Heartless by Winter Renshaw Page A

felt guilty because it was so personal and it didn’t belong to me, so that’s why I was trying to return it.”
    I shake my head, shrugging. “People leave things on my doorstep all the time.”
    She licks her full lips, her head tilting as she stares up at me. The moonlight illuminates her blonde hair and makes her blue eyes shimmer. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see her again after tonight.
    “Anyway, it was very interesting meeting you this week, Ace. If I never see you again, I hope . . . everything . . . works out for you.” she says, her hand gripping the strap of her purse as her lips pull into a sleepy smile. As she turns to leave, she winks, as if to say we’re good now, and I stand, hands in my pocket, watching as she disappears past a group of well-dressed Upper East siders.
    There’s a damp density in the air tonight, like it’s going to rain soon. The leaves on a nearby maple tree rustle, and I turn to head home. Alone. Wondering what would’ve happened had we stayed a while longer.
    Maybe nothing.
    Guess I’ll never know.

11
    A idy

    “ D o you think you’ll ever see him again?” Wren pours two cups of steaming hot water and unwraps a couple of chamomile tea bags. I’ve just finished filling her in on the Helena situation and wasted no time rambling on about running into Ace at the pharmacy and meeting up with him after.
    Plunking myself into a kitchen chair, I slump over, resting my chin in my hands.
    “Considering the week I’m having, I’m willing to bet anything could happen,” I say.
    “You’ve had quite the night.” My sister takes the seat across from me and slides a teacup my way.
    I nod, blowing cool air across the top of my steeping tea. It skims the hot liquid, leaving a pattern of ripples, and a puff of steam rises.
    Wren rests her chin in her hand. “Still think the writings are his?”
    I nod. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”
    “Theory. If the notebook was his, and it was filled with all those personal writings, wouldn’t he really, really, really want it back? What would make him deny, deny, deny?”
    Shrugging, I suggest, “Pride? Maybe he was too embarrassed to claim it? There’s some very explicit entries in there. Like graphic, detailed rendezvous. I wouldn’t claim something like that in front of a complete stranger who’s read it all.”
    “So he’s this public figure, but he’s perfectly okay with this secret journal of his being in the hands of some random woman?”
    I smirk. “Hey, if he wants it back, he has my number. I’m not going to do anything with this book. He’s got nothing to worry about.”
    “Right, but does he know that?”
    Shaking my head, I say, “Probably not, but he’s more than welcome to ask if he’s really worried about it.”
    Wren sips her tea, staring blankly over my shoulder. “Think you’ll hear from him again?”
    “Doubtful.” I trace the tip of my pinky finger along the rim of my cup. “We both said our piece. It’s not like we made plans to meet up sometime.”
    “You look sad.”
    Glancing up at Wren, I shake my head. “I’m not sad at all. Why would I be sad?”
    “I’m not saying you are sad, I’m saying you look sad.”
    Rising from the table, I take my cup to the sink and rinse it. “I guess I wanted closure.”
    “Closure?” Wren coughs, laughing. “Closure from what?”
    Looking down into the shiny, stainless sink, I tuck my chin against my chest. “I felt such a connection with those writings. I was so vested in the love story of those two strangers. I wanted to know what happened because the journal had no ending.”
    “Then you should’ve brought up the journal more. Asked some questions. You had his full attention and you squandered the opportunity in favor of flirting,” Wren says.
    “I wasn’t flirting,” I say. “I was trying to prove to him that I wasn’t some demented, obsessed stalker fan. And as soon as I accomplished that, it was too late to flip the