Anything For You. Kristan Higgins

that’s really cool. It’s an overlook. Want to see it? There’s a great view of the Hudson.”

      He heard Colleen’s voice in his head. Trying too hard, idiot. Yep. And why would Jessica want to hang out with him? She was just being polite, letting him walk her back to her hotel, where some rich George Clooney older guy would ask her to have dinner with him, and he’d order a $500 bottle of wine, and by the end of dinner, he’d want to marry her and Jess would become his trophy wife, and who could blame her, she’d drive around in a little BMW and have a maid and go to Turks & Caicos and—

      “Okay,” she said.

      It was freezing now, and already the late October wind had gone from damp and raw to razor. She was only wearing a denim jacket. He should’ve noticed that before. He slipped off his peacoat and gave it to her.

      “I’m fine.”

      “Take it, Jess.”

      She did. “You’re not cold?” she asked.

      Not as long as he was looking at her. “Not at all.” He took her hand, which was cold and small in his, and rubbed it with both of his. Though it was hard to tell in the dim light, she might’ve blushed.

      No one else was out on the hotel grounds, probably because their survival instincts had kicked in and they didn’t want to freeze to death.

      But Jessica sure looked cute in his coat, which came down to her knees and past her hands. Her hand slipped out of his as she leaned her arms on the railing and gazed out at the mighty river. Lights winked from the opposite shore, and the wind gusted.

      Say something, idiot, his brain instructed. He had nothing.

      A barge passed beneath them, almost silent, the motor just a low growl.

      “You ever wonder where they’re going?” Jessica asked. “What it’d be like to crew on one of those, where you’d sleep, the places you could see?”

      “All the lives you could live,” he said.

      She looked at him sharply then returned her gaze to the river. The barge kept going, downriver toward Manhattan, and from there, anyone’s guess.

      “I’m sorry if I was rude before, when I first saw you,” she said, not looking at him. “I didn’t expect to see someone I knew.”

      “You weren’t rude,” he said.

      “It’s just... No one in the wine class knew my reputation, or that I’m just a waitress, or that I still live in a trailer park. For a second, I just got to be some good-looking chick from upstate, maybe a restaurant manager or sommelier or something.” She pushed some hair behind her ear. “When I saw you, I was Jessica Does again.”

      There was a whole lot of history in that statement, and Connor was wise enough not to answer right away.

      “If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “you were always Jessica Doesn’t where I was concerned.”

      She laughed, surprised, and looked at him. He smiled.

      She shifted her gaze back to the river. “Do you remember the time you said I could punch you? After Chico bit you?”

      He blinked. “Yes.”

      “That...” She straightened up and looked at him. “That meant a lot to me.”

      Hell’s bells. The wind howled down the river, gusting into the bridge.

      She looked away. “I’m freezing.”

      “Let me walk you back to the hotel,” he said. Nice going, he told himself. She gave you an opening and you stood there like a tree.

      They didn’t hold hands on the way back, and though the wind was bitter and the smell of creosote from the railroad tracks was sharp, Connor was awfully sorry when they got to the lobby.

      “I hope you have a good time tonight,” he said as she took off his coat and handed it to him.

      “Thanks,” she said. She just looked at him for a long minute, her clear green eyes as mysterious as the dark side of the moon. For a second, he thought she might just turn and walk away.

      But then she said, “Yes, by the way.”

      “Yes what?”

      “Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

      God was smiling on him, that was for sure. He grinned and let her lead the way to the dining room.

      “Connor O’Rourke,” said Francine, the restaurant hostess, a fiftysomething-year-old woman who had flirted with him all last summer, “what are you doing back here?”

      “Francine, this is my friend Jessica. She’s a guest at the hotel.”

      “Very nice to meet you, Jessica. I hope everything is to your liking.”

      “Everything is wonderful,” she said.

      “Table for two?” she asked.

      And here was the thing about being a good-looking, amiable guy who always had time to flirt with the restaurant hostess. It got you the best table in the house, in front of the fireplace. And being a hard-working sous-chef who’d tolerated the rages and hissy fits of his stereotypical French boss got them a visit from the self-same diva, who came out to their table to greet them and sent over a bottle of wine and a lobster-and-avocado appetizer that wasn’t on the menu.

      “Mademoiselle, a pleasure to have you dine at my humble establishment,” Raoul said, bending over her hand, and Jess smiled at him then raised an eyebrow at Connor.

      “You always get treated like this?” she asked him. Raoul still held on to her hand.

      “I think you’re the one who’s getting treated like this. Watch out for Raoul,” he said, separating the chef’s hand from hers. “He loves beautiful women.”

      “Ah, it’s true, it’s true,” Raoul said, completely charming. “My wife, she suffers, but what can she do? She throws things and screams, then I cook for her, she is helpless in the face of my great talent, and everything is happy again. Mademoiselle—Jessica, if I may? Jessica, I would love to cook for you, just the two of us—”

      “The kitchen needs you, Raoul.” Connor smiled at his old boss. “Go. I smell a filet being cooked well-done.”

      “Mon Dieu,” Raoul said. He bowed again to Jess, then winked at Connor, and then they were alone again.

      Jess gave him a small smile then took a tiny sip of wine.

      “You don’t drink much,” Connor said.

      “I have two alcoholic parents,” she answered mildly. “I’d be stupid to start.”

      He nodded.

      “So what kind of classes do you take?” she asked, and he told her about the CIA, and what he was good at and where he wasn’t so hot.

      “What’s your dream job?” she asked as their dinners were served.

      He hesitated. “I’d like to own my own place,” he said.

      “Something fancy, like this?”

      “No, no. Something small and humble but with great food. Really thoughtful food, you know? Not just burgers and nachos, but with the best burger you’ve ever eaten, nachos with three kinds of cheddar and fresh tomatoes and jalapeños. A place with a really good wine list, and specials based on what was in season and what looked good at the market that day. Nothing frozen or premade, nothing that came shipped in a plastic bag and was offloaded from a trailer, you know?”

      Shit. Hugo’s had food that came off a trailer.

      But she didn’t take offense. “It sounds good. Where would you do it? Manningsport?”

      “Maybe.” He hadn’t really thought about it too