at him. He was grinning. “Nice face, smokin’ bod”—he gave a bodybuilder pose—“he loves baseball, pizza, and his family. The All-American boy.”
I continued to stare at him, blinking as I finished a few more fries. “You just summed up exactly what I’m not looking for in a guy. I think you got your hot sauce mixed up with your mayonnaise.”
When he made a face, I cleared my throat to keep the laugh down. Soren hated mayonnaise. So did I. To us, mayonnaise was root evil in gelatinous form.
Swiping the bottle of hot sauce, he carried it toward the kitchen with the rest. “Side of mayo coming right up.”
The next couple of hours passed in pretty much the same fashion. Soren buzzed by regularly to tease, talk, or mention something, and even though I’d finished the fish and chips a while ago, I lingered because . . .
I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like I was sitting with anyone else like everyone in the bar was. It wasn’t like I wasn’t tired and should probably get some rest for another harrowing day tomorrow. Sullivan’s was the first place I’d been to in New York where it felt like I was surrounded by friends—or the illusion of them. I felt like I fit in with this rowdy bunch because everyone seemed to be accepted. I knew that feeling was because of him. Soren was fast becoming what home felt like here in New York.
The last few guys were sitting at the bar, finishing their dark beers, when Soren slid into the chair across from me with a tray of salt and pepper shakers. He started unscrewing the lids, topping them off as he went. “You’ve been busy lately. Booked the cover of Maxim yet?”
I made a face. “My goal isn’t to book the cover of Maxim. At all.”
His forehead creased.
“Try Vogue. When I book the cover for them, that’s when I will freak the heck out.”
“Vogue. Maxim. What’s the difference?” One of his shoulders lifted.
I tried not to look too insulted. “Only that one’s a fashion magazine for women, and the other’s a spank bank for guys.”
Soren paused in the middle of marrying two pepper shakers. “Fair assessment.” He got back to working on the peppers, so I decided to help with the salts. He slid the pitcher of salt toward me. “Okay, so this is probably one of those times I should keep this thought to myself—”
“Uh-oh,” I interjected.
“But modeling? You?” He was searching for words, at least trying to say whatever it was with some degree of sensitivity. Last week, he’d been about as sensitive as a rhino’s hide. He was making progress in the Neanderthal department. “I don’t know. Isn’t it maybe just a little . . . shallow?”
When he chanced a glance across the table at me, I was already looking at him. He exhaled when he realized I wasn’t about to throw a shaker of pepper in his face.
“More or less shallow than a bunch of guys playing with bats and balls into their adulthood?”
His mouth fought a smile. “Point taken.”
“I get it. I understand what you’re saying. It’s not curing cancer or building houses in Third World countries. The clothes, pictures, poses. It’s what I love. That fire inside, you know?” I didn’t need a confirmation from him because I knew he felt the same thing about baseball. “If more people listened to that, the world would be a better place.”
Soren lifted a full pepper shaker. He waited for me to lift one of my salt ones. “From one person chasing their dream to another, cheers.” He clinked the shakers together.
“Cheers.” I checked the time on my phone, my eyes going round when I saw it was almost midnight. “I better get going. I’ve got to be up in six hours.” When I got up to pull on my coat, I felt Soren giving me a look. I zipped my jacket all the way up. It would only be colder out there than it had been a few hours ago. “What?”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.”
He shook his head like I hadn’t understood his question. “Where do you think you’re going alone?”
“Home,” I repeated.
Another head shake. “The answer would be ‘nowhere.’”
“What do you mean nowhere? I have to get back so I can get some sleep.”
He finished screwing on the rest of the shaker lids. “And you will get back once I finish up here and can go with you.”
“Soren, please. I’m a big girl perfectly capable of making it home by myself.”
His eyes lifted. “At midnight in one of the biggest cities in the country?”
“In one of the safest big cities in the country.”
He started moving around to the empty tables, sliding the full shakers into place. “Doesn’t change that you’re a pretty young woman walking by herself in the kind of shoes that were not designed for running in the event she needs to.” His gaze dropped to where I’d kicked off my heels under the table.
“You’re being crazy,” I said, sliding back into my heels.
“No, you’re being crazy. This isn’t small town Nebraska where everybody looks after everybody.” The more he talked, the more upset he seemed to get. “I mean, come on. Did they teach you anything about safety and common sense back there?”
Grabbing some of the salts, I followed behind him to help. “Let’s see. I was taught not to run with scissors, not to talk to strangers, not to put my drink down at a party.”
Soren sighed. “Child’s play. That might have gotten you through adolescence back there, but it’s not enough for you to safely navigate your twenties in New York.”
“So I need a reeducation on safety?”
“A total rehaul from the sounds of it.”
I followed him to a back station, where he grabbed a towel and some cleaner. “And who do you have in mind to be my teacher?”
Sticking his thumb in his chest, he winked. “This hunk of hardened, big-city meat.”
Grabbing another towel and bottle of cleaner, I moved to the table beside the one he was cleaning. “What’s your first lesson then, Professor Decker?”
He grinned when I called him that. “First lesson is—you don’t walk anywhere alone at night.”