Waiting For Nick
Page 11

"Oh, well, I'll just hang on then, if it's all right with you. I'm Lorelie."
I bet you are, Freddie thought grimly. "Hello, Lorelie, I'm Fred."
"Not Nick's little cousin Fred?"
"That's me," she said between her teeth. "Little cousin Fred."
"Well, I'm just thrilled to talk to you, honey." Warmed, honeyed molasses all but seeped through the phone line. "Nick told me he was visiting with you last night. I didn't mind postponing our date, seeing as it was family."
Damn it, she'd known it was a woman. "That's very understanding of you, Lorelie."
"Oh, now, a young girl like you, alone in New York, needs the men in her family to look out for her. I've been here myself five years, and I'm still not used to all the people. And everybody just moves so fast."
"Some aren't as fast as others," Freddie muttered. "Where are you from, Lorelie?" she asked, politely, she hoped.
"Atlanta, honey. Born and bred. But up here with these Yankees is where the modeling and television work is."
"You're a model?" Didn't it just figure?
"That's right, but I've been doing a lot more television commercials these days. It just wipes you out, if you know what I mean."
"I'm sure it does."
"That's how I met Nick. I just dropped into the bar one afternoon, after the longest shoot. I asked him to fix me a long cool something. And he said I looked like a long cool something to him." Lorelie's laugh was a silver tinkle that set Freddie's teeth on edge. "Isn't Nick the sweetest thing?"
Freddie glanced up as the sweetest thing came back in with an armload of soda bottles. "Oh, he certainly is. We're always saying that about him."
"Well, I think it's just fine that Nick would tend to his little cousin on her first trip alone to the big city. You're a southern girl, too, aren't you, honey?"
"Well, south of the Mason-Dixon line, at least, Lorelie. We're practically sisters. Here's our sweet Nick now."
Face dangerously bland, Freddie held out the receiver. "Your magnolia blossom's on the phone."
He set the bottles down in the most convenient place, on the floor, then took the phone. "Lorelie?" With one wary eye on Freddie, he listened. "Yeah, she is. No, it's West Virginia. Yeah, close enough. Ah, listen…" He turned his back, lowering his voice as Freddie began to noodle softly at the piano. "I'm working right now. No, no, tonight's fine. Come by the bar about seven." He cleared his throat, wondering why he felt so uncomfortable. "I'm looking forward to that, too. Oh, really?" He glanced cautiously over his shoulder at Freddie. "That sounds… interesting. See you tonight."
After he hung up, he bent down to retrieve one of the bottles. As he unscrewed the top and took it to Freddie, he wondered why it should feel like a pathetic peace offering. "It's cold."
"Thanks."
And so, he noted, was her voice. Ice-cold.
She took the bottle, tipped it back for a long sip. "Should I apologize for taking you away from Lorelie last night?"
"No. We're not—She's just—No."
"It's so flattering that you told her all about your little lost cousin from West Virginia." Freddie set the bottle down and let her fingers flow over the keys. Better there than curled around Nick's throat. "I can't believe she bought such a pathetic cliché."
"I just told her the truth." He stood, scowling and feeling very put-upon.
"That I needed to be looked after?"
"I didn't say that, exactly. Look, what's the big deal? You wanted to have dinner, and I rearranged my plans."
"Next time, just tell me you have a date, Nick. I won't have any trouble making plans of my own." Incensed, she pushed away from the piano and began stuffing her papers into her briefcase. "And I am not your little cousin, and I don't need to be looked after or tended to. Anybody but a total jerk could see that I'm a grown woman, well able to take care of herself."
"I never said you weren't—"
"You say it every time you look at me." She kicked a pile of clothes away as she stormed across the room for her purse. "It so happens that there are a few men around who would be more than happy to have dinner with me without considering it a duty."
"Hold on."
"I will not hold on." She whirled back, curls flying around her face. "You'd better take a good look, Nicholas LeBeck. I am not little Freddie anymore, and I won't be treated like some family pet who needs a pat on the head."
Baffled, he dragged his hands through his hair. "What the hell's gotten into you?"
"Nothing!" She shouted it, frustrated beyond control. "Nothing, you idiot. Go cuddle up with your southern comfort."
When she slammed the door, Nick leaned down to open a club soda for himself. He could only shake his head. To think, he mused, she'd been such a sweet-tempered kid.
Freddie worked off a great deal of her anger with a long walk. When she felt she was calm enough to speak without spewing broken glass, she stopped at a phone booth and checked in with Sydney. The conversation did quite a bit to lift her spirits.
Afterward, armed with an address, she rushed off to view a vacant one-bedroom apartment three blocks from Nick's.
It was perfect. While Freddie wandered from room to room, she envisioned the furnishings she'd place here, the rugs she'd place there. Her own home, she thought, with room enough for a piano under the window, space enough for a pullout sofa so that her brother or sister could come and stay for visits.
And best of all, close enough that she could keep an eye on Nick.
How do you like that, Nicholas? she wondered as she grinned at her view of Manhattan. I'm going to be looking out for you. I love you so much, you stupid jerk.
Sighing, she turned away from the window and walked into the kitchen. It was small and needed some paint to perk it up, but she would see to that. She'd enjoy choosing the right cookware, the pots and pans and kitchen implements. She loved to cook, and even as a child had loved the big kitchen in her home in West Virginia, the wonderfully crowded kitchen at her grandmother's in Brooklyn.
She'd cook for Nick here, she thought, running a finger over the smooth butcher-block countertop, if he played his cards right. No. She smiled at herself, and at her own impatience. It was she who had to play the cards, and play them right.