Yet what he had just revealed to her could change everything between them—if she let it. She hated that he hadn’t told her about his injury. But what she hated even more was a deeply shameful realization. If he’d told her, she would have wept for him. She would have raged with him at the injustice, mourned the loss of his lifelong dream with him. But then she would have slunk away in fear. That was the sort of person she was, back then. And it struck her that she didn’t want to be that sort of person anymore.

“Some building,” he said.

“Thanks. It’s a co-op.”

“Places like this are tough to find,” he said.

“The Board knows more about me than my gynecologist, my therapist and the IRS.” She gritted her teeth, wishing she hadn’t admitted she was seeing a therapist. She opened the door to her apartment and led the way inside. The answering machine had a welcome message—Jenny had arranged for some talent to take Bobbi’s place tonight. That was something, at least.

Her apartment was exquisite. The spare white-on-white decor imparted a mood of space and cool elegance. She found herself wishing it was a little more...whimsical, maybe. Some colorful throw pillows on the designer sofa, or artwork that actually represented something recognizable. She turned to see Tony studying an array of silver-framed black-and-white photos on a glass-and-chrome étagère. Maybe the pictures conveyed a personal touch, Elaine thought. But no. There were no warm portraits of a laughing family, but merely souvenirs—pictures of her with celebrities, socialites, rock stars, company executives.

As though feeling her stare, he smiled at her. “Nice—”

“Please don’t say nice place.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not nice.”

“It’s not?” He picked up a small Baccarat bowl and carefully set it down. “So why do you live here?”

She blinked. “No one ever asked me that before.” She’d never even asked herself that question. She lived here because it was on the Upper East Side. The brushed-steel-framed Italian sofa was there because the designer had chosen it for style, of course. Not for comfort. The Venetian glass-top coffee table was there because it matched the sofa. Everything in her apartment went together perfectly. Her designer wouldn’t have it any other way.

The only thing out of place at the moment was Tony Fiore himself. He was too earthy, too real.

“It’s a great apartment. People wait for years to find an apartment like this.” She gestured at the tree-framed view out the window. The snow had rendered the world more brilliantly white than her stark interior.

“You didn’t answer the question, Elaine.”

“Can I offer you something to drink?” She went into the gleaming kitchen and he followed. She swung open the fridge. “Soda? Beer?”

“Thanks.” He helped himself to a soda.