First message
The first time they meet, neither can place the other. She ducks into a Manhattan bookstore to escape the rain and photographers outside. Minutes later, the Giants’ quarterback steps inside, carrying a damp playbook. They reach for the same mystery novel.
“Sorry, you take it.”he says, letting go.
She studies him. “That was surprisingly gracious.”
“I’m trained to give things away under pressure.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Strategy.”
“You’re either confident or practiced.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“It can. That doesn’t make it charming.”
He laughs, but she turns away.
“Have we met?” he asks.
“Not that I remember.”
“Your face is familiar.”
“New York is full of familiar faces.”
“Most people don’t look like they’re planning an escape.”
Her expression cools. “You notice a lot.”
“It’s part of my job.”
“Reading defenses?”
“Reading people.”
“Then you should know better than to assume you’ve read me.”
That silences him. She returns the novel to the shelf.
“You’re hiding from someone,” he says.
“Possibly.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if you plan to be useful.”
He smiles. “I’m the Giants’ quarterback. Useful is expected.”
She gives him the faintest lift of her brow.
“And you,” he adds, “look like someone with an excellent disguise.”
“You’re not as observant as you think.”
“Give me a hint.”
“No.”She walks toward the exit. He follows, keeping his distance.