Page 4 of Gray Hair Don't Care
“You make me sound like a washing machine.”
“I mean it in a good way.”
“Right.”
“Seriously. The best possible way.” He slung his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her closer. There was a part of him that knew he shouldn’t do it. Every other time in his life he’d pulled a woman in, it ended in a fight, a relationship, or sex. He absolutely did not want the first two. The third could be amazing, but he didn’t want to repeat old mistakes. He hadn’t dealt with it very well the one time he and Lela had wound up in bed. Although, hopefully, he wasn’t that same guy anymore.
Chapter Three
Donovan and Lelawalked over to 7thAvenue to catch a cab down to her apartment. They rode through the night, the taxi popping over bumps in the road as the driver sped up to red lights and lead-footed it away from the green. This was not how they’d traveled together when they were in school. Back then, they explored on foot, took the subway, or when his Vespa was working, he’d take her on that. He had so many incredible memories of running around the city with Lela that it would be difficult to pick a favorite one. Hell, it would be hard to untangle them. There were the nights they went to see bands at CBGB or The Pyramid, crushed up front against the stage and ferrying beers to each other. Or rainy afternoons spent hanging out in his apartment, studying or reading, always talking. And of course, there had been the Saturdays sneaking into churches.
Lela admitted early in their friendship that she had a thing for weddings. They made her happy, and as her best friend, he’d felt obligated to enable her somewhat odd hobby. So, they would dress up—Donovan in a laughable wide-lapeled tux he found in a secondhand store, and Lela in a lavender dress she’d Frankensteined together by cutting up a few thrift store finds. He’d called it thePretty in Pinkdress, just like the one Molly Ringwald’s character put together for prom. He attached no romantic feelings to the vision of them dressed like that—it was more astonishment that no one had ever kicked them out of a church sanctuary.
“You realize, Lela, tomorrow is Saturday.” The cab slowed down and turned onto West 21stStreet. “We could go to a wedding. Sneak in and sit in the last pew. People-watch.”
“Maybe. I’m still not on super steady ground after my divorce. Today was more of an impulse.”
“Well, I’m glad you took a chance. Otherwise, we would’ve been half a block apart and still not seen each other.” That was a truly depressing thought. He hated the idea of missed opportunities. The cruel twist of fate.
She smiled at him warmly and placed her hand on his thigh. She likely meant nothing by it, but his crotch did not get the memo. Everything in the vicinity of his hips went tight. “I’m glad we both decided to do it, too.” Lela scooted forward on the backseat to better talk to the driver as they crossed 8thAvenue. “It’s up here on the right. Middle of the block. You can pull over anywhere.”
Donovan fished his wallet out of his pocket to pay, leaving a fat tip, then slid across the seat to climb out. Lela was already halfway up a flight of stairs leading to a picture-perfect brownstone. “You’ve really moved up in the world.”
“I should hope so. I might not be rich, but I do make decent money.”
That was a bit of a shot at Donovan, who came from considerable wealth on his mom’s side. He didn’t like to dwell on it or even talk about it. In fact, Lela was one of the only people who knew, although she’d never experienced in person what it was like to be fully immersed in the James’s world of money, guilt, and questionable intentions. “I wasn’t trying to say that you didn’t.”
“It’s okay. I know that.”
She keyed her way inside and Donovan followed, stepping into a beautiful foyer, with a black-and-white checkerboard landing and a vintage chandelier overhead. Ahead was a long stretch of what looked to be original hardwood floors, leading all the way to the back of the house. Down the stairs came a fluffy orange cat, meowing with every other step. Lela crouched down to rub his head. “Donovan, meet Rio.”
“Duran Duran?”
“Of course.”
“You could’ve gone for a less obvious song.”
She swatted his arm. “Don’t be a snob. That’s one of my favorites. Plus, what was I going to do? Name him The Chauffeur?” She cocked her head to one side and adorably stuck out her lower lip. “Actually, that would’ve been pretty cool.”
“Maybe you can get Rio a friend.”
“I don’t need more responsibility in my life.” Lela kicked off her heels. “Do you mind taking off your shoes?”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He untied his Tom Ford oxfords and set them to the side.
Lela strode down the long central hall, flipping on lights as she went. He hustled up, wanting to take in everything, but quickly realizing that however this place was decorated, it was not Lela’s style. As he stole a glance of the large living room running along one side of the house, the furnishings were not only spare, they were super modern black leather, when he’d always known her to be far more colorful, never so bleak, and definitely much more cluttered.
“Is this where you lived with your ex?”
She grabbed a bag of cat food and filled Rio’s dish. “Yes. It’s a work in progress right now. I need to make a bunch of changes. He refused to take the furniture, which is really stupid since he picked it out.”
Donovan leaned against the kitchen island and sighed. He’d done that routine more times than he cared to remember, separating himself from the material goods acquired during a relationship. “What was he like? Your ex.”
“That topic requires a drink.” Lela headed to the far end of the kitchen and opened the upper cabinet. “I have tequila, vodka, and gin. For mixers, I have tonic and soda. Otherwise, red wine.”
“Gin and tonic?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
