Page 13 of Danny

"I know."

"You can't just — you held a woman's wrist for fifteen seconds and felt her pulse and then dropped her like a hot pan and walked away? Without saying goodnight? That's — that's not even mixed signals. That's fucking weird, man. That’s serial killer behavior."

"I'm aware."

"She probably thinks you hated it."

"I didn't hate it."

"I know you didn't hate it. It broke your fucking brain. But she doesn't know that, because you left without saying a single word, you emotionally constipated —"

"Jagger."

"— robot in a suit." He sits back. "You need to fix this."

"There's nothing to fix. She's an employee."

"Right. An employee whose pulse you memorized in a hallway. Very professional." He stands up. "Fix it, Danny. Talk to her. Say actual words. Maybe start with 'goodnight' since you missed that one. Work your way up from there."

I last seventeen hours.

That's how long I manage to stay away from the main floor. Seventeen hours of meetings and ordinary business of running a club that generates more revenue per square foot than any business in Manhattan.

At 5:30 the next evening, I’m pretty sure my brain is starved of oxygen from being hard the entire time. She’s got me obsessed already.

I have a reason. The reason is the wine inventory, which I’ve never looked at in my fucking life.

The main floor is empty. Half hour before opening. Chairs still up on some tables. The piano quiet. The whole room stripped of its atmosphere, just furniture and marble and light.

She comes through the staff entrance two minutes later.

Not in uniform yet. Jeans, blue sweater, hair down. She's carrying a book — a paperback so beaten up it looks like she's been reading it in the bath, on the subway, possibly during a hurricane. She has it tucked under her arm the way other women carry a purse.

She sees me and stops.

"You're here," she says.

“I’m checking the wine inventory.”

"Umm... Why?”

"Because it needs checking." I say, not even convincing myself.

"Danny, you once asked Matteo if Sancerre was a cheese."

"That was a reasonable question. It sounds like a cheese."

"It doesn't sound like a cheese."

"It sounds French and soft. That's a cheese."

"It's a wine."

"I know that now."

She's fighting a smile. I can see it — the corners of her mouth twitching, the way she bites the inside of her cheek to hold it back. She's standing fifteen feet away with a destroyed paperback under her arm and she's trying not to smile at me and it's the best thing I've seen all day, all week, possibly all year.

"What are you reading?" I ask.