I hung up, found my jacket, and shrugged myself into it. I grabbed my shoulder bag and fished out my car keys, realizing as I stepped out the door how dark and chilly it was. A trip to his hotel was a bad idea. I was tired and I really didn’t feel like driving across town. I stopped in my tracks, wondering how tacky it would be if I called and begged off. I’d spent much of the day with him and I’d have been happy with a stretch of time on my own. I stood there, wishing I hadn’t piped up. Me and my big mouth. I should have done us both a favor and let him off the hook. Now, since I was already in motion, it felt easier to proceed to my car. I unlocked the Mustang and slid under the wheel. I sat for another brief interlude, conflicted and out of sorts. Finally, I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb. I’d have one glass of wine and a quick bite to eat and then I’d come home. Nick was probably more in need of his father’s attention than I was at this point.

•   •   •

When Dietz answered the door he was in a fresh pair of jeans and a collared shirt, over which he’d pulled a black cashmere sweater. His hair was still damp from the shower and I could smell soap and aftershave. He helped me out of my jacket and tossed it over the arm of a chair. He’d ordered a bottle of Champagne that was nestled in a silver ice bucket frosty with condensation. He picked up the bottle, put a cloth over the top, and worked the cork out with his thumbs. He held up a Champagne flute, his way of asking if he could pour me a glass.

“By all means.”

The room was larger than my apartment, no big surprise. My studio is small, which is why it suits me so well. Here the king-size bed seemed to dominate the room with its puffy white duvet like a heavy layer of snow. The bedframe was topped with an ornate wrought-iron crown. The walls were a buttery yellow, the Oriental rug awash in muted colors, mild green dominating. There was a corner fireplace with a real wood fire, throwing out a warmth I couldn’t quite feel from where I stood. The furniture looked antique, which may or may not have been the case.

Dietz handed me my Champagne flute and I took a sip, experiencing the surprise on my tongue. If I drink Champagne at all, it’s the cheap stuff, which is closer to a freshly poured glass of tonic water with harsh undertones. This was delicate, like a mouth full of sunshine and butterflies. I watched him pour a glass for himself.

“Have a seat,” he said.