Page 2 of It's a Widow Thing

The bartender tapped Sabrina’s shoulder. She took her drink, dropped a tip into a crystal vase and returned her sights to Michael, whose eyes kept darting to hers.

He mouthed something to Sabrina as his female companion took a canapé from a waiter.

Sabrina squinted. “What?” she mouthed back.

“Save. Me,” said his lips. He punctuated it with a flick of his thick eyebrows.

She swirled the ice in her glass with the cocktail stirrer, concocting a plan. Hanging out with Michael would certainly be more fun than time with the David Byrne wannabe or Mr. Spray Tan. From a purely practical standpoint, conversation could remain light, since she was fairly certain Michael knew nothing about her past. He’d only lived in the building for a few months and had never once brought it up during their chats on the elevator. More telling, he flirted with her like she was any other single woman. Now to be a good neighbor and rescue him from the blonde.

Sabrina marched over and tapped Michael brusquely on the shoulder. “You have some explaining to do, Wright. I know you’re stealing my SundayNew York Times.Mrs. Jackson saw you do it last week.” She glanced over at Michael’s conversation partner. “Do you realize you’re talking to the most notorious thief in this building?”

“I thought you were in the stock market,” the woman answered with a squeak.

Michael loosened his steely blue tie, which went perfectly with his slim-cut gray suit. “Hey. If someone leaves something sitting around, it’s not my fault if I decide to take it. Newspapers. Cars. I once found a Rolex on the vanity in the men’s room at Delmonico’s.”

“Are you being serious right now?” The blonde bugged her eyes at him.

Michael shrugged. “Mostly. I get bored.”

“Unbelievable.” She shook her head and hitched her handbag over her shoulder. “Look. You’re cute, but I’ve wasted too much time on flaky guys.” She wandered off, only to be flagged down by Mr. Spray Tan.

Michael unleashed his slightly lopsided grin. “I don’t know what your problem is. I very neatly folded your paper back up and returned it to your door when I was done.”

Clever bastard.“After you’d already completely ruined it. And while we’re discussing it, who does the Sunday crossword in pen?”

“Excuse me. Did I or did I not get every answer right?”

“You did.”

“I rest my case.” He took a swig of his drink. “Thank you for saving me. I swear I attract the ditzy ones like crazy.”

“You’re lucky I was around to rescue you.” Sabrina enjoyed a sip of her own cocktail, unable to ignore that a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Time spent in the elevator with Michael had been a wise investment. Their back-and-forth was comfortable, and that was the last thing she’d expected to feel when she’d walked into the party. “Maybe you shouldn’t make your initial appraisal of a woman by checking out how she fills out a dress.”

He raised a finger. “Ah, but if I didn’t, you and I might never have become friends.”

Heat rushed to the surface of her cheeks. He was always lightning fast with the compliments. “You’re terrible. Just so you know.”

He cast her a heated gaze. He didn’t blink. Not once. Which only drew attention to how absurdly long his lashes were. “I know you love it. I can tell by the way you look at me.”

Now it felt as if her face was on fire. For the life of her, she could no longer swallow. Who knew Michael would step up his game so quickly once they were outside the confines of the elevator? It was scary as hell. And flattering, which was its own brand of horrifying. “Did you trim your beard?”

He grinned and rubbed his manicured stubble, a shade or two darker than his warm brown skin. He had a few grays mixed in there, which she found adorable. Topped by all of that was his perfectly shaped bald head. It was so damn sexy. “I may be terrible, but you’re worse at changing the subject.”

“I’m making conversation.”

Wrapping his fingers around hers, he tugged on her hand. It sent a jolt of nerves through her. “Come on. Let’s find a spot to sit.”

He led her through the crowd and out to the terrace, never letting go of her hand. The October night air held a slight chill, but it helped to cool Sabrina’s overheated skin, and clear her mind. The hard landscape of the Manhattan skyline glowed, but aside from a cluster of candles flickering in hurricane lanterns on a table, it was otherwise dark. Michael invited her with a sweep of his hand to sit on a low, cushioned love seat.

“Do you really want to talk about my facial hair?” he asked.

“Sure.” She couldn’t think of a more benign topic.

“This is going to sound especially lame coming from a forty-five-year-old man, but I trimmed it for my mother. Or more specifically, my mother’s head of communications. We had to take a family picture for her official Christmas cards.”

Ah, yes. Michael’s mom was U.S. Senator Lydia Wright, a major political power-player, re-elected for her fourth term late last year. “She thought you were looking scraggly?”

“She likes things—and by things, I mean her sons—to be prim and proper.”