GREG LIVES IN A GRACEFUL prewar building on the corner of Eighty-Second and Riverside Drive. Erica is curious to see what his apartment is like, how it’s furnished, what it says about him. When she enters the ornate lobby, the doorman smiles in recognition and says, “Mr. Underwood is in 1014.”
Greg answers the door wearing cargo pants, a black pullover, and beat-up sneakers. His green eyes light up in a welcoming smile and Erica feels this pull toward him.
“Welcome to my thank-you-Nylan-Hastings abode.”
He ushers her into the foyer, and she hands him a dozen irises.
“Twenty-first-century gender roles are pretty confusing, but if they include men getting flowers, I’m all for it. Let me grab a vase.”
Greg disappears into the galley kitchen and Erica walks into the living room. The room has great bones—a box ceiling and a fireplace flanked by built-in bookshelves—and is filled with comfortable furniture, framed prints, and photos. Windows face a small balcony and the river below.
“I picked up some awesome Italian grapefruit soda. Can I interest you in a glass?” Greg calls from the kitchen.
“Sure. And did you just use the word awesome?”
“Tragic, huh?” he says, walking in and handing Erica the drink.
“This is delicious.”
He picks a tray up off a side table. “Tuna tartare?”
She takes one. “Wow, a lot of horseradish.”
“You like?”
“Delicious. Please tell me you didn’t make this.”
“I love to cook.”
He loves to cook.
They sit on sofas on either side of the coffee table.
“So, you had an exciting day,” Greg says. “You’re getting the coveted nine p.m. slot. And I heard some numbers. Welcome to the one percent.”
“I’ll believe it when I spend it.” Erica puts down her drink. “Greg, Nylan wants me behind a desk pretty much all the time. That’s not where I want to be.”
“I know it isn’t. My advice: Let’s get your show up and running. If the ratings are as good as we hope they’re going to be, you can . . . well, demand may be too strong a word . . . but you can suggest that you cover certain stories personally, out in the field. I’ll back you up. At that point it will be very difficult for Nylan to say no.”
What would she do without Greg’s savvy? “You’re right, of course. I think I was anticipating problems. Not a great attitude.” She wants to discuss some of her qualms about Nylan himself—his grandiosity, his cold eyes, his suggestive looks, his rabid fervor, the nagging fear he generates in her, the sick little stunt with the flowers—but wonders if it would be indiscreet. After all, Nylan signs Greg’s checks. She focuses on what matters most to her. “I want to stay front and center on the Barrish murder, even if that means spending more time in LA.”
“Have there been any new developments?”
“I’m waiting for the results of the forensics on the car. I think this was clearly a murder for hire. And the people doing the hiring have to be pretty far up the food chain.”
“Meaning?”
“Yanez was obviously the last link. A pawn who sold his life for 10K. There are layers between him and whoever ordered the murder. It could be a terrorist organization with sophisticated operations in this country. Or a political rival who is really ruthless. Or a foreign leader. I wouldn’t put it past Putin. I suppose it could be some homegrown American crazy like Timothy McVeigh or Cliven Bundy, but those guys are pretty basic at the end of the day. They have the motive—hatred of the government—but not the smarts or the means to pull off something like this.”
Greg is looking at her but he’s only half listening. Erica knows that look. She’s been getting it—and ignoring it—pretty much since she hit puberty. When he sees her note it, he rubs his hands together to cover his raw desire. “You do know that the crime may never get solved.”
“Not from want of trying,” Erica says.
“Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. I made chicken Provençal.”
“Sounds yummy.”
There’s a loaded pause, and that look comes back into his eyes. “Would you like to see the view?”
“Yes, I would . . .”
They go out to the balcony. It’s a beautiful spring night with a silver moon cresting the endless sky—and down below, the river glows like phosphorescence and the city glitters like a billion jewels. And Erica is above it all and, yes, her dreams are coming true. Is she dreaming now?
Greg stands behind her, wraps his arms around her, and kisses the back of her neck, and his lips are warm and soft and rough and tender and insistent. His hands run down her arms and waist and hips, and he gently turns her body and his eyes are pools of kindness and promise, and then they kiss and her chest is rising and falling with each breath, rising and falling into his arms, his lips, and she runs her hand down his cheek and she wants him, she wants this . . . and there’s nothing but their kisses and the night . . .
He takes her hand to lead her inside and she whispers, “Greg, I’m . . . I’m not ready . . . not yet.”
And he looks at her and smiles away his disappointment. He tenderly brushes her hair off her forehead, then leans down and kisses her one more time. “Speaking of ready, it’s time to eat.”
“I’m so hungry,” Erica says, although food is the furthest thing from her mind.