Page 69 of I Know You

With a roll of my eyes, I march away from the Palm Court toward the Fifth Avenue lobby of the hotel. Both men follow, though Ben splits off from us as we leave the hotel.

We hurry down the street toward the high-end department store, passing the fountain where Quint and I first kissed. I glance over, wondering if he feels the same longing I do for that thrilling moment, where for a few seconds, the future didn’t matter, only that we were meant to spend it together.

He keeps his stare stoically ahead, which at least makes me think he remembers too. He has the right idea, though. Ignoring what happened with us in the past is for the best, even if I wish it could be different.

We reach Bergdorf’s without saying anything to each other, and I’m still piqued by his reluctance to come with me. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable standing guard outside,” I say as we approach the doors.

“Clara—Miss Granville,” Quint says in a resigned voice.

I turn. “I meant because I would need to purchase something that might be embarrassing for you to witness.” And twenty-first-century woman that I am, I enjoy the scarlet color that sweeps over his face and the way he rubs at the back of his neck.

“I’m not sure Ben would approve of me leaving you alone, even among the patrons of the store.” Then a smile graces his wonderful lips. “Besides, how do you intend to pay?”

It’s my turn to blush. In my frustration, I’d forgotten about that part. “They can call… someone who handles Ben’s money, and I can charge or … something.” My blush—and the butterflies in my stomach—rises with every inch that Quint’s smile grows. I miss that smile. “It happened that way in a movie I saw once,” I excuse.

“You can charge to my mother’s account.” Then his smile abruptly disappears. “You’re already authorized. I had your name added because I expected—” He shakes his head and holds open the door, avoiding my gaze. “I never changed it.”

I force myself to keep walking. Though I’ve ached from losing him, it feels inadequate and small next to the faith he held onto for ten years that I would return, that I would love him enough for that.

“I see,” I say in a small voice. “Thank you.”

He nods in response, his smile and all signs of us having a few normal moments together gone. I take my time shopping, only half my brain on the dresses the salesgirl presents to me. As I look over a green-and-white, printed silk evening dress with a disturbing art deco face pattern, I can’t shake the feeling of someone watching me. I look up, expecting—hoping?—to see Quint nearby. He is, of course, but not watching me. He twirls his hat in his hand as he leans against a mirrored pillar. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as the sensation continues, but a glance around tells me no one else is paying me any attention, least of all Quint.

I’m fingering a navy dress with large flowers that I would absolutely wear after I get home when the salesgirl holding it out to me looks over her shoulder. “Does your husband enjoy shopping with you?” she asks with a knowing grin.

“He’s not—” I follow the girl’s gaze and stop, whirling a second before finding Quint on the opposite side of me than the girl had been looking. That uneasy feeling in my stomach lurches again. “He’s not my husband,” I continue. “Just a friend.” Did the girl hear the catch in my voice at that? “My … brother made him come with me. He’s overprotective.”

The girl nods and casts an understanding smile. “I see. This neckline will complement you very well, especially with the gathers,” she says.

“I’ll take it.” I don’t need convincing.

The girl adds it to the list of purchases I’ve already chosen. I look in Quint’s direction again, where he’s keeping to the edges of the main walkways between the sophisticated counters. Perhaps he moved after the girl spoke.

When I enter the ladies’ unmentionables department, Quint settles down in a chair to wait in another department, his attention pointedly away from the lacy things displayed. Which explains why Gibbons is able to clap a hand over my mouth and drag me to an unoccupied fitting room in the ladies’ dresses department.

“I thought I warned you about following me around. In fact, I thought it was quite a strong warning,” he growls in a low voice.

I won’t be the fragile miss the men in my life tend to think of me as—nor will I be distracted and get myself hurt like I did last time. Instead, I respond by slamming my elbow into Gibbons’s stomach and stomping on his foot the way Burke taught me, which surprises him enough that he lets go of me. “Quint!” I shout the moment Gibbons uncovers my mouth then I shove the door of the fitting room aside.

Women cry out in surprise as Gibbons’s footsteps pound behind me, and my stupid heels make it difficult to pick up any speed. The second he catches sight of Quint barreling toward me, Gibbons shoves me forward and lowers his shoulder to take down Quint. Quint grabs him around the waist, but Gibbons throws his arms outward, breaking Quint’s grip. A quick jab backward with his elbow sends Quint sprawling behind him. Only seconds have passed, and already Gibbons is sprinting for the door with too much of a head start. Black ops, alright.

Quint hops up, hurrying to me as stand up. “Clara, are you okay?”

“Hurry! We’ve got to tell Ben before he gets too far!” I grab Quint’s hand and yank him from the store, though Quint catches on and outpaces me, shouting for Ben as he races down the street back toward the Plaza, all the while glancing back at me with concern.

I whip my head back and forth, searching for the direction Gibbons has gone and spotting him weaving in and out of people on the sidewalk. Before I think too much of it, I sprint after him.

Curse the stupid shoes! Curse my affinity for Mary Janes and the dumb buckle. I can’t kick them off or take the time to bend and take them off either. Curse Ben for being right about my ability to pursue in heels.

“My purse!” I shout, pointing at Gibbons’s retreating figure. A man nearby tries to grab at him, but Gibbons slams a shoulder into him, causing a domino crash of people nearby. A second later, my heel breaks, sending me to the ground.

“You okay?” Ben shouts as he sprints past me, barely stopping.

“Fine! Go!”

“Clara!” Quint skids to a stop beside me, bending to help me up.

“I’m fine. Bruised knee. Dumb shoes,” I pout, still staring after Ben as I stand. A moment later, he disappears around a corner. I glance at Quint, who still holds on to my elbow. “You probably should have followed,” I say with worry.